Page 20 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
It’s not about the act or the acknowledgment itself. It’s about the proof that for three seconds, you existed in someone else’s world. That you were real enough to touch.
I curl my fingers into a loose fist and hold on to the sensation for as long as I can.
“We should head out,” Jackie says after a few more minutes of conversation. “Mom wants us back for dinner.”
“Cool, cool.” Jameson gives his cousins quick hugs. “I’ll catch you guys later.”
The cousins drift away, swallowed by the boardwalk crowd, but not before Melissa tosses one final glance over her shoulder at Adam.
“Are those your only cousins?” Robbie asks, clearly hoping to score.
“Nah, I’ve got like twelve more coming next week,” Jameson bemoans. “But hey, can’t complain about the beach time.”
“Dude, you okay?” Adam asks, sidling up beside me and ruffling my hair.
I nod.
“You sure? Because you keep staring at your hand like it’s got the secrets of the universe written on it.”
I know that I can’t tell my brother the real reason why I suddenly find my hand fascinating, but I’m struggling to come up with something. “I got ice cream on my hand,” is what I finally tell him. “It’s sticky.”
“Gross.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wet wipe. I don’t even ask why he has one. I simply take it and wipe my hand.
Jameson leaves a few minutes after his cousins, and the four of us continue walking down the boardwalk, talking about nothing of importance. Just shooting the shit and enjoying summer while it lasts.
When my brothers and I arrive home, the sun dipping below the horizon and turning the sky into a blend of pinks and oranges, I realize that I can still feel the phantom touch of his hand on mine.
I wonder if I always will.
CHAPTER 7
hair
Mornings are supposed to bepeaceful. But this is the Pryor House, where that word is a foreign concept. I’m sprawled on the couch in the living room with my bare feet propped up on the coffee table. The morning news drones on, the weatherman—this ridiculously handsome guy with dimples that could rival Jameson’s—gesturing at the map behind him with practiced enthusiasm.
“Folks, I hope you’ve got your rain boots out because Mother Nature’s about to deliver quite the soaking to Arcadia.” His dimples deepen when he smiles. The way they crease his cheeks reminds me of how Jameson’s face transforms when he laughs. Something I’ve only seen once or twice in the cafeteria, but have remembered forever.
Now that I think about it, this weatherman also has that boy-next-door charm that Jameson does. The one that makes you want to trust whatever he’s selling, even if it’s a week of torrential downpours.
“Our latest models show this system moving in much faster than we initially predicted,” the weatherman continues, pointing to a massive swirl of green, orange, and red on the map. “We’re predicting the rain to come as early as tonight, with heavy bandsmoving through continuously for the next seven days. Rainfall totals could reach six to eight inches by week’s end.”
I wiggle my toes, watching the weatherman’s dimples disappear as his expression turns serious. “Today will be your last chance to enjoy the sunshine, so make the most of it. Beach conditions will be perfect this morning.”
The couch suddenly lurches as Robbie vaults over the back, landing with all the grace of a rhinoceros. His foot connects with mine, sending both my feet flying off the coffee table.
“Move it, shrimp,” he says, immediately claiming the wooden prime real estate for himself.
“Hey! I was here first!” I retaliate by planting my heel on his ankle and pushing hard. Soon, we’re in a full-on foot war, our legs tangling as we fight for coffee table dominance. His feet may be twice the size of mine, but I have better flexibility from all those years of dance.
“Is that all you got?” Robbie taunts.
“I’m just getting started!”
We’re both laughing and grunting, the weather report forgotten as we battle. I get one foot firmly planted on the table, victorious for about two seconds before Robbie’s foot comes crashing down on top of mine—gently, of course—and pins it.
“Boys!”
We freeze mid-fight. Dad stands in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing his typical Saturday morning attire—basketball shorts and an old Arcadia Knights T-shirt.
