Page 10 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
I keep reading, tracing my finger over each word as though they’re sacred text. He writes about football, of course, but also about wanting to study sports medicine. About wanting to work with other athletes someday, if he blows out his knee or something else horrific.
My chest aches. Not because he wants to leave—I get that, I do—but because he couldn’t tell me. Couldn’t tell us.
How long has he been carrying this around? How many times did he almost say something but had to stop himself?
A photo falls from the stack of papers onto my lap. It’s the three of us at last year’s homecoming game. My brothers are in their football uniforms, and I’m wearing a drama club T-shirt. We’re grinning, our arms slung around each other so you can’t tell where one brother ends and another begins.
That’s the problem.
As I fold up the papers, I realize something. The essay is only half done, and nothing’s been mailed. The deadline to apply is in January. Early admission is in November.
He hasn’t pulled the trigger yet. There’s still hope that this is all a moot point, that we’ll all go to Arcadia University next year, happy as clams.
I want to call him at football camp and demand answers, but the part of me that knows Adam better than anyone understands why he hasn’t said a word.
Once he says it out loud, it becomes real. Once we all know, we’ll have to deal with it.
And he’s not ready.
Hell,I’mnot ready.
I carefully put the papers back exactly as I found them. I close the closet door and lean against it, sliding down until I’m sitting on Adam’s impeccably clean floor. I don’t have long to wallow because the front door slams shut, and what must be at least twenty pairs of footsteps shake the house.
Shit. How long have I been in here?
Scrambling out of Adam’s room, I take the stairs two at a time. When I reach the kitchen, I immediately grab a dust rag and furiously polish the already-clean counter.
Adam and Robbie stumble in, their practice jerseys soaked with sweat.
“Kevin!” Robbie calls out, kicking off his cleats. “You’re never gonna believe what happened. The bus broke down on the way back. We had to run the rest of the way home.”
Adam grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it with tap water. “In this heat.”
I try to smile sympathetically while my pulse slowly returns to normal. “That sucks.”
Adam gives me a funny look. “You okay? Your eyes are a little red.”
My fingers fly to my face, and I rub my eyes furiously. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I cleaned the house. Must be all that dust getting to me.”
Satisfied with my answer, Adam chugs the water and hands me the empty glass. After I rinse it out and put it in the dishwasher, I follow my brothers into the living room.
Matthew has made himself at home on the loveseat. His legs are sprawled out—and yes, they are stillverydefined. Tyler has claimed the recliner, tilting it back with a satisfied groan. Hisdark skin is even darker from all the days he’s been spending out in the sun. When he’s not at football camp, he’s been helping his dad down at the docks.
More players pour in—Jake, Carlos, DeShawn, Marcus (not to be confused with Dad), and ten other guys whose names I can never remember. They drape themselves dramatically across the furniture. I grimace as I watch their stench and sweat soak in.
“Damn, this place is spotless,” Matthew says, running his meaty hand along the coffee table. “You could eat off of this.”
Robbie grins and jerks his thumb at me. “That’s because my brother turns into Mr. Clean whenever we’re all out.”
“Oh, yeah?” Tyler sits up in the recliner. “Must be nice having a built-in housekeeper.”
I open my mouth to protest the title, but Adam beats me to it. “No. He only cleans so that he can snoop through our stuff.” Adam’s eyes lock onto mine. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed things moved around in my room, Kev.”
Heat rushes to my face, the crimson spreading from my neck to my ears. “I don’t—that’s not—all I do is clean!”
The room erupts in laughter.
“Dude, all siblings snoop,” Jake says, wiping sweat from his forehead. “My sister goes through my drawers constantly. Last week she found my”—he pauses, glancing at me—“some personal items.”
