Page 24 of Pieces Of You

Jamie bobs her head slowly, but I can tell she still doesn’t get it. She doesn’t have to. My rules. My life.

After a full minute of neither of us saying a word, I ask, trying to crawl out of the uncomfortable silence, “So, I assume you’re not working tonight?”

She’s digging through her bag, and a part of me hopes she’s going to pull out the marker, but she comes up empty-handed. “No, it’s my one night off.”

The food is taking its sweet time getting to us, and I don’t know how much longer I can sit here. “And you’re stuck with me,” I murmur.

She offers a smile that reaches her eyes. “You’re notsobad.”

I can’t stop looking at her, trying to figure her out.What’s inside that pretty little head of yours, Jameson Taylor?“How old are you?”

“That’s random,” she says through a giggle. “I’m seventeen. Why?”

“You’re not eighteen?”

“I’m pretty sure I know how old I am.”

I pick at a worn spot on the table. “It’s just Dean—he mentioned you live alone, so I assumed…”

“Dean talks to you about me?” Ihatethe hint of excitement in her voice. Not because I’m jealous of her and Dean, because why the fuck would I be? It’s just… at some point, she has to realize that Dean did a fucking number on her, and the sooner she accepts it, the better off she’ll be.

“He just said that one thing. Before that, he refused to say anything.”

Nodding, she clamps her bottom lip between her teeth, turning the more-red-than-pink flesh white.

“It must be hard,” I add, “having to work so much, plus go to school, all so you can support yourself. I mean, I don’t know how I’d survive without my parents. My mom still buys my clothes.”

She doesn’t respond, and I don’t push her. A moment later, our food arrives, and I dive right in, grateful that I have something else to focus on. It has to be at least a few minutes before she answers, “It was just my mom and me.”

I look up, surprised, the burger halfway to my mouth.

“When we knew she was close to death but still ‘of sound mind,’ we filed the emancipation papers.”

I drop the burger. “Damn, I’m sorry.” And it’s only then I realize she hasn’t even touched her meal. She’s probably been watching me the entire time.

“It’s cool. People die all the time.”

After grabbing a napkin, I wipe at my mouth before saying, “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean…” I break off on a sigh because what the fuck do I know about her situation?

“Look, it’s not a big deal,” she says, picking up a fry and dipping it in ketchup. “I’ve been on my own for a long time, even before she died. So…”

She doesn’t eat the fry, just drops it on the plate and pushes the whole thing toward me. Then she pulls out a napkin, starts unfolding it, and laying it out in front of her. She’s done with talking, and that’s fine. I’d rather watch her draw anyway.

“Does your mom have a favorite flower?” she asks, pulling out a marker from her bag.

“Hydrangeas.”

“Hydrangeas,” she repeats, her lips pursing as she eyes the ceiling, thinking, thinking. And then she blinks, and without another word, it’sgo time. She puts pen to paper, and I swear, it’s even more fascinating than the first time.

Captivated, I make a note of the way she holds the pen, the way the muscles in her wrist shift with every movement. The way the multiple mood rings she always wears change color, reflecting off the overhead lights. The way she stops, her nose scrunching when she feels like she’s made a mistake. And I watch her hands move so fluidly, so expertly, that it makes me questionexactlyhow good those hands of hers are at other things.

“I like hydrangeas,” she murmurs, and I don’t know if she’s talking to me or just talking out loud. “There are approximately seventy-five species in the world, mainly in Korea, China and Japan.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

Her hand freezes, and she looks up. “Huh?”

“I grew up on a nursery. Dad put me to work from the moment I could walk, and since my mom loved them, we’d always have stockpiles of them. And evenIdon’t know that random piece of information, so… how do you?”

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