My breath hitches as I register what he’s said. I look his way and watch him as he speaks, unable to look away. He keeps his eyes straight ahead.
“Mom always sat in the second chair from the right. It was every Thursday, and it lasted from eleven in the morning and usually went up until dinnertime. Standard for stage three breast cancer. I thought it couldn’t get worse. Her hair fell out, and she cried. All. The. Time. She used to have the most beautiful hair, and then one day it just started falling out. But then it did get worse. Chemo was just the beginning. She had a couple of surgeries, had to have her breasts removed, and then a few years later, got new ones put in.
“So much fucking work just to feel and look like a woman. She had wigs to wear to our games—Hennessey and I played football—and to Royal’s basketball games and dance recitals. She refused to miss them. I couldn’t do anything to help her. I tried, but I never could make it any better. The only thing I could do was to sit here and watch her through the window. Make sure she got the treatment she needed so she could keep on being my mom.”
My eyes fill with tears, and I suck in an unsteady breath. Janet has always had a thing with hair—she touches everyone’s hair and tells them how lucky they are—and it’s always been a bit off, but I had no idea where it came from. I just thought it was a cute quirk. Through my teary eyes I see that Jameson’s turned toward me. He’s got one hand propping himself up on the grass. The other hand reaches out and takes mine. He gives it a soft tug and brings me closer. I lean in, so close now that my chest nearly presses up against his twisted side.
“This is what my love looks like. Here, on this hill, waiting for my girl. For as many hours, as many days, as many years as it takes, I’m here. Even if you’ll never be ready for me, I’ll still be here, waiting for you.”
A tear falls down my cheek from the intensity of this conversation and his admission. In my head I’m screaming I love you at the top of my lungs, but it refuses to come out. I’m quite effectively stunned into silence.
“I love you, Lulu. It’s not this big, grand thing. It’s quiet and scary because loving you has become such a large part of who I am that I don’t know who I’d be without it, without you.”
“I lo—” I start to tell him that I love him. So much. So much it freaking hurts sometimes. But he cuts me off.
“Before you say it, just know that I can’t give you all the things you deserve. I can’t give you what your father has—the condo, the cars, the houses on the beach, the trust fund, none of it—but I’m selfish enough to want you to love me back anyway.”
Whatever I could possibly say to him—that I love him—will never be enough compared to what he’s said to me. Every kind, beautiful, raw word he’s spoken makes it impossible to say it back to him. It’s like there’s this water rising inside of me, splashing the sides of my frame, and nearing the top where it’s going to spill over and I’m going to drown in its rush. My chest aches from the wanting of this so much and the finally getting it and how overwhelming it all is. I do the only thing I can.
I lean over and swing a leg onto his lap and hoist myself into straddling him. His thighs are so firm and muscular beneath me. I lean into him, pressing my lips to his, and claiming Jameson Hayes for my very own. Our lips move together, neither trying to dominate the other, only exploring and marking our territory in a gentle, loving way. He’s untwisted his torso and slides one arm around my waist with the other hand fisted in my hair. This is so much better than what I pictured. This is so much more than what I thought I could have.
We stay there, kissing and claiming and loving, for long enough for my legs to cramp and Jameson to wiggle underneath me. I keep myself at a safe distance from the bulge in his jeans because we’re in public and I’m kind of afraid that it’s like a magnet. It’s already attracting me, but if I touch him there, I may never let go. And that might land us in jail, and we have enough problems on our hands. Despite the physical discomfort, we don’t move until his phone rings for the third time. He pulls away, curses, and adjusts so he can yank the phone out of his pocket and puts it on speakerphone. It’s Royal.
“Big Brother,” she says all happy and lazy-like.
“What?” he barks, trying to catch his breath.
“Wow, what did I interrupt?” she asks, and her laugh nearly succumbs to a giggle, which is rare for Royal. She’s not a giggler. “Anyway, did you send Mel something? A package arrived for her. It looks like it could be flowers.”
“No. Call Capriotti,” he says into the phone. His tone is serious now. It’s the alarm voice he uses when they’re heading out on a call. “And don’t open that fucking box.”