Page 36 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

i want to hold your hand

O nce again, the bleachers burn through my shorts. But I barely notice this time because Jameson caught another pass that defies the laws of physics.

The football field below me is full of players running drills in their practice jerseys. But without Ethan here to keep me company—he has a stomach bug—I’m merely the weird theater kid watching practice by himself.

Jameson lines up for another route, and I track his every move. His muscles coil before he explodes off the line. His hands reach for the ball as if he’s plucking clouds from the sky. His face lights up when he makes the catch.

I’m suddenly reminded of that scene in Across the Universe where Prudence sits in the bleachers, watching the cheerleader she has a crush on, while singing “I Want to Hold Your Hand” with longing in her voice.

Before I can stop myself, the lyrics slip out of me, barely a whisper.

Jameson jogs back to the huddle. He high-fives Matthew, and my rib cage constricts around my heart.

What would it be like to have him look at me the way he does at that football? To be the thing he reaches for with such certainty?

God, I’m pathetic. Sitting here, some lovesick character, singing Beatles songs to a boy who probably views me as nothing more than his teammate’s brother. The guy he ate tacos with once. The guy he texts about jellyfish and breakfast foods.

“Please tell me you’re not serenading the football team.”

I flinch so hard I almost topple from the bleacher. Rita stands at the bottom, holding a lacy, pink parasol. Her sundress is the color of lemonade, and she’s grinning at me.

“Rita! You scared the shit out of me!”

“Good. Someone needs to save you from yourself.” She climbs the steps and settles in beside me, angling the parasol to shade us both. “Also, your Prudence impression needs work. You’re supposed to be yearning, not dying.”

“Thanks for the notes, director.” I scoot over to give her more room. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, obviously. Your dad said you’d be here.” She follows my gaze to where Jameson is stretching, his shirt riding up slightly. “Ah. Still pining, I see.”

“I’m not pining. I’m observing.”

“You were singing ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ while staring at him. That’s textbook pining.”

I slump forward, resting my elbows on my knees and my chin in my palms. “We still haven’t finished our conversation from the beach. I tried to convince him that he could text me what he wanted to say, but he’s adamant that it has to be in person.”

I’ve never wanted something this badly before.

I don’t know how I got here. My summer began in the same way it always does, with me concerned about what the fall production would be.

Then this boy—the one with golden hair, the one they call Mr. Popular—wished me a happy birthday.

Who knew such a simple greeting would turn me into a lovesick teenager?

Into someone who wants nothing more than to become the center of his universe.

Down on the field, Jameson makes another spectacular catch. He smiles bright enough to give the sun a run for its money. My chest tightens, becoming too small for everything I’m experiencing—love, agony, acceptance.

“You know what I want? I want someone to like me, to not treat me as the third Pryor boy or the theater kid. As me, Kevin Pryor.”

Rita’s expression softens. She sets down the parasol and takes my hand.

“I see how people stare at Adam and Robbie,” I continue. “They’re these perfect athletic gods, who everyone wants to be or be with. And then there’s me, trailing behind them as their shadow. I’m always the afterthought. Always the ‘oh, and Kevin’s here too.’”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” I pull my hand away and wrap my arms around myself. “Do you know what it’s like to want something so badly it hurts? To dream about someone seeing you and choosing you because they want to?”

My voice breaks.

“I want to know what it is to be someone’s first choice.

To be the person someone thinks about when they wake up.

To be someone precious, someone worth protecting.

” I gesture at the field where Jameson is laughing with Tyler.

“I want someone to light up when I walk into a room. To miss me when I’m gone. To want to hold my hand.”

Rita doesn’t say anything, just lets me spill all the longing I’ve been carrying around like stones in my pockets.

“And the stupid thing is, at the beach, I thought maybe…” I trail off, watching Jameson do lunges. “But that’s me being delusional, right? Guys like him fall for other athletes or college guys with cars and apartments, not theater kids who still share a room with their brother.”

Rita grabs my face with both hands, forcing my eyes on her. “You listen to me, Kevin Pryor. You are not an afterthought. You are not a shadow. You are brilliant, quick-witted, and kind, and any guy would be lucky to have you.”

“Then why doesn’t anyone want me?” The question comes out small and broken.

“Maybe someone does.” She glances meaningfully at the field. “Maybe someone’s been trying to tell you, but keeps getting interrupted by teammates with terrible timing.”

I follow her gaze to where Jameson and the rest of the team are now on a water break. His eyes flick up to where Rita and I are. He raises his hand in a small wave, the same one he gave me that day at the bookstore, and my traitorous heart skips.

“Wave back, you disaster,” Rita hisses.

I do as she commands, and Jameson grins before turning back to his teammates.

“See?” Rita picks up her parasol again, twirling it smugly. “That boy’s got it bad.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know he texts you constantly. I know he took you on a beach date, even if you won’t let yourself call it that.

I know he watches you when he thinks no one’s looking.

” She stands, offering me her hand. “Come on. Let’s get snow cones.

Sitting here, watching him, isn’t going to give you the answers you seek. ”

“But flavored ice will?”

“Yes. It’s the answer to everything.”

I let her pull me up and take one last glance at the field. Jameson’s mid-catch, suspended in the air.

“I think you’re going to get what you want,” Rita says as we descend the bleachers. “Love, acceptance, someone who chooses you first every time.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “And when you do, I’m taking full credit.”

The snow cone stand is a tiny yellow shack with a hand-painted sign.

The line snakes past the lifeguard station.

The boardwalk is crowded with families in matching T-shirts and tourists with sunburns in various shades of defeat.

The air smells of sugar, saltwater, and fried dough.

Somewhere nearby, a band is covering “It Will Rain” by Bruno Mars, off-key and too loud, but no one minds.

Rita and I claim our place in line. She spins her parasol absently while scanning the menu for the most aggressively artificial flavor possible.

“So,” I say, watching the kid at the front order every flavor combined, “Robbie told me something interesting.”

Rita’s parasol stops mid-spin. “Oh?”

“He’s planning to ask you out after football camp ends.”

The parasol clatters to the ground. Rita doesn’t even notice. Her face goes through about seventeen different expressions before settling on something between joy and terror.

“He said that? He actually said those words?” Her voice climbs an octave with each syllable.

“Well, his exact words were more along the lines of wanting to do it right. Take you somewhere nice when he can give you his full attention.” I pick up the parasol and hand it back to her. “He’s been thinking about it for a while, I guess.”

Rita fans herself with her hand, even though the ocean breeze is doing a decent job already. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Kevin, is this really happening?”

“Unless you’re planning to turn him down?”

“Are you insane? Of course I’m not turning him down!” She grabs my arm, her nails digging in slightly. “Wait, does he know I’ll say yes? Did you tell him? Please tell me you didn’t tell him. I want to see his face when?—”

“I didn’t tell him,” I lie, gently prying her fingers loose before she draws blood. “But I may have strongly hinted that his feelings are reciprocated.”

The line moves forward. We’re close enough now to hear the ancient snow cone machine grinding away, turning ice into sugary magic. The teenager working the stand wears an expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else, his tank top stained with various syrup colors.

“I love that he’s waiting,” Rita says, her voice going soft. “Most guys would ask in the middle of the craziness and expect you to work around their schedule. But Robbie gets it. He knows I deserve more than stolen moments between practices.”

“He wants to do this right,” I confirm. “You should see him when he talks about you. He gets this dopey smile on his face.”

“Stop it, you’re going to make me cry.” She dabs at her eyes with dramatic flair. “God, two more weeks. How am I supposed to act normal around him for two more weeks?”

“The same way you’ve been acting normal this whole time?”

“That wasn’t normal! That was suppressed longing!” She spins the parasol again, nearly taking out a small child. “This is active waiting. Completely different energy.”

We reach the counter. Rita orders something called Tiger’s Blood, which is apparently a real flavor and not a threat. I go with blue raspberry because sometimes you need your tongue to match your mood.

With our snow cones in hand, we wander down the boardwalk. We pass the ring toss game, the photo booth with its promise to capture “Summer Magic!”, and the taffy shop pumping out clouds of sugar-scented air.

“You know what’s weird?” I say, side-stepping around a dropped ice cream cone that’s already attracting seagulls. “Adam hasn’t dated anyone in forever.”

Rita pauses mid-bite of her snow cone. “Define forever.”