Page 79 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
Rita fans herself with her hand, even though the ocean breeze is doing a decent job already. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Kevin, is this really happening?”
“Unless you’re planning to turn him down?”
“Are you insane? Of course I’m not turning him down!” She grabs my arm, her nails digging in slightly. “Wait, does he know I’ll say yes? Did you tell him? Please tell me you didn’t tell him. I want to see his face when?—”
“I didn’t tell him,” I lie, gently prying her fingers loose before she draws blood. “But I may have strongly hinted that his feelings are reciprocated.”
The line moves forward. We’re close enough now to hear the ancient snow cone machine grinding away, turning ice into sugary magic. The teenager working the stand wears an expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else, his tank top stained with various syrup colors.
“I love that he’s waiting,” Rita says, her voice going soft. “Most guys would ask in the middle of the craziness and expect you to work around their schedule. But Robbie gets it. He knows I deserve more than stolen moments between practices.”
“He wants to do this right,” I confirm. “You should see him when he talks about you. He gets this dopey smile on his face.”
“Stop it, you’re going to make me cry.” She dabs at her eyes with dramatic flair. “God, two more weeks. How am I supposed to act normal around him for two more weeks?”
“The same way you’ve been acting normal this whole time?”
“That wasn’t normal! That was suppressed longing!” She spins the parasol again, nearly taking out a small child. “This is active waiting. Completely different energy.”
We reach the counter. Rita orders something called Tiger’s Blood, which is apparently a real flavor and not a threat. I gowith blue raspberry because sometimes you need your tongue to match your mood.
With our snow cones in hand, we wander down the boardwalk. We pass the ring toss game, the photo booth with its promise to capture “Summer Magic!”, and the taffy shop pumping out clouds of sugar-scented air.
“You know what’s weird?” I say, side-stepping around a dropped ice cream cone that’s already attracting seagulls. “Adam hasn’t dated anyone in forever.”
Rita pauses mid-bite of her snow cone. “Define forever.”
“Sophomore year. Kristy Schumer, remember? They dated for three months, and then nothing.” I think back, trying to remember the last time I saw Adam even flirt with someone. “We’re about to be seniors, and he hasn’t shown interest in anyone this summer. Except Jameson’s cousins, and I think that was less him wanting to score and more that Robbie was doing it, so he figured he should too.”
“That is weird.” Rita steers us toward an empty bench facing the ocean. “Adam’s got that whole brooding quarterback thing going on. Girls literally throw themselves at that type of charisma.”
“Right? Robbie told me that at our birthday party, a girl from Central spelled out her number in sunscreen on his arm, and he never called her.” I settle onto the bench, careful not to drip blue syrup on my shorts. “It’s like he turned off that part of his brain.”
“Maybe he’s focused on football?” Rita suggests, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
“Maybe.” Glancing out at the sandy sight below, I watch a college guy with a comb over struggle with an umbrella that clearly wants to become a kite. “Or maybe he’s hung up on someone.”
“Ooh, a secret crush? Who do you think it could be?”
“No idea. Adam’s harder to read than a book written backward. He keeps everything locked up tight.” I think about the Stanford secret. “Sometimes I wonder if my brothers tell me anything real.”
Rita nudges me with her shoulder. “Hey, Robbie told you about asking me out. That’s real.”
“True.” I take another bite of my snow cone, the cold making my teeth ache. “I just wish Adam would let someone in, you know? He carries it all by himself.”
“Maybe that’s why he hasn’t dated,” Rita muses. “Hard to let someone close when you’re busy being everyone’s rock.”
We sit in silence for a bit, watching the ocean do its eternal push and pull as we enjoy our snow cones. The band has moved on to butchering “Margaritaville,” which somehow sounds worse than their “Sweet Caroline” attempt that follows soon after.
“Two weeks,” Rita says again, as though she’s testing the words. “I can do two weeks.”
“You can. What’s two more weeks in the grand scheme of things?”
“Everything!” She titters. “Because now I know there’s an end date. Now I know he’s going to ask, and I’m going to say yes, and we’re going to be disgustingly happy together.”
“And I’m going to be the perpetual third wheel,” I say, but I’m smiling.
“Only until Jameson gets the chance to tell you that he likes you.”
