Page 54 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
His smile returns, albeit softer this time. “Cool. Thanks. And, uh, for what it’s worth…I haven’t been farting up a storm.”
He rubs the back of his neck, and I smirk. “Duly noted.”
As I walk with Jameson to his car, I know I should play it cool, but my feet are doing a weird shuffle that’s the opposite of cool. Jameson’s stride is effortless, confident, the gait of someone who grew up knowing his legs would always land exactly where he needs them. I, on the other hand, am built for tripping over invisible obstacles and then apologizing to them.
Jameson is six-three, which means even if he’s walking casually, I still have to tilt my head up to look at him or risk getting a prime view of his clavicle all night. I might have a slight obsession with said clavicle. The gap between us is so narrow that if I extended my pinky, it would brush his. I spend the entire walk negotiating with myself whether I should. I could always shrug it off as an accident, a finger twitch that was entirely out of my control. But I don’t.
To distract myself from the boy next to me, I stare up at the sky. The sun has finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the heavens painted in purples and deep blues. The screen flickers to life with old-fashioned movie theater announcements about the concession stand at the same time that we arrive at Jameson’s car.
He unlocks it with his fob, and we slide into our respective seats. The interior smells of coconut air freshener and something distinctly Jameson. Clean laundry and banana-scented sunscreen, I think. The doors close with a gentle thud, and suddenly it’s the two of us in the cocoon of his car.
I catch our faces reflected in the windshield, twin ghosts hovering above the dashboard. Jameson’s reflection, even in warped glass, looks like a movie star’s—his jawline is effortless, his hair is swept back, his entire posture is relaxed and at home. There’s a peace about him I can’t fake, no matter how hard I try.
My reflection, on the other hand, is a disaster. My brow is furrowed, my skin is shiny, and my eyes are wide in away that screams “caught in the act.” I’m seconds away from vomiting into the nearest cupholder. I try to relax my face, which only makes me come off even more unnatural and possibly constipated. The more I try to match Jameson’s calm, the worse it gets. There’s a little bead of sweat forming at my temple, and I hope he doesn’t notice. I peek at him from the corner of my eye and breathe a sigh of relief. He’s watching the drive-in screen, not me.
The silence is both terrifying and weirdly comfortable, and neither of us rushes to fill it. Maybe Jameson’s used to this; maybe he’s been on a thousand nights like this one, and I’m the only one who doesn’t know how to act. Or maybe he’s just quiet sometimes, and I’m reading too much into things—his subtle glances at me, his tapping fingers on his thick thighs, his curling toes in his flip-flops.
I distract myself from my growing anxiety by taking in my new surroundings. Jameson’s side of the Honda is immaculate—all the wrappers and receipts have been cleared away for the night. The dashboard glows a soft blue, lighting up the inside enough for me to see the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the faint freckles on his arm. I realize my window is fogging up from my breath. I crack it open and immediately wonder if I’m sending some kind of signal.Too nervous? Too eager?I have no idea what the rules are.
I think about how I’ve wanted to get this close to him for months, and now that I am, my brain is nothing but static.
The radio picks up the crackle of the drive-in frequency, finally breaking the silence. Jameson glances over at me, and I almost jump from suddenly being under the intensity of his gaze.
“So,” he says, adjusting the volume. “Fair warning—I might sing along too.”
“Really?”
He nods. “My mom was obsessed withGreasewhen I was little. I know it all by heart. That’s not too weird, right?”
“Are you kidding? That’s amazing. We can duet ‘Summer Nights.’”
His grin returns, more beautiful than ever. “Deal.” He settles back in his seat. “And, uh, thanks. For not leaving me to watch alone.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, and mean it.
The movie starts, and applause fills the night air as Danny and Sandy appear on the beach. In the darkness of the car, as the boy with the golden hair smiles beside me, I let myself imagine this as the overture to something new with Jameson Hart.
CHAPTER 14
summer nights
Danny and Sandy are at the drive-in. I’d laugh at the irony if my brain wasn’t currently screaming at me to say something, anything, to the gorgeous boy sitting eighteen inches away from me.
My fingers drum against my thigh in a nervous rhythm I can’t control. The Honda’s interior grows smaller with each passing second, and I swear I can feel the heat radiating off Jameson’s body even though the AC is blasting.
Open your mouth and speak, I tell myself.You’re literally watching people sing their feelings. This is your wheelhouse.
Sandy’s voice floats through the speakers.
“So,” Jameson says suddenly, turning slightly in his seat to face me. The dashboard light catches his eyes, making them appear molten. “How did you get into all of this anyway?”
My heart skips a beat. He’s asking about me. “Um…” I scramble to organize my thoughts. “My dad, believe it or not. Which is weird because he’s this big athletic guy, right? Played football in high school and college and almost went pro. But he loves old movie musicals.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, when my brothers and I were six or seven, he bought this stack of DVDs from a garage sale.West Side Story, Annie, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.” I smile at the memory. “Adam and Robbie watched them once and got bored, but I was completely obsessed. I made him play the “It’s the Hard-Knock Life” scene fromAnnieprobably fifty times.”
Jameson’s laughter fills the small space between us. “I bet you learned the choreography.”
