Page 103 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
I grab my backpack stuffed with bug spray, a flashlight, and about seventeen snacks because overeating is my coping mechanism. The house is still fragile; we’re all walking on eggshells that have already cracked, but nobody wants to acknowledge the mess.
Robbie’s door stays firmly shut as we pass. He most likely already left with Matthew and Tyler, the only two people in our friend group who were unaware of Adam and Stanford. They’re his safe space now, the friends who don’t remind him that everything’s changing.
Outside, Rita’s sitting in the backseat of the minivan. She’s wearing ripped jeans and a vintage band tee, her red hair pulled back in an intentionally messy bun.
“Hey, drama king,” she says as I slide in beside her. “Ready for some quality woodland shenanigans?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Adam starts the van, and we pull out of the driveway. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the town. It’s one of those perfect late summer evenings where, while the air still holds warmth, it also carries the promise of fall.
“So,” Rita says, breaking the silence as we turn onto the main road, “on a scale of one to ten, how awkward is tonight going to be?”
“Eleven,” I say. “Maybe twelve.”
“At least Jameson will be there,” she offers.
That’s true. My boyfriend—I still get a thrill using that word—texted earlier that he’d save me a spot by the fire. It’s been weird navigating this new relationship while my family implodes, but Jameson’s been patient. Understanding. Perfect.
The drive out to Hartley Woods takes about twenty minutes. We pass the strip mall with the nail salon where Rita got her prom nails done, and the rest stop where Robbie once threw up an entire Slurpee on his shoes.
Adam turns onto the narrow road that leads into the woods. The trees close in on either side, their branches creating a canopy overhead. The pavement gives way to packed dirt, and the van bounces over roots and rocks.
“I always forget how creepy this road is,” Rita says, peering out the window at the darkening forest.
“Remember when Matthew convinced us a serial killer was living out here?” Adam asks, navigating a particularly rough patch.
“That was Robbie,” I correct him. “Matthew went along with it.”
Adam’s hands tighten on the steering wheel at the mention of our brother, but he doesn’t say anything.
The road opens into a clearing where cars are parked haphazardly on the grass.
“I think half the school’s here,” Rita says.
We park and grab our stuff. The path to the creek is well-worn from years of teenagers making the same pilgrimage. It winds through the trees, marked by the occasional beer can or carved initials that date back decades. The sound of voices and laughter grows louder as we get closer to our destination.
“You guys go ahead,” Adam says suddenly. “I forgot something in the van.”
Rita and I exchange a glance but don’t push the issue. Adam’s been doing that a lot lately—needing little moments alone to process everything.
The path curves, and suddenly the trees part to reveal Archer’s Creek, reflecting the orange sky like polished glass. The old railroad trestle stretches across one end, its beams rusted but sturdy. Some brave soul has already climbed up there, their silhouette visible against the sunset.
The beach area is honestly nothing more than a strip of sandy dirt, but generations of Arcadia teens have claimed it as sacred ground. A fire burns brightly in the stone ring that’s been here since our parents were in high school. Coolers dot the landscape, and the scent of lighter fluid blends with the aroma of pine and creek water.
“Kevin!”
I turn to see Jameson waving from a cluster of logs arranged around the fire. He’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly good in the firelight. My heart does its usual gymnastics routine. Ethan is nearby, talking to a couple of friends; he waves when he sees me.
“Go,” Rita says, nudging me. “I’ll find the theater people and complain about the mosquitoes with them.”
I make my way over to Jameson, trying not to trip on the uneven ground. He shifts to make room on his log, and I settle beside him, our thighs touching.
“Hey,” he says softly, his breath warm against my ear. “You okay?”
“Better now,” I admit.
His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing, and some of the tension I’ve been carrying eases. Around us, our classmates are in full end-of-summer celebration mode. Someone’s hooked up speakers to blast music. A group near the water is attempting to skip stones in the dying light. The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks spiraling upward.
