Page 61 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

That’s it. This friendship is over. I can’t associate with someone who thinks breakfast food belongs on pizza.

Jameson

I thought we had something special, Kevin

My heart has been going haywire for the past two weeks. Ever since the night of the drive-in, the night we held hands and dove into the ocean, Jameson and I have been texting nonstop.

Morning messages about what we’re having for breakfast.

Afternoon debates over the best superhero (him: Spider-Man, me: Black Widow) and whether hot dogs are sandwiches (they’re not, and I will die on this hill).

Late-night conversations that drift from silly to serious and back again.

Me

We do. But bacon pizza might be a deal-breaker.

Jameson

What if I promise to always order half without bacon?

Me

I’m listening…

“Who are you texting?” Adam’s voice cuts through my bubble of bliss. He’s standing in my doorway, fresh from his morning run, sweat making his shirt stick to his chest.

“A friend.” I try to sound relaxed, but my voice comes out weird and high.

Adam’s eyes narrow. He steps fully into my room and closes the door behind him. “Kevin, can we talk?”

The serious big-brother tone makes my stomach drop. “About what?”

“About you and Hart.” He sits on the edge of my bed, and I scoot back against my headboard to give him room. “I think it’s great that you guys are becoming friends. But?—”

“But what?”

Adam runs a hand through his damp hair. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. Hart’s an incredibly nice guy. He’s friendly with everyone. It’s who he is.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I know that.”

“Do you?” His voice is gentle but firm. “Because you’ve been glued to your phone for two weeks. Every time it buzzes, you light up like the Fourth of July.”

“So?”

“So…maybe you’re reading more into this than what’s actually there.” Adam shifts uncomfortably. “Hart has a life, Kevin. School starts next month. Football too. Like Robbie and me, he has college applications, recruiting visits. He’s probably just being polite because you’re my brother.”

Each word is a small punch to the gut. “He’s not ‘just being polite.’” I use air quotes for emphasis.

“How do you know?”

“Because we talk about real things!” The words are spat out before I can stop them. “He told me about how his dad walked out when he was twelve. I told him about my anxiety during auditions. We send each other stupid memes at two in the morning. That’s not politeness, Adam. That’s friendship.”

My phone buzzes again. We both look at it.

“Every five minutes?” Adam asks. “Really?”

“It’s not every five minutes.” It’s more like every ten, but I don’t say that.