Page 52 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

Jameson

S enior year feels like a reward for surviving three years of Arcadia High’s finest and weirdest. I wake up before my alarm, heart already hammering, roll out of bed, and immediately blast my favorite playlist while I shower.

By six-thirty, I’m in my car, sunroof open, stereo a little too loud, ready to set a new world record for enthusiasm.

The whole town is awake for the occasion.

The coffee shop’s parking lot is jammed with Subarus and minivans, and the line inside stretches out the door.

Parents in business casual herd their children up the steps of Dandelion Daycare with a kind of frantic cheerfulness that somehow makes me nostalgic for being five.

As I roll down Main Street, Mrs. Delaney from the flower shop waves at me from behind her rainbow-painted window, her hands already smudged with dirt and green dye.

She cocks her head, sees my impossible smile, and grins back.

I’m stopped at a red light, and for a second, I think she’s going to come outside and ask what’s put me in such a good mood on a Tuesday before eight.

If she only knew.

Three months ago, I was just another football player heading into summer training. Now I’m Jameson Hart, boyfriend of Kevin Pryor, and those four words make my chest expand until I think I might float right out of this Honda.

The steering wheel is warm under my hands as I turn onto Maple Avenue, past the park where we used to have Little League practice.

Past the elementary school where I first noticed that being tall meant everyone expected you to be good at sports.

Past the corner where Ethan wiped out on his bike last year, and I carried him home, both of us crying for different reasons.

But none of those memories compares to this summer. This absolutely perfect, life-changing summer where I finally— finally —stopped being a coward.

Two years and six months. That’s how long I’ve been thinking about Kevin.

I know the exact moment it started, too.

Freshman year, the drama club was doing Beauty and the Beast .

They were performing for the entire freshman class one day, the sophomores and juniors the next.

I was planning to be a rebel and skip, maybe hide out in the gym, but Matthew dragged me into the auditorium with the rest of our classmates, saying we must “support the arts.” I was prepared to be bored out of my mind.

Then this kid walked on stage dressed as a spatula—an actual spatula, with a cardboard handle strapped to his back and tinfoil wrapped around his torso—and I forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t the costume, obviously. It was the way he committed to it.

While everyone else in the ensemble looked embarrassed or awkward, Kevin was up there giving his whole heart to being kitchen cutlery.

I never told Kevin this, but I bought tickets for opening night. And the next. Told everyone I was supporting the arts. That my mother was a theater kid herself, and I wanted to give back. But none of that was true. I was there for Kevin. Only Kevin.

The thing is, I’m not good with words. Never have been. I can read defensive formations and catch impossible passes, but ask me to express actual feelings? Disaster.

So I spent three years watching from a distance. Watching Kevin disappear into the ensemble of every show. Watching him light up when talking about musicals with his friend Rita, ones I’d never heard of. Watching him walk through the halls like he was afraid of taking up too much space.

I wanted to tell him he deserved all the space in the world.

The Pryor house comes into view, that familiar two-story colonial with the oak tree in the front yard.

My heart does this stupid jive thing it’s been doing all summer in anticipation of that day on the boat when I finally said the words I’d been rehearsing for years.

The way Kevin’s face transformed when I told him about the spatula—God, I’ll never forget that expression.

Like I’d handed him the entire universe wrapped in tissue paper.

I pull into the driveway and check my hair in the rearview mirror.

Still bleached from summer and slightly messy despite my attempts to tame it this morning.

Ethan said I looked like a “lovesick golden retriever,” which is probably accurate, but also grounds for hiding all his underwear or something even more heinous.

The front door opens before I can even text that I’m here, and Kevin emerges.

My brain explodes. My jaw pops open. My hands grip the steering wheel, turning my knuckles white as my toes curl in my new sneakers.

He’s wearing dark jeans that fit him perfectly and a green button-down that accentuates his slim but toned body.

His hair is styled differently, and the bracelet I gave him catches the morning light on his wrist. But it’s his smile that destroys me.

That real smile, the one with the tiny crease on his left cheek that only appears when he’s genuinely happy.

He’s smiling that smile at me .

The realization hits me with the force of a tackle, knocking all the air from my lungs and rearranging my insides into a twisted knot.

I love Kevin Pryor.

Not in the way I thought I did, not as some multi-year crush or summer romance. This is the real thing. The kind of love that rewrites your DNA and changes the rhythm of your heartbeat. The kind that makes you understand why people write songs of everlasting love.

I love the way he overthinks everything.

I love how he sees the world as a stage waiting for its next performance.

I love his terrible volleyball skills, his beautiful singing voice, and the way he hides behind humor when he’s scared.

I love that he let me into his complicated, messy, wonderful family.

I love that he trusted me with his heart.

Kevin opens the passenger door and slides in, bringing the scent of his shampoo and making my eyes roll back. “Ready for senior year?” he asks, buckling his seatbelt.

“Ready for anything,” I say, and mean it.

Because how can I not be ready when Kevin Pryor is beside me, wearing my bracelet and that smile? When the boy I’ve loved since freshman year is finally, impossibly, miraculously mine?

“You’re staring,” Kevin says, his cheeks turning pink.

“Yeah,” I admit, not even trying to look away. “I am.”

He ducks his head, but he’s still smiling. “We’re going to be late if you don’t start driving.”

Right. Driving. School. Senior year. All those things that seemed important five minutes ago but now pale in comparison to the truth bouncing around my chest.

I put the car in reverse, stealing one more glance at Kevin as he fiddles with the radio. He finds a station playing show tunes and looks at me hopefully.

“Whatever you want,” I tell him, meaning so much more than just the music.

As we drive toward Arcadia High, Kevin humming along to some song about living in America at the end of the millennium, I make myself a promise.

Sometime this year—maybe not today or even this month, but soon—I’m going to tell Kevin Pryor that I love him.

I’m going to say those three words that have been building in my chest since I was fourteen years old.

And maybe, if I’m the luckiest guy in Arcadia, he’ll say them back.