Page 12 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

“Really?” Rita tilts her head, startling me from my worries. “All three of you?”

“Yep!” Robbie grins. “Arcadia U has everything. Their football program is the best in the state, and they have this sick gaming club with actual tournaments and prize money. For Kevin,” he lightly kicks my shin with his bare foot, leaving grains of sand on me, “their theater department is legit. Their alumni are all over Broadway.”

My stomach churns, and it’s not from the ice cream.

Every word Robbie utters about our future together at Arcadia U is another twist of the knife.

He’s building this whole life in his head—the three of us in an apartment, going to each other’s games and shows, staying together forever.

I picture Robbie’s face when he finds out.

The betrayal he’ll feel. The hurt. We’re supposed to be a unit, the three of us against the world.

“That sounds perfect,” Rita says. “Having a plan must make it easier.”

“Exactly.” Robbie wipes a drip of green from his chin. “No stress about being separated. No weird roommate situations.”

“What about you, Rita?” Adam asks suddenly, turning the attention onto her. “Where are you thinking of applying?”

“NYU, hopefully. Or maybe Penn State. Somewhere with a good theater program but also strong academics.” She shrugs. “My parents want me to have a backup plan in case the whole theater thing doesn’t work out.”

“Theater always works out,” I say automatically, but my mind is still on Adam and his secret about Stanford.

“The gaming club has a whole setup,” Robbie continues, clearly not done selling Arcadia U. “Like, professional-grade PCs, VR equipment, the works. And get this—they’re developing an esports team.”

A couple of skateboarders whizz past us and narrowly miss running over an elderly couple. Adam finishes his cone and brushes his hands together. “Look, there’s Hart.” He points toward the coin-operated binoculars that overlook the beach.

I follow his gaze and nearly trip right out of my sandals.

There he is indeed, leaning casually against the railing, surrounded by three girls in bikinis.

Their laughter carries over the general noise of the boardwalk.

One of them, a redhead with a dolphin tattoo on her shoulder, squeezes his hand.

It takes a lot of effort not to snarl. Which is weird, because when have I ever wanted to snarl?

“Let’s go say hi,” Robbie suggests, already changing direction.

“We don’t have to—” I start, but my brothers are already moving. Rita hooks her arm through mine.

“This is perfect,” she whispers. “Natural interaction. No pressure.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

She’s right, but I still drag my feet as we approach.

“Yo, Hart!” Robbie cries.

Jameson turns and cracks a wide grin. He raises his hand for a high-five with Adam, who meets it with a solid smack. He switches to a fist bump for Robbie, complete with an explosion gesture at the end that should be worthy of an eye-roll but has me smiling instead. Then his brown eyes land on me.

“Hey, man,” Jameson says, extending his right hand toward me.

My first thought as I reach out to shake it is that it appears larger up close than it did from across our English classroom.

My palm disappears into his grip. His skin is rough against mine, calloused from years of catching footballs, yard work, and fixing up cars—if the rumor is true that he got a weekend job at the chop shop.

Our handshake lasts maybe three seconds, but it feels as if it goes on forever.

I catalog every detail, from his long, thick fingers that hold a ton of power to the knowledge that he could crush the bones in my hand without even trying.

But he doesn’t. His grip is gentle, careful even, as though he’s aware of his strength and actively choosing not to use it.

“You guys know my cousins?” Jameson gestures to the girls, letting go of my hand in the process. “Melissa, Tori, and Jackie.”

Cousins. I sigh loudly, and Rita makes a small noise beside me that sounds suspiciously like a snort.

“Nice to meet you,” Adam says with his trademark charm.

The girls immediately shift their attention to him and Robbie, peppering them with questions about football.

Adam explains the difference between being a quarterback and a wide receiver. Robbie demonstrates his kicking motion. Jameson launches into an explanation about the team’s new offensive coordinator.

I look down at my hand. There’s a faint red mark across my palm from his grip. Evidence that it happened.

And now I get it, why people say they never want to wash their hands after meeting someone famous. Or why they preserve ticket stubs and save text messages and hold on to moments that seem silly to everyone else.

It’s not about the act or the acknowledgment itself. It’s about the proof that for three seconds, you existed in someone else’s world. That you were real enough to touch.

I curl my fingers into a loose fist and hold on to the sensation for as long as I can.

“We should head out,” Jackie says after a few more minutes of conversation. “Mom wants us back for dinner.”

“Cool, cool.” Jameson gives his cousins quick hugs. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

The cousins drift away, swallowed by the boardwalk crowd, but not before Melissa tosses one final glance over her shoulder at Adam.

“Are those your only cousins?” Robbie asks, clearly hoping to score.

“Nah, I’ve got like twelve more coming next week,” Jameson bemoans. “But hey, can’t complain about the beach time.”

“Dude, you okay?” Adam asks, sidling up beside me and ruffling my hair.

I nod.

“You sure? Because you keep staring at your hand like it’s got the secrets of the universe written on it.”

I know that I can’t tell my brother the real reason why I suddenly find my hand fascinating, but I’m struggling to come up with something. “I got ice cream on my hand,” is what I finally tell him. “It’s sticky.”

“Gross.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wet wipe. I don’t even ask why he has one. I simply take it and wipe my hand.

Jameson leaves a few minutes after his cousins, and the four of us continue walking down the boardwalk, talking about nothing of importance. Just shooting the shit and enjoying summer while it lasts.

When my brothers and I arrive home, the sun dipping below the horizon and turning the sky into a blend of pinks and oranges, I realize that I can still feel the phantom touch of his hand on mine.

I wonder if I always will.