Page 34 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
As we wait in line to check out, I watch the rain still streaking down the bookstore windows. “Dad? When you finally asked Diana out, were you scared?”
“Terrified,” he admits without hesitation. “But being scared doesn’t mean you shouldn’t act on your feelings. Because youknow what the worst part of regret is? It’s not knowing if you failed; it’s wondering what might have happened if you’d tried.”
The cashier hands me my books in a brown paper bag, and then we make another mad dash to the van while getting thoroughly soaked in the process.Water hammers the windows, leaving me unable to hear Dad humming along to the radio playing Madonna’s “Cherish” as he pulls out of the parking lot. I keep the bag of books pressed to my chest even though they’re already safe and dry. My heart is still going haywire.
I replay every second of Jameson Hart’s visit to Pages & Prose—the way he smiled, the way he said my name again. The fact he gave me his undivided attention while I talked his ear off about books. I think about the stories I picked out and Jameson taking all of them home without question.
The air in the car is thick with dampness and that weird, almost buzzy sensation you get after something happens that you know is going to be a big milestone in your life.
“You okay, bud?” Dad asks when the song ends.
I nod, but my mind is racing. When you read romance, you hope that one day, the world will work the way a story does, that people will automatically know what you’re thinking. But in reality, you can recommend a dozen books to a guy and he’ll never guess how much you wish you were in one of them with him.
CHAPTER 10
our little secret
“Why did we agree to this again?” Adam grumbles, squinting through the windshield at the downpour as we pull into the Food Lion parking lot.
“Because Dad said he’d make us clean out the garage if we didn’t go,” I reply. “Plus, Robbie’s acting as if he’s about to die of starvation.”
The rain has been coming down in buckets for the last four days. I half-expect to see fish swim by as Adam navigates puddles that threaten to turn into a new Great Lake. Even worse than this soggy weather, though, is the lack of food in the house.
Between Adam’s intense workout regimen, Robbie’s constant snacking, Dad’s obsessive need to maintain his muscle mass, and my stress-induced munching, we’ve transformed into a pack of ravenous wolves.
My family has always been able to consume a frightening amount of food. But we’re now at the point where the fridge and the pantry shelves are almost bare. Gone are the cartons of milk, the bags of chips, and the emergency stash of Ramen noodles we saved for the apocalypse.
Adam pulls into a parking spot and turns off the engine. “Let’s make this quick.”
We grab the reusable shopping bags from the back seat and run like hell toward the store. The automatic doors whoosh open, and we’re greeted by a blast of arctic air that makes my wet T-shirt cling to my skin. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting the merchandise in a specific shade of grocery-store pale.
I grab a cart with a squeaky wheel and pull out my phone to check the list Dad texted me. “Cereal aisle first. Three boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios, two Frosted Flakes, and one of those protein cereals Dad pretends tastes good.”
Walking down the cereal aisle, I grab the boxes while Adam wanders to the Pop-Tarts display, examining it with unusual intensity. As I wait for him to pick one of the many flavors, my mind drifts back to the bookstore, where Jameson listened as I rambled about books. He could have stopped me at any time and said, “Dude, you’re boring me,” but he didn’t. He was genuinely interested in what I had to say. He was grateful for the recommendations and for my willingness to help him find books for his brother.
We move to the produce section next, where the misters spray a fine mist over the vegetables. I resist the urge to stick my hand under them; I’m already wet as it is.
Adam bags apples with mechanical precision while I hunt for the specific type of bananas Dad wants—“not too green, not too spotty.” When I find them, I gently add them to our cart and move on.
“Hey, Adam?” I test the weight of a cantaloupe, pretending to know what I’m testing for. “When do you go back to football practice?”
“As soon as this rain stops. Why?” He doesn’t look up from the tomatoes he’s now inspecting.
“Just wondering.” I place the cantaloupe in the cart and grab a bag of baby carrots before heading down the snack aisle.
Adam loads up on Dad’s protein bars, while I toss in bags of pretzels and those weird veggie straws that Diana loves. As we keep walking, my mind drifts a few aisles away from where my body is. I keep thinking about the way Jameson smiled at me as I talked about books, how easy he made it seem to exist. I replay the moment when he laughed, right after I joked about being born with jazz hands.
I’ll admit, there was a split-second where I worried he’d think I was a freak for saying such a thing, but he didn’t. He grinned so wide I swear his whole face got involved. I’ve never seen someone so entertained by a stupid joke. When I’m this way with my brothers, it usually results in me getting a noogie or being subjected to physical torment until I cry “uncle.”
It’s weird, but the memory sinks into my bloodstream and gives me a tiny shot of confidence. Maybe not enough to convert me into the “chill” guy who says what he means and doesn’t second-guess every syllable, but enough to keep me in forward motion. I wonder if Jameson’s even thinking about me after all that, or if he’s already moved on with his life.
A throat being cleared snaps me out of my reverie, and I realize I’m hugging the cart for support like it’s a life preserver. I’m also blocking the aisle, and an elderly lady is glaring at me from behind her bifocals. My face burns. Adam should be making fun of me by now, but when I turn around, he’s not even there. I check behind a display of trail mix and spot him halfway down the next aisle, deep in debate with himself over two identical boxes of graham crackers.
I try to catch his attention, but he’s zeroed in. I might as well be invisible—which is kind of the story of my life when I’m not on stage or in a group photo. Still, I can’t bring myself to care much right now, too busy replaying every Jameson Hartmoment in high definition. I get why Robbie obsesses over his latest crushes; the feeling is both terrifying and kind of incredible.
“I need to hit the bathroom,” Adam announces when I walk up to him. He throws both boxes of crackers into the cart.
“Same.” My bladder has been protesting since we left the house, but I’ve been too distracted by thoughts of bleached hair to notice.
