“What the heck is going on with you?”
“What?” he says and leans over, placing his hand on my knee. With a firm pat, he pulls away. It’s all very friendly. Too friendly. I don’t want Jameson to be friendly. I’d rather he be loving, sexy, bossy . . . anything but this distant friendliness that makes me feel further away from him than ever.
“No really,” I say. “What the hell is that?” I gesture to my knee and then his hand.
“I patted your knee?” He tilts his head to the side in confusion. “That cross a line?”
No, idiot. It didn’t cross a line, which is exactly the problem. Inside my head, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs and throwing myself into his lap while shaking him senseless and telling him I want him to cross a line with me because for Pete’s sake I haven’t had anyone cross a line with me since I met this gorgeous, infuriating, amazing man.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt the question out. Despite the confused look on his face, I don’t regret asking it. He has to know that we spent all of last summer being flirty and building up to this moment when we could be together and not feel any guilt about it and now he’s keeping me at bay and it’s killing me. I thought for sure when I saw him and Royal standing on the curb at the pick-up/drop-off at the airport that I’d run to him and he would wrap me in his big arms and spin me around and we’d kiss in an epic way that would make my entire body burst into flames and it would embarrass both of our sisters. And it would be worth it because it’s us and we’re worth fighting for and I’m not going to give up on us. He was the one to ask me not to give up on us, and I haven’t. And now it’s like he’s changed his mind. I feel like such a fool to think I mean more to him than I do.
“Nothing steady,” he says. His voice is calm, but his blue-gray eyes are blank. I know him well enough to know that something is going on behind that void expression, but he won’t let me in until he’s ready.
The cab is now a whole new kind of quiet. It’s that painful quiet that’s laced with fear and love and knowing how everything could be riding on this single moment. If he’s over it—whatever we had—then it’s probably best that I know that. If he’s not, he should know that he’s still everything to me. All it really takes is for one of us to be honest.
Jameson, I love you.
Jameson, I’m scared you don’t love me.
Jameson, please love me.
Please.
The thought of him with other women tears at my soul in ways I can’t vocalize. He didn’t ask me to, but I’ve waited for him. The closest I’ve come to dating was when I replaced my vibrator and named it after him. I don’t call it that, though, because that’s just weird. No, I keep the whole process very clinical and move on. Then there was that stupid moment when I told Royal I had a boyfriend when we were Skyping one night. She kept asking me about Southern men, and I kept brushing her off, and after a while, the whole situation just became too pathetic and I couldn’t stand the questions anymore. So I lied but made sure that John David and I broke up a solid month before graduation so I didn’t have to scramble for an excuse last minute. Aside from his double first name, all she knows is that we were never serious and he was mysterious and always coming up with reasons to cancel our plans. Because with how often I post updates about Netflix marathons, it just wouldn’t be believable that my fake boyfriend was around much.
“Have you heard from Lydia lately?” I ask. I know nothing about how the relationship ended except for the fact that Jameson chose to keep in contact with her for a while after. At first I thought they were still hooking up, but then some bimbo tagged him in a photo of her sitting on his lap in a bar.
I may or may not have gotten drunk that night and left him a few nasty voice messages where I threatened to hunt said bimbo down and pull her teeth out one by one. It wasn’t my finest moment, that I can admit.
“What are you doing?” he says with a firm jaw and pained eyes. “If you have something to say, just say it and stop beating around the bush.”
“Here,” the cabbie says and comes to a rough stop.
“This weekend. At the beach house. Say you’ll come,” I say. He narrows his brows and watches me for a long moment. “Please.”
“I can do Friday, but I’m on shift from Saturday night through Sunday night.”
“Meter’s still running,” the cabbie says a little louder this time.
I ignore the driver. “Okay. We can head down there Friday, and I’ll come back with you on Saturday. Sound good?”
For the first time since we got in the cab, I have a genuine smile on my face. Jameson nods his head. I reach into my purse to pay for my portion of the cab ride because I know it wasn’t cheap, but Jameson’s large hand covers mine.