Page 74 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
Okay, cool. I really need to finish what I started earlier.
Rita reads over my shoulder and squeals so loudly that Adam nearly swerves off the road. “What the hell, Rita?” he shouts.
“Sorry! I’m excited about the party!” She grabs my hand and squeezes. “Tonight’s the night, Kevin. I can feel it.”
As Tyler’s house comes into view—lit up with string lights and already packed with cars—I take a deep breath. One way or another, I’m finally going to know exactly what Jameson Hart wants from me.
Tyler’s houseisn’t just big—it’s absurd. White columns frame the entrance, and through the massive windows, I catch a glimpse of a chandelier that costs more than what Dad couldafford ten times over. The bass from inside vibrates through my chest before we even reach the front door.
“Holy crap,” Rita breathes. “I knew Tyler’s family had money, but this is next level.”
The foyer opens into a living room that could fit our entire first floor. Crown molding traces the ceiling, and a marble fireplace dominates one wall. But tonight, the elegant furniture has been pushed aside to create a dance floor where bodies press together under dimmed lights. Through the open French doors at the back, I spot the deck overlooking a private lake that feeds into Archer’s Creek somewhere downstream.
Robbie pulls Rita onto the makeshift dance floor. She throws her head back and laughs as he spins her, and something twists in my chest—not jealousy exactly, but a longing for that kind of easy confidence.
I drift toward the kitchen, which is nothing but granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Red Solo cups litter the surfaces, and someone’s mixed a suspicious-looking punch in a crystal bowl that definitely wasn’t meant for this purpose. The humid night air and the sound of laughter filter in through the window. I peer out, but there’s no sign of Jameson anywhere.
I check my phone. Nothing new. Maybe he changed his mind.
I pour myself a cup of water and lean against the kitchen island. From here, I watch Rita teaching Robbie some complicated dance moves, Adam dominating at beer pong with Matthew, and Tyler greeting his guests with backslaps and air kisses.
My friends are having the time of their lives, except me.
This is exactly why I don’t come to these things. At cast parties, I know my role. I can belt show tunes and debate Sondheim versus Lloyd Webber. Here, I’m Adam and Robbie’s weird theater brother who doesn’t know how to do a keg stand and definitely can’t throw a ping pong ball into a cup of beer.
The music switches to a pop song, and suddenly, I feel it building in my chest—that familiar sensation when everything becomes too much and my brain decides to check out and let my imagination take over.
The room shifts. The house lights morph into stage lights. The random party music transforms into the opening beats of “Confident” by Demi Lovato, which was made even more awesome in& Juliet. The party guests freeze mid-motion, then turn to face me as backup dancers.
I push off from the counter, and everyone parts to create a path. My voice rings out strong and clear as I strut down a hallway, and the football team falls into formation behind me, executing marching choreography they’d never manage in real life. Rita and Robbie become my featured dancers, hitting each beat with absolute precision.
Entering the living room, I climb onto the coffee table and sing out the chorus. Everyone around me snaps in sync. Even Adam abandons his beer pong game to join the routine.
The song builds, and I leap from the coffee table into the waiting arms of Matthew and Tyler. A crowd forms and lifts me, crowd-surfing me toward the French doors as the song reaches its climax. The fantasy-me doesn’t care who’s watching. Doesn’t worry about looking stupid or being judged. This version of Kevin takes up space, demands attention, and refuses to apologize for existing.
The final note rings out, and we all freeze in a final pose. Then reality crashes back.
I’m still leaning against the kitchen island. The party continues around me, oblivious to my mental Broadway number. My water cup is warm in my hand, and my foot has fallen asleep from standing in one position too long.
But something’s different. The imaginary performance has left an echo of confidence in my chest. Not enough to actuallyclimb on any coffee tables, but enough to make me stand a little straighter. I push away from the island and force myself toward the living room. If Jameson shows up, he’s not going to find me hiding in the kitchen. And if he doesn’t show up, at least I can say I tried.
I make it three steps before the front door opens, and there he is, appearing out of nowhere, backlit by the porch light. His hair is slightly messy, as if he’s been running his hands through it, and he’s wearing a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Our eyes meet across the crowded room, and everything else fades to background noise. He smiles—not his easy, casual smile, but something smaller, more nervous—and makes his way toward me.
My palms go slick. My heart hammers against my ribs. But I don’t run. I don’t hide. I stand my ground and wait for him to reach me.
“Hey,” he says when he finally gets to me. I catch the faintest hint of mint on his breath. “You made it.”
“Yeah.” My voice only shakes a little. “You too.”
“Can we”—he glances around at the chaos—“go somewhere quieter to talk?”
I nod, not trusting myself with more words. But before he can take another step, Robbie materializes out of nowhere, grabbing Jameson’s arm with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who’s spotted his favorite toy.
“Hart! There you are!” Robbie’s already bouncing to the beat, his face flushed from dancing. “Come on, we need you on the dance floor. Rita’s teaching us this move, and it’s hilarious.”
“Actually, I was—” Jameson glances at me.
“No excuses!” Robbie’s already dragging him backward. “Kevin, you too! Get over here!”
