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For real, is it real?
I scratch my chin because I have two choices right now. I can pretend I’m not staring at something that made my heart skip a beat, or I can confront Jameson with it.
I glance up to see him rummaging through a box labeled, ‘Bedroom.’ It should have been marked ‘Library’ since it contains even more books. Denia definitely loved to read.
“Hey,” I say to test the waters.
Jameson’s head snaps up. “Hey.”
He shoots me a smile that kind of melts all of my insides. His smile hasn’t changed much since we were kids, but now that he has a sharp jawline and some stubble, it’s more of a breathtaking thing than it used to be.
I point at the interior of the box. “I found something.”
He glances at the box before his focus returns to the books in front of him. “What did you find?”
I’ve jumped off the cliff, so I might as well nail the landing. “This.”
With a flourish of my hand, I tug a red heart-shaped card out of the box. The edges are trimmed with pink lace, and there’s a picture glued to the front of it.
It’s of Jameson and me with our arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders.
I have bangs, and I’m sporting pigtails tied with yellow ribbons. Jameson’s hair is cut short, and his smile shows the braces on his teeth.
All the color drains from Jameson’s face. “Holy fuck.”
I hold in a laugh. “What is this?”
He lunges toward me to grab it, but I try to inch back out of his way. Dudley won’t have that, though, since he’s bouncing around barking at the sight of Jameson coming right at me.
Even though I’m already sitting on the floor, I fall backward.
Jameson jerks to the left to avoid Dudley. He lands on top of me with his head resting squarely on my chest between my breasts.
“What the hell?” I exhale. “Jameson!’”
He fumbles with his hands, trying to find the floor to gain leverage to push himself up. “I’m sorry.”
“Get off of me.” I push on his shoulders to no avail.
He’s rock solid and firmly planted on top of me.
For no good reason, my nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of my bra.
Dammit.
Jameson finally scrambles back and onto his knees. He reaches out a hand to help me sit upright.
I ignore it and push myself back up, still holding tightly to the red card in my hand.
I flip it over.
“Don’t read it,” he says gruffly. “Don’t, Sin.”
“To Sinclair,” I start reading it. “You’re the prettiest girl in the world. Be my Valentime.”
“Valentine,” he whispers. “It’s Valentine.”
I turn it toward him and point at the letter m in the last word. “It says Valentime.”
“I was a shit speller.”
I smile. “I know.”
Before I realize what’s happening, he’s got the card in his hand. “I made this with Denia. I can’t believe she kept it.”
“You never gave it to me,” I point out.
His gaze skims my face. “No.”
The question I long to ask sits on my lips, but Jameson answers it before I can get it out. “My mom bought a box of generic cards, and I gave you one of those.”
I know that because I kept it along with every other card he ever gave me.
“You could have given me that one too.”
Chuckling, he shakes his head. “My art skills back then weren’t up to par. You would have laughed at this.”
That spears me. I feel an ache in my heart.
In grade school, Jameson and I had the same dream for our futures. We wanted to be artists. We’d practice drawing and painting at a makeshift studio in his parents’ apartment. He always complimented all of my creations at the same time he’d find fault with his own.
The truth is neither of us had any great hidden talent, but we loved creating in the same space. It felt safe.
“I wouldn’t have laughed,” I say with a straight face.
“You say that now, but…” The words morph into a deep-seated chuckle.
“But even then, I would have been touched that you made it for me,” I complete his thought.
I hold out my palm, not adding anything to the expectant look on my face.
He glances at the card before he offers it to me.
I greedily grab for it, feeling the same wonder and excitement I would have if he had given it to me fifteen years ago.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Happy belated Valentime’s Day, Sin.” He smiles softly.
“To you too, Jameson.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jameson
I want to get rid of that fucking box sitting next to Sinclair because I don’t know what the hell else my grandmother saved from when I was a kid with a crush on his best friend.
I wrote Sin a poem when I was a fifth grader that ended with a line about wanting to give her my toy train set.
I recall painting a portrait of her that ended up looking like it belonged in the trash. I couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen when I did that. Denia wanted to frame it as a birthday gift for Sinclair. I objected and threatened to take a pair of scissors to the canvas. In the end, we compromised. Denia told me she’d ‘get rid of it,’ but based on the fact that she held onto a broken star-shaped spatula from decades ago, I suspect that painting is lurking around here somewhere.
