Page 98 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
Jameson
Good morning, sunshine! How’s the wallowing going today?
I can’t help the small smile that breaks out on my face. He’s taken to calling my depression nest “wallowing,” but somehow when he says it, it doesn’t sting.
Me
Excellent. I’ve achieved peak pathetic. The ceiling cracks say hi.
Jameson
Tell them I said hi back.
Hey, what are you doing right now?
Me
Contemplating whether I have the energy to reach for the remote to change the channel. I don’t know how much more “Lucy, you have some ‘splainin’ to do’ I can listen to before I go crazy.
Jameson
Aww. Perfect. I’m picking you up in twenty minutes.
I bolt upright, sending crackers flying.
Me
What? No. I look like death.
And I smell like sadness.
Jameson
Twenty minutes, Kevin. Wear something you don’t mind getting dirty.
Me
Jameson, I can’t. I’m not ready to face the world.
Jameson
You’re not facing the world. You’re facing puppies. I volunteer at the animal shelter on Thursdays, and they need extra hands today. Unless you’re too busy counting ceiling cracks?
Puppies. He’s bribing me with puppies.
Me
That’s emotional manipulation.
Jameson
Is it working?
I look around the living room—at the empty cracker boxes, the TV that’s now playing the infamous grape stomping episode. Then I think about Robbie’s door, still locked whenever I walk past it. About Adam giving me more hugs than he has in his entire life. About the silence that’s replaced the house’s usual chaos.
Me
Fine. But if I cry on a puppy, that’s on you.
