Page 70 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
“I have time,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, yeah, that sounds nice.”
We dump our empty taco wrappers and cups into the nearest trash can. The food truck rumble fades behind us as we make our way to the boardwalk steps. I follow Jameson’s lead and kick off my sandals, gripping the wooden railing as we descend. Sun-baked planks give way to pale sand so hot it pricks my soles. I yelp and jog the last few feet to the water. Jameson laughs, his own feet drumming a frantic rhythm across the sand, and nearly bowls me over as he skids to a stop.
The ocean breeze is stronger down here, carrying the salt and some background noise of shouts from a volleyball game a few hundred yards away. I try to act casual, as though going on platonic strolls on the beach with tall, handsome wide receivers who buy me lunch and rescue my dignity from flustered parental over-involvement is something I do all the time.
As we walk along the shore, our toes sink into the damp, packed sand. The sun glances off the surf, making me squint, so I tilt my head down and watch the shifting patterns our feet makeas we go. Each step leaves a print, slowly overtaken by the next wavelet. Walking next to Jameson, I’m suddenly hyper-aware of what little space there is between us. Sometimes our arms brush, or our hands dangle close enough that if the wind pushed us hard enough, our fingers might actually touch. My heart beats faster whenever it almost happens.
A kid in a blue rash guard sprints past, trailing a neon green kite. Farther down, a golden retriever chases a thrown tennis ball straight into the whitecaps. A couple sits on a striped beach towel, trading sips from a giant thermos and laughing at something only they can hear.
It’s not awkward, surprisingly, this extended silence that stretches between us, holding everything taut and upright. I try to catch his eye from time to time, but he’s either looking at the ocean, the beach, or his own feet. I wonder if he’s searching for words, same as I am.
I run through all the advice Rita’s ever given me about first dates, even though she’d kill to know I’m on one. I chose not to tell her because there’s nothing worse than having to say that he called the whole thing off. “Let the moment breathe,” I imagine her saying. “Don’t rush it. The best conversations happen when you’re both a little nervous.”
We pass a sandcastle that somebody’s fortified with seaweed and sticks. “Five bucks says that’s the work of future engineers,” Jameson says, nodding approvingly. I laugh and agree, and then the silence comes back.
Eventually, Jameson steers us towards a flat rock jutting out of the sand. “Wanna sit?” he asks, and I nod.
We brush off as much grit as we can and plop down, knees bumping. A spray of cold water hits my ankle, and I gasp. Jameson doesn’t miss a beat—he grins, then flicks a handful of sand at my shin. I retaliate, and soon we’re locked in a ridiculous sand-flicking battle, both laughing harder than the situationactually merits. I let myself look at him, really look. His smile is so wide, and his eyes crinkle at the edges. I like the sound of his laugh; it’s deep but not forced.
I brush some sand off my shorts and glance at him, waiting.
“Can I ask you something?” he says after a few minutes.
“Sure.”
“That night we all got ice cream. You looked surprised when I wiped the ice cream off your face.” He glances at me sideways. “Did you…”
My heart races. Is he asking what I think he’s asking?
“I was caught off guard,” I say carefully. “I mean, it’s kind of embarrassing, having food on your face.”
“Right. Well, about that. I need to tell you something.”
I stifle a gasp and grip the rock for support. This is when Jameson Hart admits he wanted to kiss me. Where maybe, possibly, he tells me this thing between us is more than friendship.
“Okay,” I say, proud that my voice doesn’t shake. “I’m all ears.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. “Kevin, I?—”
“Hart!”
We both glance to our right to see Tyler jogging toward us, kicking up sand with each step.
“Thank God I found you,” Tyler pants when he reaches us. “Emergency practice. Coach called it ten minutes ago. Something about him having an appointment tomorrow, and there’s no other day or time to reschedule.”
“So he wants us now?” Jameson asks, frustrated.
“Yeah, man. He said the whole team needs to be there. No exceptions.” Tyler glances between us, picking up on the unresolved tension. “Sorry, did I interrupt something?”
“No,” Jameson says quickly. His eyes flit to me. “Kevin, I?—”
“It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s very much not fine. “Go. Football is important.”
I only wish I were equally as important.
Tyler’s already heading back up the beach, calling over his shoulder for Jameson to hurry up. Jameson gives me one last look—apologetic and something else I can’t quite read—before jogging after him. I stay there on the rock until they’ve disappeared up the steps to the boardwalk.
The moment is gone. Whatever Jameson was about to say has been swept away, same as our footprints in the tide.
