Hearsay （n.） – Scarlett
HEARSAY (N.):
SECOND-HAND EVIDENCE IN WHICH THE WITNESS IS NOT TELLING WHAT HE/SHE KNOWS PERSONALLY, BUT WHAT OTHERS HAVE SAID TO HIM/HER
SCARLETT
Jameson’s hand is entwined in mine behind the gear shift as we cross the Triborough Bridge.
We haven’t said a word this entire drive, but I haven’t felt the need to; the silence feels more than comfortable.
“Call from… Mother.” His dashboard suddenly lights up in blue, announcing a call. “Should I answer this, Mr. Tate?”
“Never,” he responds, clenching his jaw.
“Call from… Mother.” The dashboard repeats itself. “Should I answer this, Mr. Tate?”
“I said no,” he says.
“Okay. Will not answer.” The screen flashes white, then gray. “This contact is attempting to leave a voicemail. Would you like me to play it?”
“No.”
“Okay. Playing it.”
“Jesus Christ…” He groans and reaches forward to turn down the volume, but he suddenly changes his mind.
“James—” The woman’s voice is soft and airy. “I mean, Jameson. Please pick up the phone for me or your stepfather sometime this week? There’s a lot happening here at home, and I know with that date coming up you’re probably…” She sighs. “I love you, son. Please call me.”
Beep!
“End of message,” the dashboard says. “Would you like me to play it again?”
“Yes,” he says to my surprise. “Play it again.”
The system obliges, and when it ends, Jameson asks for a replay four more times.
Then he demands for it to be deleted.
He looks over at me as we pull into traffic.
“I don’t get along with my mother either,” he says. “I can relate.”
“Is it because of something she’s said?”
“Something she’s done.” He looks wistful. “Something completely unforgivable.”
I nod, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he steers us into the right lane.
“Are you planning to tell me how your auditions are going, or do I have to fuck it out of you later this week?”
“I think they’re going well,” I say. “I should’ve received a notification about whether I landed a part in The Producers as of yesterday.”
“You haven’t checked?”
“I have two more parts that should’ve sent emails today, so I’ll check before I go to bed,” I say. “That way I can cry myself to sleep when they turn me down.”
“And if you actually get the parts?”
“That’s never happened before, so I wouldn’t know.” I shrug. “Besides, I need to start looking up classes that meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays for next semester so I can figure out how I can still pursue acting and commute to Harvard without my mom ever knowing—”
“Stop.” He slows the car to a stop and looks over at me. “You don’t need to figure out a better way to lie, Scarlett. You just need to live your life and let everyone else deal with it.”
“Easy for you to say,” I say. “Your father isn’t a criminal, and his name isn’t Lucas Hunter.”
“My father is currently…” He doesn’t finish that sentence. “Your father can only get to you if you let him.”
“Maybe you need to look through his files again.” I cross my arms. “I may not know everything he does, but if he wants to get to me, I assure you he’ll move hell and high water to make it happen.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But he’d never get the police involved… Only his top lawyer, and I have a good feeling he would never snitch on you.”
“Yes, well…” I don’t have a rebuttal for that.
“Stop lying.” He leans over and kisses me hard. “You don’t need to do that anymore.”
“I’ll try.”
“Try hard,” he says. “And check to see if you got the parts.”
“Now?”
“Yes.” He nods. “Right now.”
“My best friend Jeneva would’ve called or texted me if I did, so… I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
He shifts the gear into park, making it clear that we’re stuck here until I obey.
“Jameson, please don’t make me,” I say. “It’s too soon.”
“It was yesterday.” He points at my phone.
I sigh and pick it up, logging into my profile.
The plays I auditioned for still say “Pending” instead of the red “No Offer” like usual, but the one my mom showed up to?
There’s a bright green “Selected. Main Role.” right next to my name.
My heart nearly combusts, and I suck in a deep breath in disbelief.
“I got it…” I say. “I fucking got it!”
My mind races with possibilities, with potential schedules and rehearsals, and I feel Jameson’s lips on mine again.
“Hey! What the fuck?” “MOVE!” “You’re parked in the middle of the street!”
Cars behind us honk, and we pull away.
Laughing, Jameson drives forward.
His hand finds mine again, and we settle into the silence once again.
When we make it to his place, he ushers me into his bedroom and turns on the lights.
“I have to work on a few cases tonight,” he says. “Don’t hold it against me.”
“I won’t.” I look around. “Can I use your shower?”
“You don’t really need to ask me that.” He looks amused as he pulls open a drawer. “You’re welcome to come here as often as you’d like during the week and in the weeks ahead.”
“Is that your way of saying you’re not coming back to my dorm room?”
“Yes.” He smiles. “Never.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It’s not happening.” He walks over to the bed and pulls the sheets back. “I’ll join you when I’m finished.”
He looks me up and down one last time before disappearing.
I take advantage of his state-of-the-art shower, letting the hot streams attack my skin for what feels like forever, washing away the suds of loneliness that I hope to never feel again.
By the time I hit the lights and climb into bed, it’s a little after midnight.
I turn on the television and settle on a marathon of Law & Order: SVU.
I fall asleep without feeling Jameson move next to me.
When I wake up, he’s long gone.