Page 26 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
Rita catches my eye, and her expression says she thinks otherwise.
“We got snacks!” Ethan’s voice cuts through the awkward moment as he, Matthew, and Tyler return. Their arms are loaded with enough junk food to feed a small army. “Popcorn, nachos, candy, those weird pickle chips Tyler likes?—”
“Pickle chips are a delicacy,” Tyler defends, already opening the bag.
Ethan wrinkles his nose. “Anyway, I’m sitting with Matthew and Tyler in the Jeep.”
“What?” Jameson straightens up. “I thought we were watching the movie together!”
“Dude, no offense, but you’ve been farting up a storm all day. I’m talking toxic levels. I’m not spending two hours trapped in a car with that.”
“I have not!” Jameson’s face goes from pink to full crimson. “Ethan, what the hell?”
“You totally have. Remember after lunch? You cleared out the entire living room.”
“That was the dog!”
“We don’t have a dog,” Ethan says, already backing toward Matthew’s Jeep with his snacks.
Tyler snorts with laughter. “Come on, little Hart. We’ll protect you from your brother’s digestive issues.”
“I don’t have digestive issues!” Jameson calls after them, but they’re already gone, leaving him standing there, mortified.
Rita’s eyes light up. “Well, we can’t have Jameson sitting all alone in his car, now can we?”
No, no, no. I see where this is going.
“I guess I’ll sit with Adam and Robbie in the van,” she continues, her voice dripping with false innocence. “And Kevin can keep Jameson company in his car. Perfect solution!”
“Works for me,” Adam says, already heading back to the van.
“Same,” Robbie agrees. “Plus, Kevin probably wants to sing along to all the songs. At least this way, we won’t have to hear it.”
I stand frozen, torn between wanting to strangle Rita and kiss her for being an evil genius. She winks at me as she follows my brothers to the van.
“You don’t have to,” Jameson says quietly. “I mean, if you’d rather be with your brothers?—”
“No!” The word comes out too fast, too eager, way too loud. I clear my throat and try again in a lower register. “I mean, it’s fine. Rita’s right. No one should watch Grease alone.”
His smile returns, albeit softer this time. “Cool. Thanks. And, uh, for what it’s worth…I haven’t been farting up a storm.”
He rubs the back of his neck, and I smirk. “Duly noted.”
As I walk with Jameson to his car, I know I should play it cool, but my feet are doing a weird shuffle that’s the opposite of cool.
Jameson’s stride is effortless, confident, the gait of someone who grew up knowing his legs would always land exactly where he needs them.
I, on the other hand, am built for tripping over invisible obstacles and then apologizing to them.
Jameson is six-three, which means even if he’s walking casually, I still have to tilt my head up to look at him or risk getting a prime view of his clavicle all night.
I might have a slight obsession with said clavicle.
The gap between us is so narrow that if I extended my pinky, it would brush his.
I spend the entire walk negotiating with myself whether I should.
I could always shrug it off as an accident, a finger twitch that was entirely out of my control. But I don’t.
To distract myself from the boy next to me, I stare up at the sky.
The sun has finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the heavens painted in purples and deep blues.
The screen flickers to life with old-fashioned movie theater announcements about the concession stand at the same time that we arrive at Jameson’s car.
He unlocks it with his fob, and we slide into our respective seats. The interior smells of coconut air freshener and something distinctly Jameson. Clean laundry and banana-scented sunscreen, I think. The doors close with a gentle thud, and suddenly it’s the two of us in the cocoon of his car.
I catch our faces reflected in the windshield, twin ghosts hovering above the dashboard.
Jameson’s reflection, even in warped glass, looks like a movie star’s—his jawline is effortless, his hair is swept back, his entire posture is relaxed and at home.
There’s a peace about him I can’t fake, no matter how hard I try.
My reflection, on the other hand, is a disaster.
My brow is furrowed, my skin is shiny, and my eyes are wide in a way that screams “caught in the act.” I’m seconds away from vomiting into the nearest cupholder.
I try to relax my face, which only makes me come off even more unnatural and possibly constipated.
The more I try to match Jameson’s calm, the worse it gets.
There’s a little bead of sweat forming at my temple, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
I peek at him from the corner of my eye and breathe a sigh of relief.
He’s watching the drive-in screen, not me.
The silence is both terrifying and weirdly comfortable, and neither of us rushes to fill it.
Maybe Jameson’s used to this; maybe he’s been on a thousand nights like this one, and I’m the only one who doesn’t know how to act.
Or maybe he’s just quiet sometimes, and I’m reading too much into things—his subtle glances at me, his tapping fingers on his thick thighs, his curling toes in his flip-flops.
I distract myself from my growing anxiety by taking in my new surroundings.
Jameson’s side of the Honda is immaculate—all the wrappers and receipts have been cleared away for the night.
The dashboard glows a soft blue, lighting up the inside enough for me to see the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the faint freckles on his arm.
I realize my window is fogging up from my breath.
I crack it open and immediately wonder if I’m sending some kind of signal.
Too nervous? Too eager? I have no idea what the rules are.
I think about how I’ve wanted to get this close to him for months, and now that I am, my brain is nothing but static.
The radio picks up the crackle of the drive-in frequency, finally breaking the silence. Jameson glances over at me, and I almost jump from suddenly being under the intensity of his gaze.
“So,” he says, adjusting the volume. “Fair warning—I might sing along too.”
“Really?”
He nods. “My mom was obsessed with Grease when I was little. I know it all by heart. That’s not too weird, right?”
“Are you kidding? That’s amazing. We can duet ‘Summer Nights.’”
His grin returns, more beautiful than ever. “Deal.” He settles back in his seat. “And, uh, thanks. For not leaving me to watch alone.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, and mean it.
The movie starts, and applause fills the night air as Danny and Sandy appear on the beach. In the darkness of the car, as the boy with the golden hair smiles beside me, I let myself imagine this as the overture to something new with Jameson Hart.