Page 44 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

“You’re good at this,” I say, unable to look away from how comfortable he is with them.

“Years of practice,” he says, then his brown eyes cross adorably when the puppy stretches up and drags its tiny pink tongue across his nose. “Oh, that’s—okay, that’s disgusting but also cute.”

He catches me staring, and his smile shifts into something shy. “What?”

“Nothing. Just…you.”

Before I can elaborate, one of the puppies discovers his flip-flop has slipped off.

The tiny creature investigates his exposed foot with scientific dedication before deciding his big toe is the most fascinating thing in the universe.

The puppy’s tongue goes to work, licking with the determination of someone trying to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.

Jameson’s entire body jerks. “Oh no, no, no—” A laugh bursts out of him, high and breathless. “Stop, that tickles!”

But the puppy is committed to its mission. Jameson tries to pull his foot away, but that only makes the puppy more determined, following his toe with single-minded focus.

“Kevin, help!” He’s laughing so hard that tears form in the corners of his eyes. “I can’t—this is torture!”

“I don’t know,” I say, grinning at this unexpected discovery. “This is pretty entertaining.”

“You’re evil.” He finally manages to scoop up the offending puppy, holding it at arm’s length while he catches his breath. “Mental note: never let the puppies near my feet.”

“Mental note: Jameson Hart has ticklish feet,” I counter, filing this information away for future use.

The puppy in his hands yawns, apparently exhausted from its toe-licking adventure, and Jameson’s expression becomes impossibly mushy.

We’ve been here for who knows how long, covered in puppies, covered in fur, probably covered in things I don’t want to think about. But for the first time since the boat, I can breathe properly as the weight on my chest loosens a bit.

“Thank you,” I tell him quietly. “For this. For not pushing. For being you.”

He reaches over with his free hand and tangles our fingers together. “Always.”

Martha appears in the doorway. “Hate to interrupt, but these monsters need their lunch. You boys want to help with feeding time?”

“Absolutely,” Jameson says, carefully setting down his sleeping puppy.

Feeding time is as chaotic as I imagined it to be. Six puppies, six bowls, and apparently six different opinions on whose food is better. They switch bowls constantly, steal from each other, and somehow manage to get more food on the floor than in their stomachs.

“I think this one’s going to be trouble,” I say, watching the one with the eye patch systematically visit each bowl, conducting a taste test.

“That’s Patches,” Martha says. “And you’re right. She’s too smart for her own good. Figured out how to escape the pen twice already.”

“Patches? Really?” I ask Jameson.

“I don’t name them,” he defends. “That’s all Martha.”

“I’m not creative with names,” Martha admits. “That’s why we have Spots, Brownie, and Captain Fluff over there.”

After feeding time, we help clean the room, which mostly involves mopping up scattered kibble and picking up toys that have been thoroughly destroyed. The puppies are in their post-meal sleepy phase, piled together in a corner like a living, breathing furry blanket.

“Come on,” Jameson says. “Let me show you the rest of the place.”

We spend the next hour visiting the other dogs. There’s Duke, an ancient basset hound who moves slower than a turtle. Princess, a surprisingly fierce chihuahua who rules her kennel with an iron paw. And Bear, who’s a massive golden retriever with the personality of an overgrown puppy.

“Bear’s been here six months,” Jameson tells me as the dog leans his entire body weight against the kennel door, desperate for attention. “People see his size and get scared, but he’s the gentlest soul.”

I reach through to scratch Bear’s ears, and he closes his eyes in bliss. “People won’t adopt him because of his size?”

“It’s apartment restrictions, mostly. Plus, he eats about fifty pounds of food a month.” Jameson watches Bear with obvious affection. “I’d take him myself, but my mom says two boys and a dog would be too much chaos. She thinks a cat is enough.”

“She’s probably right.”

“Indubitably right. But look at this face.” Jameson smooshes his face against the kennel bars, and Bear immediately licks him through the gaps. “How can you say no to this face?”

“You’re going to end up with ten dogs one day, aren’t you?”

“Minimum,” he agrees cheerfully.

“You really love this,” I observe, watching him separate two dogs who are getting too rough in their play.

“I do. It’s one of my favorite things.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “It’s simple here. These guys don’t care that I can’t dance or that I’m terrible at public speaking. All they care about is that I show up.”

“You’re not terrible at public speaking.”

“Kevin, I peed my pants in middle school when I had to give an oral report on the stock market crash. Thank God nobody noticed because I was able to cover the wet spot with my hands.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, surprising us both. “And you come here every Thursday?”

“Pretty much. I play with the puppies, help clean the kennels, I walk the older dogs. It’s not glamorous, but it matters.”

“It’s perfect,” I say, and mean it. “ You’re perfect.”

He stares at me, eyes narrowing slightly. “You know you can talk to me, right? About Robbie, about everything. I’m not going anywhere.”

Shit. The tears come suddenly, without warning. One moment I’m fine, the next I’m crying in front of a bunch of dogs who stare at me with cocked heads, trying to figure out what’s wrong with the strange human who’s leaking.

“Hey, hey,” Jameson shuffles closer. “It’s okay.”

“I know. Don’t mind me.”

Jameson’s arms wrap around me, and that’s when I completely fall apart. The sobs come harder, shaking my whole body as I bury my face in his volunteer shirt. It smells like laundry detergent and dog and him, and somehow that makes it worse and better at the same time.

“It hurts so much,” I manage to get out between gasps, my words muffled against his chest. “Having Robbie shut me out like this. He won’t even look at me.”

Jameson’s hand moves to my back, rubbing slow circles that anchor me even as I’m drowning in sorrow.

“I’ve never told anyone this,” I continue, the words spilling out, “but Robbie’s always been my favorite brother.

I know you’re not supposed to have favorites, but he’s mine.

He’s the one who made me laugh when kids at school were mean.

He’s the one who stayed up with me when I couldn’t sleep before auditions.

And now he can’t even stand to be in the same room as me.

” My voice cracks completely. “Being iced out of his life is breaking my heart.”

“Oh, Kevin.” Jameson’s voice is soft against my hair.

His arms tighten around me, and he rests his chin on the top of my head.

“I know it feels impossible right now, but it’ll get better.

It’ll take time, sure, but before you know it, Robbie will be back to his usual self, giving you noogies or whatever annoying big brother thing he does. ”

Despite everything, a wet laugh escapes me. “The most annoying thing he does is pants me.”

Jameson pulls back slightly. He’s laughing harder than I’ve ever seen him laugh. “Wait. Like, he actually pulls your pants down?”

“It’s not funny!” I smack his chest, which is as solid as a rock. It only makes him laugh harder.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasps between laughs. “It’s just—of all the things—pantsing!”

“He thinks it’s hilarious,” I grumble, but I’m fighting a smile now. “Last time he did it was at Tyler’s birthday party in April. In front of everyone. I was wearing my Superman boxers.”

Now Jameson’s crying from laughter, and I can’t help but join in. We must look ridiculous, standing here in a dog shelter, crying and laughing at the same time. Bear watches us through the kennel bars with what I swear is judgment in his eyes.

“Superman boxers,” Jameson wheezes. “Please tell me you still have them.”

“Absolutely not telling you that.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “And if you ever tell anyone about this conversation, I’ll share that video Ethan sent me yesterday of you trying to do the Macarena at your cousin’s wedding.”

His face goes blank, and he blinks wildly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Martha chooses that moment to stick her head around the corner. “Everything okay back here? Sounded like someone was dying.”

“We’re good,” Jameson assures her. “Just having a moment.”

She looks between us, takes in my red eyes and Jameson’s arm still around my shoulders, and nods knowingly. “Well, when you’re done with your moment, the senior dogs need their afternoon walk. Unless you’re too busy being adorable.”

After she leaves, I lean into Jameson’s side. “You’re amazing, you know that? Most guys would run away from a sobbing mess.”

“I’m not most guys,” he says simply, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I’m Jameson Micah Hart. Kevin Theodore Pryor’s amazing boyfriend. Now, come on,” he says, tugging me toward the senior dog kennels. “What do you say to walking some dogs who won’t judge us for being emotional disasters.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m a very composed emotional disaster.”

“The most composed,” he agrees, and takes my hand. Though the expression on his face tells me he doesn’t buy it for a second.

But that’s okay. I like him anyway.