by Jc Emery
And he bought it for me.
His friend.
Jameson Hayes is a fucking asshole.
“You don’t like it,” he says quietly.
I don’t miss the disappointment in his voice. I could throw myself at him, wrap my arms around his neck, and never let go. I could climb him like he’s a goddamn tree and I’m a monkey in need of a banana. I could kiss him like my life depends on it—my heart certainly does—and I could regret never telling him any of this if I don’t say it right now. I could tell him every stupid fucking feeling I’m having and how much this beautiful gold necklace means to me. I could do all of this, but at the end of it, he still wouldn’t be mine. He would still be my friend—assuming I didn’t scare him off—and if he let me do all of this, he wouldn’t be the guy I think he is. He wouldn’t be the man I’ve built up in my head as being strong and courageous and worth every painful moment I spend away from him knowing he’s with her and every trying moment I spend with him knowing he’s not mine.
I let the silence hang between us, as uncomfortable as it is, and focus on breathing steadily so he doesn’t know everything that this stupid beautiful necklace means to me.
He opens his mouth and says, “I didn’t—”
I cut him off because after the long stretch of silence it’s all I can do not to lose my shit over a stupid beautiful necklace from a fucking asshole I think I’m falling in love with.
“A wishbone?” I ask.
“It’s stupid,” he says and reaches for the box. I pull it away from him, cradling it to my chest. “They’re supposed to be symbolic or something. Like you wish on ’em and . . . you wish for something you want.” He’s uncomfortable trying to explain it. I know the symbolism behind a wishbone, but I had to hear his explanation.
He wants me to have what I want.
I have everything I want except for one thing. Him.
“Is Lydia here?” I ask and then shake my head. I don’t want that to be the first thing I say after he gives me such a thoughtful present. “Um, thank you. I mean, thank you. Help me put it on?”
I remove the necklace from the box and hold it up to him. He takes it from me, undoes the clasp, and brings his hands around to the back of my neck. I lower my head to make it easier on him and am so close to his chest that I let myself indulge and rest my forehead against one of his muscled pecs. He secures the clasp but doesn’t step away. Instead, he drags his fingers down my neck, barely touching, and then wraps his arms around me in a solid, strong hug. I bring my arms around him and sink into his chest.
“Happy birthday, Lulu,” he whispers.
“Don’t call me that. I don’t want you calling me that.” I scrunch my eyes closed as tight as I can to keep the tears at bay. Jameson and I don’t spend much time together, but the time we do spend is always a whirlwind of emotions. This constant push and pull is leaving me haggard and is causing some major damage to my soul.
“Too bad,” he says. It’s not quite a whisper, but it carries the same weighty quietness to it.
“No, it’s not fair.” I pull back from him, which proves a challenge because he refuses to let go at first. Jameson’s inability to follow the boundaries he set up by having a girlfriend pisses me off. “You don’t get to be this perfect, funny, kind guy who tells me I’m beautiful and watches me like I’m the only person in the room. You don’t get to give me gifts and touch me and act like it means nothing.”
“Why not?” he asks. His blue-gray eyes narrow, and he takes a step closer. “Why can’t I be the only thing I’m capable of being right now?”
“Because it’s not enough. I’m not enough, or you wouldn’t still be with her.”
“It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? With your rich, powerful daddy and your trust fund. You don’t understand my choices, because you’ve never had to make them.”
“So explain it to me, then.” My words come out in a hiss and I fold my arms over my chest.
Jameson’s eyes dart around the large, open space, and his jaw ticks. Reaching out, he takes my elbow and leads me out onto the porch. When we’re a safe distance away from the noise and my party guests, he steps so close to me that I’m disappointed we’re not touching. Anger, pain, frustration—none of it matters because I just want him to want me enough to have me.
“I don’t make shit, but I don’t make much for how fucking expensive it is to live in the city. That stupid fucking apartment Lydia talked me into is more than I can afford on my own, and it only has one bedroom so it’s not like I can get a roommate. She makes even less than I do—so where the fuck is she supposed to go if she leaves, huh? She’s got no family in the area. I leave, she’s stuck with an apartment she can’t afford. She leaves, I’m stuck in an apartment I can’t afford. You see the fucking problem here?”
I put my hand up because now his tone has turned dark and he’s obviously pissed. I don’t want to fight with him, but I need to understand him. I can’t just stay in this awful place in between friendship and something more forever. It feels not only wrong but it’s just too difficult to navigate.
“Now she gets it,” he says with an angry laugh. “You think I like waking up to her instead of you? You think I like keeping you at arm’s length? Because I fucking don’t, but unlike you, I don’t get to live off money I didn’t earn.”
“You’re blaming me for a privilege I didn’t ask for.” I suck in an unsteady breath. The snooty-tooties don’t like me because I’m not manicured enough for them, and the people who I like are quick to remind me that we come from different tax brackets. Not that I’ve ever done taxes before.
But I can’t say that, because he’s right. I don’t understand his situation as well as I’d like to. I don’t understand the choices he has to make, and it kills me that he’s calling me out on it. I want him to be wrong, because then I can keep on as if my feelings are the most important thing in the world.
“You’re leaving at the end of summer, and you know what that’s going to be like?” His voice has lost that hard edge and now just sounds like defeat and sorrow. “Nothing changes in my world. I wake up, dodge Lydia’s bullshit, go to work, deal with the entire city’s bullshit. I go to my parents’ house a few times a week and hear either Mom or Royal bring you up. They’ll keep each other and the rest of us updated on how your final year is going, if you’re going to fucking stay there for grad school, and what the gulf coast is like in the winter.
“And I’m going to go home and fall asleep next to someone who isn’t you, doesn’t smell like you, doesn’t laugh like you, and sure as fuck isn’t a replacement for you. And every time someone brings you up, it’s going to be fucking torture. My family’s got you hooked, and you’re not going to ditch them just because you’re not here. I already know that, because the best thing you could do for me is to disappear, but my life isn’t that goddamn easy.”
“Jameson.” My voice catches, and I can’t—for once—say much of anything. I wanted honesty. I guess now I have it.
“So for now you get this—the little bit I can give you—and you’re going to go back to school, and I’m not going to think about you flirting with someone else or letting them touch you. I’m going to pretend everything is back the way it was before you woke me the fuck up and turned my shit upside down.”
I’m nearly breathless, totally speechless, and on the verge of tears by the time he wraps his large hand around the back of my neck and pulls my head into his chest. His breath is hot on my scalp as he places a soft kiss there.
“We’re friends, right?” I whisper sadly.
“Yeah, Lulu. We are.”
Chapter 8
Melanie
YOU CAN’T IGNORE ME FOREVER, the text reads.
I’m not really ignoring Jameson—well, kind of—though I am certainly being thoughtful about how and when to respond to him. And being as thoughtful and cautious as I am, I have yet to respond to a single one, but I wouldn’t call that ignoring him. This message is just the most recen
t of about ten that he’s sent since this past Saturday, which marks one week since my birthday and our stupidly epic moment at the beach house. He left right after our thing—whatever the hell you’d call it—and I’d been terrified to show up for house watch duty the following Monday. I didn’t want things to be awkward. But they weren’t, and I’m not sure if that was harder to deal with or not. Jameson and the guys at the house acted totally chill. He talked to me no more or less than any of the other guys did, and he kept his distance. I only caught him staring at me a few times.
It was good.
Since we’re friends.
It was fucking miserable.
One minute I mattered to him and the next I was just a volunteer and nobody special.
Then the texts started a few days ago, and now I’m back to being confused and frustrated and totally out of my element.
I CAN SEE YOU.
I read the message and scowl at my stupid phone and its inability to just break when I need it to. A broken phone means no more messages from the stupid, thoughtful asshole I’m apparently hopelessly in love with. Because I’ve given up thinking it’s something else.
YOU’RE CUTE WHEN YOU’RE MAD.
That’s it. This man is going to be the death of me.
“Jameson Hayes, please report to the house watch desk,” I say into the speaker system. Before I can say something wholly inappropriate for the entire house to hear, I remove my finger from the talk button and shove the microphone as far into the corner of the desk as I can. I don’t really want everyone knowing he’s coming up here for something personal, so I scramble to grab the log book I use to record all the activity in the house and see if there’s a legit reason to talk to him. You know, in case anyone asks. Not that they will, but paranoia is a fine thing that makes me more narcissistic than usual.
“What’s up, Lulu?” he says upon approach.
I spin around in my rolling chair and smooth down my FDNY volunteer polo that Chief Delgado gave me. Jameson’s bulky frame climbs the four steps up to the raised platform I call my home five days a week for six hours a day. It’s enough to keep me busy—and off Mom’s charity circuit—but not enough to cure me of my obsession with the middle Hayes brother.
No, my bright idea to ask Daddy to get me this volunteer job is backfiring. Big time.
He plops down in the wooden chair that’s squeezed between the squat filing cabinet and the printer. The house watch desk is barely big enough for one person, let alone two. His navy cargo pants and matching polo, his last name, the FDNY logo, and the house’s individual logo stitched into the breast, are greasy, and he’s got a line of sweat at his brow.
“How in the hell is it possible for you to look this dirty when I know damn well you haven’t gotten a lick of work done today?”
The smile that lights up his face is epic. He doesn’t even seem bothered by the fact that he’s getting on my nerves—proof that he is not perfect after all—and instead blows out a heavy breath and relaxes into his seat.
“No, seriously,” I say. He doesn’t respond. Instead, he stretches his right foot out and hooks it around the back of my chair and pulls me closer. My eyes widen and my jaw tenses. I don’t try to stop him, because we’re too close now and the only way I can see pushing back is to kick him in the nuts. And even infuriating as he is, I can’t bring myself to break his dick.
“You might not be responding to my texts, but you’re thinking about me.”
Now it’s my turn to be silent.
“Every time you think about me, you touch your necklace.” His eyes fall from mine to the gold wishbone that hangs from my neck and rests against the hollow at the base of my throat. I remove my hand from my necklace. I don’t even realize I’m doing it half the time. I could lie, that I’m not thinking about him, but he wouldn’t believe me.
“You hear my voice and you touch it,” he says slowly with a soft smile that creeps up on his lips. “You see me walk by and you touch it.”
“And we’re friends,” I say, reminding both of us of this fact.
“Kind of hard to be friends when one of us is refusing to participate.”
“This is stupid. We’re attracted to each other, but we’ve chosen not to do something about it. I’m going back to New Orleans until graduation, and you’re stuck in a lease with Miss Cranky Pants. That’s our lives, and every time you start being all Mr. Gorgeous, you make it hard for me to remember that.”
His shoulders shake as he laughs, looking carefree for the first time in over a week, and he breathes deeply as he calms himself. “Miss Cranky Pants—that’s a good one.”
I don’t even have the decency to be embarrassed for letting my nickname for Lydia slip in front of him. It’s bad enough I said it in front of Roy, his dad, who’s now using it on an almost exclusive basis. Thankfully, Jameson doesn’t call me on referring to him as Mr. Gorgeous.
“I want to be your friend, but we need boundaries,” I say. I don’t really want friendship, but I’ll take what I can get.
“List your demands, and I’ll list mine.”
Christ, this man is ridiculous.
“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “You stop being all possessive and boyfriend-y, because you’re not my boyfriend.”
“I’m not?” he says in faux shock.
“Yeah, know how I know? You’re not my boyfriend because I’m not your girlfriend. Her name is Lydia, and as cranky as she may be, you still sleep in the same bed with her. Every night. So do us both a favor and fucking remember that, will ya?”
He laughs, still smiling, and uses his foot to swivel my chair left and right. Left and right.
“That it?”
“Yeah.” I’m sure there’s more, but I can’t really think with all the smiling and laughing and the fucking swiveling. Left and right. Left and right.
“My turn,” he says, and the swiveling stops. No more left and right, but my stomach feels suddenly all fluttery and incapable of staying steady. Why did I ever agree to this?
“Don’t give up on us,” he says, and the smile is gone from his face. His mood falls, and he’s contemplative and quiet in a way that reminds me of my birthday. “Know that when I’m ready, I want this to happen. That when you’re back here for good, I’m not letting go.”
I’m not moving, but my stomach is jumpy and my body chills from the seriousness of his demeanor. Smokey, aka Satan, walks in and rubs up against Jameson’s leg. His tail goes straight and his ears go back. I don’t know what the heck I did to make this cat hate me, but he’s regularly coming up to me and making it clear that I’m in his house and I’m not welcome.
“Fair enough,” I mumble without taking my eyes off the ferocious feline. “Now, can you do the city a favor and get some work done?”
“Yeah,” he says. He grips the arms of his chair and pushes me back toward my desk with his still-extended foot and then stands.
“Take Satan with you.” I watch as Jameson raises his eyebrows and then bends down to pick up Smokey with one hand. Smokey rubs against Jameson’s chest and purrs like the little suck-up he is.
“Gotta be nice to the pretty blonde,” Jameson says to Smokey. “I don’t get it, man. You’re the only dude in this house who doesn’t have the hots for Lulu.”
Jameson turns around and makes his way down the stairs and then through the long hall that’s separated from the garage by a wall that was put up after 9/11 for security purposes. Ladder Company Number One hosts a series of educational programs for both adults and kids on the third floor a few times a month, so the public is in and out enough that it’s in the best interest and safety of everyone that the private and public spaces be kept separate. Seeing the wall here, obviously much newer than the rest of the space, takes me aback. I remember that day, like every New Yorker does, but being inside a firehouse makes the memory that much more potent.
And suddenly my bullshit problems feel like exactly that—bullshit. The world is so much bigger and more complex, and more
terrifying even, than the tiny little piece of it that I inhabit.
The front door opens slowly, and a man in a ball cap struggles through. He has a colorful box in his arms with a paper sack on top. The man approaches the swinging half door that’s used to admit visitors and tips his head up a bit, barely meeting my eye. He lifts the box and sets it on the ledge of my desk and pulls a notepad out from his back pocket.
“Got a delivery for Lieutenant Jack Hayes,” he says. I can’t really see him behind the packages he’s dropped in front of me. “He here?”
“He’s no—” I stop and remember the rules. “Lieutenant Hayes is busy right now. Can I sign for the package?”
“That’s no good,” he says. His foot taps nervously on the concrete floor. I reach out and slowly move the box to the side, but he responds quickly and grabs a hold of it, putting it back where it was. The move surprises me, causing me to back up a little.
“Lieutenant Hayes told me to hand deliver this to him. Said he’d give me a tour of the house while I was here.” He sounds frustrated and unsure of how to move forward.
“I’m sorry, sir. House tours are the second Saturday of every month at noon and three, and have to be prescheduled. Would you like to sign up for a tour?” I check the calendar to see how many have signed up for this Saturday’s tours to see if I can squeeze him in, but he startles me by moving around the box and leaning in over the ledge of my desk. He’s got to be close to six feet with how well he sees over the ledge. When I stand on the other side I can barely peek over the top.
“It’s important that I see Lieutenant Hayes. I have something very important for him. I wouldn’t have come all the way down here if it wasn’t for a tour of the house. I’m a big fan of his work, you know.”
“I get that, but sir, Lieutenant Hayes is busy at the moment and can’t give you a tour of the house. I’m sorry.”
“Is he here? Can I speak with him?”
“I’m unable to call Lieutenant Hayes right now, sir. I can give him the package when he’s available.”