Page 99 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
Jameson
Deal. See you soon, boyfriend.
Boyfriend. The word sends a thrill through me, even in my current state of despair. I have a boyfriend. A ridiculously sweet,patient, puppy-volunteering boyfriend who’s seen my family at its absolute worst and still wants to be with me.
I drag myself off the couch, leaving my wallowing fortress behind. My reflection in the hallway mirror is concerning. My hair sticks up at weird angles, I’m wearing a three-day-old theater camp shirt with mysterious stains, and there are bags under my eyes dark enough to be their own separate entities.
Twenty minutes isn’t enough time for a full transformation, but I manage a quick shower and throw on jeans and an old T-shirt that only has one small hole in it. I’m brushing my teeth when I hear the bedroom door open.
My whole body tenses. We’ve been doing this dance for days now, an elaborate choreography to avoid being in the same room. He goes left, I go right. He’s in the kitchen, I’m in the hallway. It’s exhausting.
His footsteps pause at the door. For a moment, I think he might come in here and finally talk to me. Then the footsteps retreat.
The toothbrush clatters into the sink as my hands begin to shake. This is what we’ve become. Three brothers who used to share everything, now strangers in the same house. The guilt crashes over me again, heavy and suffocating. If I hadn’t kept Adam’s secret. If I’d pushed him harder to tell Robbie.If, if, if.
A car horn sounds outside—two short beeps that pull me from my spiral. Jameson’s here.
I grab my phone and keys, calling out a quick “Going out!” to whoever might be listening, and escape into the morning sun.
Jameson’s leaning against his Honda—legs crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over his impressive chest—and the sight of him has me giddy. He’s wearing mesh basketball shorts, flip-flops, and a volunteer shirt that says “I pause my game to save animals” with a pixel heart on it. I’ve no doubt that Ethan gothim that shirt to mess with him; I still remember him telling me how awful Jameson is at video games.
When he turns his head to smile at me, his hair catches the light, nearly blinding me.
“Hey, you,” he says, opening the passenger door for me.
“Hey.” I slide into the seat, immediately comforted by the familiar smell of his car—that mix of coconut air freshener and Jameson.
He gets in and starts driving without pushing me to talk. The radio plays quietly, and I watch the familiar streets of our neighborhood pass by. We drive past the one house being renovated into what can only be described as a monstrosity. Past the gas station that appears to be falling apart. Past the post office, where a line of married men, wearing board shorts and flip-flops, has formed. In their hands, envelopes—probably running errands on their wives’ behalf.
“You want to talk about it?” Jameson asks after a few minutes.
“Not really. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“That’s okay. We don’t have to talk. We can go play with puppies.”
“How long have you been volunteering there?”
“About two years. Needed something that was only for me, you know? Something that wasn’t about football.”
I turn to look at him properly. “And you picked puppies?”
“Actually, I picked community service for my college applications,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But then I fell in love with the dogs. There’s something about them—they don’t care if you’re having a bad day or if your family’s falling apart. They just want to love you.”
“That sounds nice,” I say, and mean it.
The shelter is a squat brick building on the edge of town, surrounded by chain-link fencing and featuring a mural ofcartoon animals that’s seen better days. The parking lot is mostly empty.
“Come on,” Jameson says, grabbing a bag from his trunk. “Let me introduce you to the cuteness.”
The moment we walk through the doors, I’m hit with a soundtrack of barking, yipping, and the occasional howl. It’s overwhelming and wonderful at the same time. A woman with gray hair pulled into a messy bun looks up from the reception desk.
“Jameson! Perfect timing. We got a new litter in yesterday, and they’re absolute terrors.” Her eyes land on me. “Who’s this?”
“This is Kevin, my boyfriend.” The casual way he says it, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, puts another smile on my face. “Kevin, this is Martha. She runs this place.”
“Nice to meet you,” I manage.
Martha’s eyes twinkle. “So you’re the famous Kevin. Jameson mentioned you approximately eight hundred times.”
