Jett had expected the night with Harmony to go well—do some flirting, some getting to know each other, and just have general social fun. He hadn’t counted on Raven making an appearance, nor Harmony so hastily ending their evening. He was glad he hadn’t taken the car—he had very much needed the walk home.

The air was already brisk that day, though that the sun had gone down did nothing further than lower the temperature and though he was plagued with thoughts during the walk home—which seemed so much longer than the walk to the sushi restaurant she had picked out for them. He had drawn up his jacket and snuggled into the warmth to hide from the wind after a bit, though the biting seemed strangely fitting.

Jett was not one to remorse. He had very strong barriers built, and was very comfortable behind them. Certain emotions frequently eluded him not because he was a naturally emotionless figure, but because certain events of his life had shaped him to be who he was—and he rather liked who he was.

There were just some emotions people didn’t neat—Jett had compiled a carefully thought of list he was eleven and had stuck to such logic ever since. He had written out every emotion his eleven year old mind could think of—and spent a good few hours reasoning out why an emotion was good or bad.

He had settled on three unnecessary emotions that night before bed, and formulated careful plans on how to remove them from his life.

The first emotion on his list was fear.

As a child, Jett had been scared of his fair share of things. He had been afraid of things that flew—bats, bugs, birds. He’d been afraid of holes, and of falling in one so deep he could never climb out. He was afraid of monsters in his closet, of dogs, of something bad happening to his parents.

When he was eleven, he decided he didn’t want to be afraid of anything anymore. Fear was a weakness he didn’t want to be weighed down by, so he’d diligently sought to abolish his fears.

It had been a rather aggressive effort (and another list of things he was afraid of) but he had persisted. He was eager to crush any bug with wings, and was somewhat notorious for throwing rocks at bats and birds (until he became distinctly aware that while, yes, it did scare some away, some also chose to aggressively retaliate). When it came to holes, he’d jumped in every one he could find—puddles and all. The worst to come of that was a disgruntled mother who grew tired of doing her son’s skill in making a mess of his clothes.

The fear of monsters in the closet had faded on its own, and Jett had conquered his fear of dogs during a week of dogsitting his neighbor’s fourteen year old lab—a fat, lazy beast who taught Jett that dogs could easily be tamed with food and affection.

Any social phobias he’d had growing up, he hid well enough that he could lie to himself that there wasn’t an issue—as he learned to do with most of his fears. Whatever he didn’t like about himself went behind a mask for long enough that the mask became a part of him.

The one fear he’d had and kept with him, buried deep inside, was fear for his mother. She was the most important person in the world to him—a perfect, kind, hardworking woman who had bitten off more than she could chew when she was too young to know better and was suffering still from the effects of an adulterous husband who couldn’t keep his pants on.

Jett’s fears were for her, and her alone.

Upon encountering anything else frightening, he’d become too arrogant to acknowledge it and, perhaps, had gotten into more trouble being careless than he would have if he’d trusted his gut as much as he trusted his list.

The second emotion on his list was guilt—a fickle emotion meant to weigh people down when it was too late to do anything. Jett denied guilt, since it’s main purpose was to poke and prod the conscience of someone who had done something wrong.

To feel guilty meant to acknowledge that you had done something wrong, and Jett absolutely never did anything wrong. Everything Jett did was the right thing to do—for Jett, at least. Maybe not so much as the right thing to do for everyone else, but in a dog eat dog world, Jett only really cared to look out for himself. And his mother, of course.

She was, ultimately, his weakness. The one exception to every rule on the list.

He feared for her, felt guilt with her—and loved her.

The third emotion on his list of unnecessary emotions was love.

Love was selfless—something which completely contradicted with his selfish nature. Love required trusting someone and putting everything you valued in their hands. Love was giving your heart and soul to someone and hoping they thought it was worth keeping safe.

Jett’s mother had loved, and she had loved passionately. She had loved, and trusted, and given everything, only to have it all snatched away in a cruel twist of fate.

Jett had lost his father, but she had lost more.

She had cried, for days. Made herself sick. Nearly lost her job. They nearly lost the car, the house—everything. But she had picked herself and put back their life as best she could. There was a hole in her heart. A shadow in her smile, a sorrow in her eyes.

It wasn’t just age that weighed her down; she was still young. She was burdened with the weight of a love torn heart, and it was killing her—whether she knew it or not.

Jett pushed open the front door, pleased that he didn’t have to fish out a key to unlock it. His hands were cold enough that he didn’t want to have to subject them to anything but the warmth of his pocket. Toeing off his shoes by the front door, he went straight to the kitchen—straight to the liquor cabinet.

He was still a fair few months away from being of legal age to drink, but in his own home, he was comfortable to do whatever he pleased, and his mother would only chastise him if he was visibly intoxicated, though he’d never subject her to that. Snagging a cup from the dishwasher and a few cubes of ice, he poured himself half a glass of the closest bottle of scotch.

He tucked the bottle away when done pouring and sighed, hunching forward so that he could rest his elbows on the ivory tinted counter. He wrapped a hand around the glass, sloshing the liquid a bit as he watched the ice cubes clink against the glass. His eyelids were heavy, perhaps just because he was tired or because he was willing himself to be lost in thought.

Tonight was supposed to be a fun night, not a night where Raven left stewing and Harmony left in tears. For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom what had gone so terribly wrong, and it was neither love nor guilt nor fear that lead him to ponder the evening, just curiosity. It was too late to change anything—not that he knew how to fix anything without digging a bigger hole.

But he wasn’t going to leave things like this, with that empty feeling that came with any sort of failure. Glass in his left hand, he tapped the fingers of his right hand on the plastic, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to hear the front door close, or the door lock.

He was still staring into the yellowed drink when his mother cleared her through from behind him.

Instinctively, Jett straightened a bit, and turned just slightly so that he could look at her over his shoulder. “Mom,” he greeted, though his voice lacked much enthusiasm.

Charmaine Arnett-Draven was an old forty three year old, and the signs of age showed on her face. Ten years ago, she would have been pretty, but now she just looked plain. Her skin was thin and pale, carefully coated with layers of foundation and blush to give her as youthful and healthy an impression as she could. Her cheeks were still slightly sunken in, and her lips were no longer as plush and soft as they had been in her younger days. Her blonde hair was a few shades closer to white than it had been when she’d celebrated her last birthday in April, and there was no denying that her hair, tied up as it was, had been thinning for a while now, too.

She wasn’t a particularly tall woman—Jett stood a slight few inches above her. She was gaunt, from stress and worry and years of hard work, but when she looked at him, she smiled. “Jett, I didn’t know you were going to be home tonight. What a surprise!”

He shrugged, flashing her a wan smile, only now reaching for the glass. He took a swig and then lowered it, shrugging. “Kind of hadn’t planned until being back until later.”

”Oh?” his mother prompted; she was holding her black heels in her hand and walked to the kitchen table, not shy about discarding the shoes on the table. She took a seat in one of the chair and crossed her legs, resting her ankle atop her knee as she dropped the bag she was carrying by her other foot. Her dress skirt was long enough that she was still modest, though she pulled up the sleeves of her fancy blouse before she started massaging her feet through her stockings. “Oh? Well I’m glad I caught you then, are you getting ready for bed? You ought to be, you know I don’t like you going through my drinks.”

He just shrugged; it was a mother’s concern and nothing else. She’d long since told him that if he was going to dabble in alcohol, he’d best do it at home where he couldn’t be arrested. He wasn’t looking to get drunk or anything of the sort, just wanted to feel the warmth of the scotch and give himself something else to focus on. Half a glass was more than enough. He pressed away from the counter and took a seat across from her, once more propping himself up on his elbows.

Charmaine continued to massage her foot, though was not oblivious to her son’s broodiness; she gave him a bit of space and then prompted, “Why the sour face?”

He shrugged, as if such were a convincible lie. Charmaine wasn’t to be deterred and persisted, however, “Bad day?”

Jett shrugged again.

His mother watched for a moment and then shrugged herself, adjusting positions so she could massage her other foot. She knew her son well enough to know that there wasn’t much that could put him in a funk of any sorts—he never worried about school, loved his job, and didn’t seem bruised in such a way that would indicate he’d been brawling or boxing, which really left only one thing for his mother to assume. “Girl trouble?”

The smallest of smiles twitched onto Jett’s face and he let out a humorless laugh as he drew his glass up to his lips. “Something like that.”

Charmaine watched as her son indulged himself in her alcohol, seemed pensive for a moment, and then said—quite pointedly, “Oh. Unrequited love?”

Jett swallowed his sip and lowered the glass. “Not on my part.”

“Oh, I see,” his mother replied, a typical response for a woman who was still trying to figure out what was wrong. “You didn’t do anything that’ll get you in jail, right?”

Jett scoffed, raising a brow. If he had done anything stupid enough to get him in jail, he wasn’t going to tell his mother, though he certainly wasn’t going to let her sit there and worry. “No, mom. Not anything bad. I just,” he paused, trying to sort out just what he had done.

He’d flirted with Harmony—and she’d flirted back. He did the same thing with a lot of people, though Harmony kept his interest for longer than most of the other girls had. He hadn’t necessarily been leading her on; he had genuinely wanted to get to know her better. Certainly there was some sticky territory between him and Raven, but that shouldn’t have been enough to interfere with any sort of correspondences he chose to keep.

He wasn’t dating Raven by any means, though wasn’t unaware of the girls’ feelings for him. If he’d wanted a girlfriend, he’d have asked her out on the Surrounding when he’d had the opportunity, but he rather enjoyed the life he lived. He was free to do as he wanted, speak with who he wanted, go on dates with who he wanted—

Except, not really, because apparently girls couldn’t look at each other without becoming mortal enemies.

And what about Raven? Had he done her some wrong? He’d never agreed to be an item, so certainly she couldn’t have her panties in a bunch over all of this.

A sudden warmth on his hand made him glance down to see what the offending touch was; he blinked when he identified it as his mother’s hand resting atop his. “You know, flowers are a good sentiment for any occasion.”

Jett blinked, taking in her words and trying to find words to describe a situation he still wasn’t quite sure he understood, though was saved from such a plight when his mother chose to break the silence. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, girls love flowers. I loved getting flowers. You know. When I was younger,” she said with a playful wink, retracting her hand and standing up with a little groan. Her free hand went first to her back as she steadied herself. “I’m going to take a shower and then head to bed, dear. It’s an early day tomorrow, all right?”

Jett watched her, lips pressed together in thought before he finally flashed her a smile and nodded. “Yeah, sounds good. Night, Mom.”

”Love you,” she said, bending to pick up her bag.

”You too,” Jett replied, watching as she shuffled out of the room.

He lingered for a while—until he heard the shower turn on, and then again turn off. The ice was half melted when he downed the last of the liquid in the cup and stood. He carefully set the glass in the sink and then trudged into his room, still grumpy.

His mind kept flickering to Raven and Harmony, trying to figure out who he had actually wronged—was it really either of them? He wasn’t going to apologize, it just wasn’t in his nature. He had made plans to go to dinner with Harmony and, while the kiss was unprecedented, it hadn’t been unintentional or unenjoyable. He hadn’t promised himself to Raven, and yet the girl seemed to take offense at the fact that he was with another girl. He’d spent a lot of time with different girls—nothing that had ever meant much to him after the whole Beth incident, but he wasn’t about to go broadcasting expired personal issues to suck up to some girls who maybe misunderstood the situation.

Jett followed his usual routine that night—took a shower, changed into his pajamas, and crawled into bed. With a grunt, he realized he hadn’t turned off the light, and so, too tired to get up, just threw thing off his desk and bed towards the light switch until it flicked off.

There were still plenty of pillows on the bed, and he took the opportunity to flop back against them and tuck himself in. Remote in hand, he flicked on the television and turned the volume down, intent to rot his brain until he fell asleep. Some old movie was on, and though his eyes stayed locked to the screen, internally he just kept replaying the evening, looking for faults.

It took an hour before he scoffed at his stupidity and obsession with the topic; he’d done nothing wrong and if those girls wanted to piss themselves over dinner, fine, let them. Not his problem. Burying his face in the pillows, he slept with that logic.

Come morning, however, he had dragged himself out of bed, gotten dressed, driven to the florist, and placed three orders.

The first was for Harmony, since he had pondered her plight for the longest. For her, he’d selected a primarily white and purple bouquet, thick with green stems and leaves. Lush white roses and smaller cream spray roses made up a slight portion of the bouquet, offset by the vibrant purple flowers—lisianthus and freesia. The white and purple of the Picasso Calla Lillies that freckled the bouquet just tied everything together, giving the bouquet an elegant, chaste look about it.

Jett had no idea where Harmony lived—or her last name, so he could even look it up. He knew where she worked, however, and that was enough for him. With her bouquet, he issued a tiny little note with two very simple, very vague words: “Regret Nothing.”

He didn’t know how fitting it was, or what spurned him to go with that phrase, but it was easier to send her an anonymous bouquet than to walk up to her and apologize.

The second bouquet Jett found himself favoring, he picked out for Raven. Asiatic lilies, mostly orangeish though ranging from yellowish to reddish hues were aplenty in the display amongst the vast orange and yellow Peruvian lilies. There were several orange roses—a few almost dark enough to be red—and a single yellow rose in the center of the bouquet, of which Raven’s message was tied to. Hers was far less obscure—there was a date, time and location. No name, again; he assumed Raven’s curiosity would spur her to venture to the rendezvous regardless of her opinion of him at the time.

The final bouquet was a different color entirely; it was soft and pretty and pure—white, pink and red. Stargazer lilies were the focal point of the bouquet, accompanied with mostly white (and a few stray pink) camellia flowers and a few carefully placed red peonies. The third bouquet was for his mother, who deserved flowers as much as every pretty girl he’d ever sent them to, and he sent her flowers with a word of love and appreciation.

Any woman that could put up with him for more than one night deserved at least some sign of gratitude.