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Jameson wasplanningto leave without me, obviously. He was quiet, but he couldn’t disguise the sounds of someone being too quiet in an attempt to sneak out. It’s very possible that I don’t have any right to follow him when he sneaks out. Our sort-of-real engagement is going to be a real wedding, but that doesn’t mean my claim on him is real.
I don’t know. There are varying levels of reality and unreality and we’re living right between about seven of them.
The radio plays hits from the eighties. I recognize a few of them, and the general vibe of the era, but it’s nice when the announcer comes on and confirms that he is indeed playing ninety commercial-free minutes of hits from the eighties.
After a few songs in a silence that feels more energized than awkward, my heart settles down.
Jameson takes a breath shortly after. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring Snowball.”
“Time was of the essence.” Oh—maybe he meant something else. “Are you worried?”
“No, he’ll be okay at Mason’s.”
We stop at a red light, and Jameson waits for it to change before he rolls around the corner.
“Isn’t it your house, too?”
“What?”
“You called itMason’s.Isn’t it your house, too? You have a bedroom there.”
“Technically, it’s a penthouse.”
“Isn’t it your penthouse, too?”
Jameson’s taking us north through the city. Ireallydon’t think he should be heading out on a mission for justice, or anything close to approaching anything that could be considered a crime, but I don’t think pushing him will change anything.
“It’s a place I have a bedroom,” he says finally. “It’s not mine.”
“Hmm.”
He waits a beat. “That’s all you’re going to say?Hmm?”
“I don’t know. Did you want me to say more?”
“Not really.”
“Okay.”
I watch his hands on the wheel. He has nice hands, and none of the cops in the woods hurt his hands. They punched his face and kicked him in the torso, but none of them went for Jameson’s hands.
I refuse to be grateful to people like that.
I’m just glad his hands don’t hurt.
“It’s not what I picture in my head,” he says.
“What isn’t?”
“Mason’s penthouse. It’s not what I picture in my head when I talk about my house. So it feels wrong to call it mine. I know he’s tried to make it a home. He’s tried—” Jameson’s voice breaks, and he clears his throat. “He’s tried really fucking hard to make it a home. Don’t think I don’t feel like an asshole. I do.”
“I don’t think you’re an asshole.”
“Really, Angel?” A smile flashes in the dark. “That’s a new development.”
“I don’t think you’re an asshole forthatat least.”
“Come on,” he says, voice dropping. “You don’t think I’m much of an asshole at all.”
