Page 43 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
my favorite things
O ver the past three days, I’ve counted every tile in the kitchen, watched every episode of I Love Lucy , and memorized all of the cracks in the living room ceiling.
There’s one that looks like a lightning bolt near the corner, another that resembles a crooked smile by the light fixture, and my personal favorite—a meandering line that starts above the TV and wanders toward the window, trying to escape. I relate to that crack.
The couch has become my kingdom of self-pity.
I’ve claimed it with a fortress of throw pillows and the ratty blanket Dad knitted when he was depressed after the divorce.
Dad keeps trying to get me to eat actual meals at the table, but I’ve perfected the art of nibbling crackers while horizontal, letting the crumbs fall where they may.
My phone buzzes against my chest where it’s been sitting since I woke up.
Another text from Jameson. He’s been checking in constantly since the boat disaster, sending me everything from terrible jokes to random photos of squirrels he sees on his morning runs.
Each message is a tiny life raft in my ocean of guilt and misery.
Jameson
Good morning, sunshine! How’s the wallowing going today?
I can’t help the small smile that breaks out on my face. He’s taken to calling my depression nest “wallowing,” but somehow when he says it, it doesn’t sting.
Me
Excellent. I’ve achieved peak pathetic. The ceiling cracks say hi.
Jameson
Tell them I said hi back.
Hey, what are you doing right now?
Me
Contemplating whether I have the energy to reach for the remote to change the channel. I don’t know how much more “Lucy, you have some ‘splainin’ to do’ I can listen to before I go crazy.
Jameson
Aww. Perfect. I’m picking you up in twenty minutes.
I bolt upright, sending crackers flying.
Me
What? No. I look like death.
And I smell like sadness.
Jameson
Twenty minutes, Kevin. Wear something you don’t mind getting dirty.
Me
Jameson, I can’t. I’m not ready to face the world.
Jameson
You’re not facing the world. You’re facing puppies. I volunteer at the animal shelter on Thursdays, and they need extra hands today. Unless you’re too busy counting ceiling cracks?
Puppies. He’s bribing me with puppies.
Me
That’s emotional manipulation.
Jameson
Is it working?
I look around the living room—at the empty cracker boxes, the TV that’s now playing the infamous grape stomping episode.
Then I think about Robbie’s door, still locked whenever I walk past it.
About Adam giving me more hugs than he has in his entire life.
About the silence that’s replaced the house’s usual chaos.
Me
Fine. But if I cry on a puppy, that’s on you.
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 got him 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 of cartoon 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.”
“Martha,” Jameson groans, his cheeks turning pink.
“What? It’s true. ‘Kevin would love this dog.’ ‘Kevin would think this is funny.’ ‘Do you think Kevin prefers golden retrievers or labs?’”
I’m grinning now, the biggest smile I’ve had in days. “You talk about me?”
“Constantly,” Martha says before Jameson can answer. “It’s adorable and slightly nauseating. Now, boys, the puppies are in Room 3. They need socializing, and frankly, I need five minutes where they’re someone else’s problem.”
She slides over two volunteer badges that Jameson swipes. He pins his over his left breast and then, with great care, pins mine in the same spot. “There,” he says. “I’ve pinned you.”
“Oh my God. Did you make a Bye Bye Birdie reference?” I ask him in disbelief.
He blushes. “I may have been catching up on some of the classics lately.”
“I’m sure Ethan is loving it.”
“Oh, you have no idea. This morning, I caught him singing “How Lovely to be A Woman” as he got ready to head out with some friends.”
I snicker, and Jameson leads me down a hallway lined with kennel doors. Through the windows, I glimpse dogs of every size and color. Some bark as we pass, others choose to watch with curious eyes. “This is my favorite part,” he says, stopping at a door marked: Puppy Room - Enter at Your Own Risk.
He opens it, and we’re instantly swarmed.
Six puppies—some kind of lab mix, all gangly legs and oversized paws—attack our shoes with tiny teeth and enthusiastic tails. One immediately tries to climb my leg, another is attempting to untie Jameson’s shoelaces, and a third has discovered that my shin is apparently delicious.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, dropping to my knees. I’m immediately tackled by three of them, their tongues finding every bit of exposed skin. “This is heaven.”
“Told you,” Jameson says, sitting cross-legged beside me. A particularly bold puppy has climbed into his lap and is trying to eat his volunteer badge.
For the first time in three days, my mind goes quiet.
There’s no room for guilt or worry when you’re being mobbed by puppies who think you’re the most interesting thing they’ve ever encountered.
One of them—smaller than the others, with a white patch over one eye—curls up against my leg and promptly falls asleep.
The sight steals what’s left of my breath.
His large hand scoops up a squirming puppy, cradling it against his chest with such gentleness that my heart doesn’t know whether to beat faster or flatline.
His thick fingers find the sweet spot behind its ears, and it sighs sweetly, melting into a puddle of contentment.