Page 6 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
I want to call him at football camp and demand answers, but the part of me that knows Adam better than anyone understands why he hasn’t said a word.
Once he says it out loud, it becomes real. Once we all know, we’ll have to deal with it.
And he’s not ready.
Hell, I’m not ready.
I carefully put the papers back exactly as I found them. I close the closet door and lean against it, sliding down until I’m sitting on Adam’s impeccably clean floor. I don’t have long to wallow because the front door slams shut, and what must be at least twenty pairs of footsteps shake the house.
Shit. How long have I been in here?
Scrambling out of Adam’s room, I take the stairs two at a time. When I reach the kitchen, I immediately grab a dust rag and furiously polish the already-clean counter.
Adam and Robbie stumble in, their practice jerseys soaked with sweat.
“Kevin!” Robbie calls out, kicking off his cleats. “You’re never gonna believe what happened. The bus broke down on the way back. We had to run the rest of the way home.”
Adam grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it with tap water. “In this heat.”
I try to smile sympathetically while my pulse slowly returns to normal. “That sucks.”
Adam gives me a funny look. “You okay? Your eyes are a little red.”
My fingers fly to my face, and I rub my eyes furiously. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I cleaned the house. Must be all that dust getting to me.”
Satisfied with my answer, Adam chugs the water and hands me the empty glass. After I rinse it out and put it in the dishwasher, I follow my brothers into the living room.
Matthew has made himself at home on the loveseat.
His legs are sprawled out—and yes, they are still very defined.
Tyler has claimed the recliner, tilting it back with a satisfied groan.
His dark skin is even darker from all the days he’s been spending out in the sun.
When he’s not at football camp, he’s been helping his dad down at the docks.
More players pour in—Jake, Carlos, DeShawn, Marcus (not to be confused with Dad), and ten other guys whose names I can never remember. They drape themselves dramatically across the furniture. I grimace as I watch their stench and sweat soak in.
“Damn, this place is spotless,” Matthew says, running his meaty hand along the coffee table. “You could eat off of this.”
Robbie grins and jerks his thumb at me. “That’s because my brother turns into Mr. Clean whenever we’re all out.”
“Oh, yeah?” Tyler sits up in the recliner. “Must be nice having a built-in housekeeper.”
I open my mouth to protest the title, but Adam beats me to it. “No. He only cleans so that he can snoop through our stuff.” Adam’s eyes lock onto mine. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed things moved around in my room, Kev.”
Heat rushes to my face, the crimson spreading from my neck to my ears. “I don’t—that’s not—all I do is clean!”
The room erupts in laughter.
“Dude, all siblings snoop,” Jake says, wiping sweat from his forehead. “My sister goes through my drawers constantly. Last week she found my”—he pauses, glancing at me—“some personal items.”
“Personal items?” DeShawn snorts. “Just say condoms, man.”
“My brother’s worse,” Carlos chimes in. “He found a box tucked in the corner of our dad’s closet. Now he thinks he’s some kind of expert on women.”
A strangled noise escapes me that sounds somewhere between a cough and a dying seal.
“You okay there, Kevin?” Matthew asks, genuinely concerned.
I nod, unable to form words. I grab the dust rag and wipe down a pristine side table as the guys continue talking about their snooping siblings, and for some, their snooping parents.
Eventually, the conversation shifts to football.
Something about defensive formations and the new plays Coach Potter wants them to memorize.
I tune it out, focusing instead on making myself as invisible as possible.
I’ve gotten good at this—becoming part of the furniture when the house fills with my brothers’ friends.
If there were an Olympic event for blending into the background, I’d medal every time.
Robbie and Adam belong to this world. They speak its language fluently.
Their conversations are a battering ram of inside jokes, team gossip, and crude stories that get funnier, apparently, the louder they’re told.
I barely keep up. Sometimes I memorize what they say so that I can Google terms later.
Cover two defense. Snap count. Zone blitz.
I don’t try to chime in, not even when one of the players whose name I can never remember asks me a question.
My attempts at conversation are usually met with blank stares or polite smiles.
Once, I made a reference to Maybe Happy Ending, and it fell so flat that even the glass giraffe on the mantle was embarrassed for me.
A few hours later, when I think I’ve reached maximum invisibility, Tyler leans over the armrest and grins at Adam. “Did you hear? Jameson Hart is no longer grounded. Now, we can all hang out again.”
My head snaps up at the mention of Jameson Hart’s name.
I know that name. Everyone knows that name.