Chapter 45
Jameson
I pull my hood up as a gust of cold air hits my face, the crunch of fresh snow sounding under my boots. Sliding my sleeves down, I try to cover as much of my hands as I can, wishing I’d been able to find my gloves.
A light dusting of snow continues to fall as I shovel the driveway, making me think I’ll only be back at it later tonight.
We’ve gotten off easy this year so far. It’s only the first snowfall, and it’s already past Thanksgiving.
My mother has been doing better since we had that big blow out a few months ago. I’m still on edge, though, still not letting myself get my hopes up that it’ll stick, but it’s been good.
She’s kept her job, even picking up some more shifts, and although she’s still hooked on the pills, I think she’s been clean from everything else.
Either that or she’s getting extremely good at hiding it.
Sam, on the other hand, hasn’t been as great. She’s trying to fake it, make it seem like she’s all right, but I see right through it. I know her too well.
Ever since Carson’s arrest, she’s been on edge, more so than usual. She’s quicker to anger, quicker to slip into that need for an escape.
I try to get her to talk to me, and she gives me pieces, but I know she’s holding back.
From what she’s told me about Carson and her old man, I can’t imagine either of them are taking all this well.
Carson’s scholarship officially got pulled, meaning his chances at a pro career—at any career—are over.
All the hope they had to get out of this life was tied to that reality. A reality that no longer exists.
I can see how that’d fuck you up. Of course I can.
But based on how Sam’s been acting, I’m only becoming more worried that they’re taking it out on her.
I’ve asked her about it enough times that we’ve gotten in a fight about it twice.
She swears she’s fine, but she’s evasive when she answers, like she’s trying to dodge the truth so she doesn’t have to outright lie.
She says she can handle herself, but that’s what fucking worries me.
People don’t say that shit unless there’s something going on that they need to handle.
If anyone knows that, it’s me.
But there’s really nothing I can do to help unless she lets me. Unless I find evidence that something is actually going on.
Maybe I’m only being paranoid. It’s just … being around her … it feels like she’s about to snap.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when I realize I’ve made it to the end of the driveway. Sweat is dripping down my back, and my hands have gone a bit numb.
Leaning forward, I rest my weight on the shovel, catching my breath.
I let my eyes drift from our house to the one next door before I start making my way over there. The driveway is covered in a thick layer of snow, my boots sinking so deep that my jeans are turning wet.
Finally, I make it to the porch, knocking before I step back to wait. A couple of minutes pass before the door creaks open and I’m greeted by a familiar face.
“Jameson,” Mrs. Richardson beams, tipping her head back so her gaze can meet mine.
The Richardsons have been our neighbors for my whole life. But, for most of it, it’s just been her. Mr. Richardson died years ago, and they never had any kids. So, I’ve always helped her out—fixed the things that needed fixing, mowed her lawn, things like that.
Mrs. Richardson is the kind of person who doesn’t seem to belong in a neighborhood like this one.
She must be nearly eighty now and is one of the only people I’ve ever met who seems to be all the way good.
She’s also one of the only people who doesn’t seem to see me as me.
She doesn’t look at me like I’m no good, even though she’s fully aware of where I come from. Who I come from.
“You look like you’re freezing,” she says, waving me inside.
I shake my head. “I’m fine. I was just coming to tell you I can shovel your driveway.”
She purses her lips. “Absolutely not.”
“But I—”
Stepping to the side and opening the door wider, she cuts me off. “Not until you come inside and get warmed up.”
I dip my chin, knowing she won’t take no for an answer.
“Good.” She smiles, leading me into the kitchen.
I tower over her small frame as I follow her inside, my stomach growling when I smell the soup bubbling on the stove.
“Sit,” she says, motioning to the table.
I do as she asks, sliding into the worn wooden chair, and watch as she moves around the kitchen. She’s slower now than she was when I was younger, and her hands shake as she sets down a bowl of soup in front of me.
“Thank you,” I tell her as she places a plate piled with fresh bread next to the bowl then brings over a butter dish.
My lips tip up as I remove the top, the handle made of a painted ceramic bee sitting on a hive.
Mrs. Richardson’s kitchen is bright yellow and covered in bumble bee knick-knacks. It matches the rest of her house that’s overflowing with the kind of decorations you’d find at a yard sale.
She lowers herself into the seat next to me and watches until I dip my bread in the soup and take a bite.
“So,” she starts, “how’ve you been?”
I nod. “Good.”
“Jameson,” she prompts, not buying my easy answer.
I’ve never talked to her about my life before.
Not really, anyway. Although, I’m sure she knows enough from living in this town and from the things she’s heard over the years, being next door.
She’s never brought it up outright but has always made it clear that she’s here for me if I should ever need her.
After my old man died, she showed up at my house with a plate of cookies, pulled me into a hug, and reminded me that she’s always just a knock away.
I take another bite of my bread. “I’m good, really.”
Her brows furrow, but she doesn’t push me. “And your mother?”
“Better,” I tell her.
“You know you can talk to me,” she says, placing her hand on my arm, and I fight the urge to flinch. “You’ve had to take on quite a lot for a boy your age. There’s no shame in needing a little help.”
I attempt to brighten my face, to make my voice reassuring. “Thank you, Mrs. Richardson, really. But we’re managing fine.”
“Well,” she says, “you remember what I always tell you?”
I nod. “Just a knock away.”
“All right then.” She leans back. “Tell me about this girl I’ve seen you around with. She your girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” I answer, caught off guard by her question. “Her name is Sam.”
“I thought so.” Mrs. Richardson smiles. “What’s she like?”
I think about it for a minute, not sure how to answer. “She’s …” I shake my head. “I don’t know … She’s … Well, she’s really smart. Like, kind of brilliant actually. She reads all the time, too. And she’s in all of these hard classes at school, knows all these random facts.”
She nods, her face bright. “What else?”
I take a bite of my soup, thinking. “She’s fucking fearless—”
“Language,” Mrs. Richardson cuts in.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “She’s fearless, though.
Which is sometimes a bad thing. Gets her into trouble.
” I snort. “But mostly, it’s just …” I fidget with the spoon in my hand.
“She’s really strong. Doesn’t let anything stop her from what she wants.
And she isn’t scared of me. Never was. Calls me out on my shit—” I glance up.
“Fuck, sorry.” I shake my head, cringing. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She laughs. “What else?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “She just …”
“She what?”
“She gets me. You know? We just click. It’s easy …
” I pause. “Well, not easy. She can be … Sometimes, she struggles. But I don’t mind ’cause I know I can help her, make her feel better.
And she gives it back. She’s seen me at my worst, too, and she doesn’t care.
She doesn’t leave or make me feel bad. She makes me feel better, good even. ”
“You love her,” Mrs. Richardson says.
“How do you—”
“Your whole face lights up when you talk about her.” She gives me a teasing look. “And I think this is the most I’ve ever heard you talk at once.”
I stare back at her silently.
“I’m happy for you, Jameson.” I watch her gaze drift over to a picture of her and Mr. Richardson. “Not everyone is as lucky as us.” She turns back to me. “Did you know I met Frank when I was your age, younger even?”
I shake my head.
“He’s the only man I’ve ever loved.” She smiles. “Fifty-two years I spent with him, and it only got better.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Didn’t feel like it,” she murmurs.
“I’m sorry you lost him.”
“I miss him every day,” she answers. “You know we both had a hard time growing up, too. Things weren’t always easy.”
I shift in my seat. “You never told me that.”
She nods. “The way you talked about your girl, about being there for each other …” She flits her eyes back over to the picture. “If you have that, you have everything. You understand what I mean?”
“Yeah,” I tell her, thinking about all the shit me and Sam have already been through together. How each and every time we’ve helped each other get through it. “Yeah, I understand.”