Bear Bond – A very strong adhesive used to patch a damaged race car.
“Are you alive?” Ryder asked peering over the side.
It took me a minute figure out what went wrong and if I was alive. Eventually I caught my breath enough to answer him. My head rested against the dirt as I looked up at the sky. Trying to recall what went wrong when I blipped the throttle before the jump. No, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was when I thought that me, the kid who raced cars, not dirt bikes, could kick his leg off the bike behind him like he was dismounting. Most Supercross stars have problems with this trick. Why I thought I could do it was clearly a prime example of my stubborn pluckiness. The plan was to land smoothly back on the ground but it didn’t shake down that way, nope, my leg got stuck.
“I think I am,” I huffed throwing my leg over the bike again. “I think we should make the jump bigger.” Ryder’s eyes widened with each word. “That way, you can just jump this part,” I gestured toward the gaping hole in the ground.
The screaming of a two-stroke engine charged from behind and we both turned to see Tyler and Justin side-by-side heading for the jump I demolished with my non-existent Nac-Nac skills. The Nac-Nac was a trick where you kicked your leg over to one side in mid-air and then returning your foot to the foot pegs before landing.
It wasn’t easy and I demonstrated.
Tyler saw me standing next to my bike while Justin, he did not. So while Tyler slowed his speed and trailed off, Justin pinned it.
Take a couple sprint car guys and throw them on dirt bikes. Never a good thing.
Justin misjudged the jump and did the unintentional Nac-Nac I had done, only he stayed on the bike and even as it slid down the twenty-foot embankment he stayed on it.
Ryder and I stood at the top of the hill watching Justin try and pull his bike back up. Did we offer to help?
No, hell no. We made fun of him.
I had just purchased this property a few weeks back and construction of a quarter-mile dirt track and riding trails took place almost immediately. I don’t think it was necessarily the addition of the track or the dirt bikes that was dangerous but more the way we rode them. I was never the type of guy to do anything half-assed, nor were my friends.
While we all may have had obligations we should have been doing that day instead, we made time to be twenty-two-year-old kids that day.
As I’ve said before, when we’re stressed, we did what any normal person would do, we did what relaxed us.
That was dirt bikes today.
When the world wasn’t scrutinizing our every move, the engines cooled, the unforgiving sun faded and we were left with a spark of time to be ourselves.
We spent a greater part of the morning tearing those trails up and then the rest of the evening nursing our wounds throwing back a few beers. It was great to see all of them again. I hadn’t realized how much I missed hanging out with my USAC buddies.
Money was rolling in from the wins and merchandise sales so I decided to buy a few things. Usually sponsors were throwing merchandise my direction so I never had to buy clothes again if I didn’t want to and cars? I had plenty of those. Anything Ford made, I had my choice of.
Besides my Ford F250 I had been driving since I was sixteen, I hadn’t purchased anything for myself besides race car parts.
After I poured a large sum of the money into the sprint car team, I bought some toys ... a Yamaha YZ250, four of them actually, a 2003 Mastercraft X-30 wakeboarding boat, three Yamaha Raptor quads, and then some property to play on.
Ford was nice enough to provide me a brand new Ford 4-door F350 so I definitely had the power to tow these toys.
I ended up purchasing a large piece of land not far from my parents but far enough that I could get away when needed. It felt good to have something of my own for once.
Do you want to know my first thought as I walked around the land after signing the papers?
Sway.
I thought of what it would be like to have her here with me, sharing a home. Brief and fleeting, the thoughts didn’t last long knowing she would never be with me like that. Now with Charlie sick, any intentions I may have had, were now gone. It wouldn’t be right to ask for more, so I thought.
WHILE THE BOYS ran up the road for more beer that night after riding, I wandered around the property, watching the moon slowly rising. The orange and pink shades from the sun blended with the darker hues of the night as the moon appeared.
I wanted to feel Sway against my side in that moment. I wanted to hear her soft giggle, look into her green eyes and tell her everything I feared, everything I wanted, and everything I couldn’t. The gravel and dirt crunched beneath my feet, the wet, fresh cut grass smell surged throughout the air circling with the night’s cool air and the lasting traces of racing fuel from the dirt bikes imbued everything together.
I spent the greater part of the night out there wandering around.
With fifteen acres, there was a lot of land to see. Changing rapidly from trees to an open clear-cut meadow, the land was versatile and allowed me to make more trails and even a bigger dirt track if I wanted.
Eventually I started a fire and waited for the boys to get back. I was sure they’d figure out where I was with the glow.
The orange flames from fire flickered against the beer bottle in my hand. When a piece of wood dropped it sent a burst light throughout the air, the white ash dusted my black fleece. Though it was summer, the breeze had a chill to it. I shuddered drawing my arms to my chest for warmth.
The fire reminded me of the night, in high school, when I went up to Dayton Peak with Sway, the same night I gave into Chelsea.
If I had my way, I’d take that night back. Hell, I would have never started anything with that whore. I heard from Tommy not too long ago that she was hanging around the dirt tracks again, even asking about me. She was out of her mind if she thought I’d ever talk to her again. Trifling thoughts of Chelsea subsided when my mind focused steadily on Sway, wondering what she was doing right now.
I heard Justin before I saw him, cursing as he tripped over a log. “Oh, goddamn it.”
“Careful there,” I chuckled taking a drink of my beer. “I need you in that car next week.”
“You should have thought of that before you put that track in,” he mused. “I think I broke my finger.”
The flashlight he was holding swept back and forth watching the ground trying to guide him through the darkness at the fire. He shined it in my eyes when he got within a foot of me, blinding me.
“Jerk,” it took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. “Where’s Tyler?”
Ryder had already left to catch a flight to Ohio.
“He’s coming. I made him carry the beer.” He glanced down at his hand, rubbing along his palm. “I really do think I broke my finger.” He held his hand up to the fire; his index finger bent the opposite way between his knuckle and joint.
“Appears that way … can you race?”
“Hell, I’ve raced with a broken arm, this ain’t gonna stop me.” Justin took a sharp intake of breath before gripping the finger tightly and then jerking it into back into place. He fell over, moaning in pain.
“Pussy,”
“Oh, fuck you,” he groaned kicking my leg. “This is your fault.”
“How so?” I stepped away from him so he couldn’t kick me again.
“You said, and I quote, ‘Let’s build a dirt bike track,’ really though,” he paused laughing, “what the fuck were you thinking?”
“I never said I was thinking at the time. It was supposed to be fun.”
Justin had this way of turning a conversation quicker than a sprint car flips, always had. You’d be talking about one thing and then he’d get a thought, next thing you knew, you were talking about the weather. In this case, the conversation turned against me.
“What’s with you and Sway these days?”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw her in Skagit last year. She seemed different. And you, you’re not the same when she’s gone either.”
“How was she different?”
Justin thought for a second before tipping his head to the side. “When she’s with you, she’s carefree and happy. The night I saw her, she didn’t appear happy, not sad. Just different.”
I nodded but didn’t say anything, the fire cracked catching my attention.
“You’re different, too.”
I shrugged indifferently. I wasn’t in the mood to “Dr. Phil” my feelings. I had enough problems trying to decipher my feelings and I didn’t need more thoughts.
“All I’m saying is, if you love her, tell her.”
Once again, I nodded in agreement but said nothing.
When Tyler came back with the beer, we forgot all about feelings and broken fingers.
IN THE MORNING, it was race life as usual. Justin and Tyler headed to Ohio and I flew to Virginia.
The next race on the schedule was Martinsville. It is a half-mile paved asphalt straightaway with concrete corners. It’s one of the oddest shaped tracks resembling a paperclip with almost twelve-degree turns. Racing the track can be tricky because you have to slow down so much in the flat narrow turns and then accelerate.
I raced here in the Busch series last year, so I had a feel for it, but it wasn’t exactly my best race.
Never good at navigating pit lane, Martinsville was even trickier with the way the pits wrapped around both straightaways. It made pitting interesting and wasn’t really my favorite track because of that.
All that aside, I managed to snag a third place finish when Kyle made the right call on fuel mileage and stayed out when everyone else pitted.
The following week was Fontana and the temptation to stop and see Sway was there but time wasn’t. I had to fly out directly after the race for Richmond and she was taking finals with graduation approaching fast.
Once again, my car had a mind of its own in Fontana. I was just along for the ride.
Safety at these tracks has improved light years as to what it was even five years ago.
With seventy laps to go, I was leading. When I went into turn one, everything was fine. By the time I was in turn two, everything was not fine. I had cut a tire and was heading straight for the concrete wall.
I’ll never forget the first time I hit a SAFER (Steel and Foam Energy Reduction) barrier as opposed to a concrete wall I had been used to hitting. I’d like to kiss the gifted motherfucker who designed those pillow soft walls. When you looked up and saw your car heading for those concrete walls, you thought, “Well, shit, I hope we brought enough Bear Bond and hammers.”
Now when you hit a SAFER barrier you think, “I hope I make it back around before the pace car.”
And usually you did.
Those walls don’t stop the damage from being done but they do lessen the amount.
So there I was limping my car back to pit lane so the guys could salvage what was left of it and try to at least stay on the lead lap and finish. Like I’ve said, every single point counts when you’re in it for the championship.
The first priority during a pit stop like this was to get four new tires on the car. Then they work on the metal, you’d be amazed how much damage not only that wall can do but a flat tire. From my view inside the car, it looked like a biker brawl with hammers, bats, and crowbars beating all over my car.
I must have pitted every ten laps after that for tires, Bear Bond, sheet metal patches, checking the toe, more Bear Bond, oh, and more Bear Bond. I also want to point out that when using Bear Bond, which is essentially extremely strong tape, do not get it stuck to you.
My catch can man, found this out the hard way when he got it stuck on his leg as he tried to adhere a piece of it to my bumper. I nearly took his leg with me when I took off after that pit stop.
As much as I hated this part of racing and the pitting every few laps, it was part of the game. Every driver wads one up at one time or another. I tend to think it was the car more than me. That stupid car had a mind of its own, and by the end of the race I struggled just to finish thirty-first and eight laps down. I wanted to set the car on fire after that.
On the way back to the hauler some smartass member of the press said, “It’s not that bad kid, smile.”
Did he honestly understand what he was saying to me?
Sure, I lived a good lifestyle but what he didn’t realize and never would take the time to, was that was not me.
I would never be satisfied with anything less than a win. It had absolutely nothing to do with the lifestyle I had. It had to do with the fact that this was me, being the best I could. So if I had a shitty race, I wasn’t going to smile as I let myself down.
I called Sway on the way to the airport after the race. She was in good spirits which helped.
Though the conversation was quick, it was needed. I tried to picture her face, wanting to burn the image into my brain, never forgetting how perfect she was, the delicate twist of her mouth when she smiled, or the way her eyes sparkled at the mention of ice cream.
After Fontana, we flew back to Virginia for the Richmond race, which is a three-quarter mile, “D” shaped asphalt oval.
Most of my excitement for Richmond came from the fact that it was a night race, under the lights. There’s nothing better than a night race on a short track to me, it always brings me back to where I started, which made me think of Sway.
Heading into the Richmond race, I was running third in points despite the horrible finish at Fontana and hopeful to gain some ground on Tate and Darrin who were ahead of me. Darrin didn’t make this easy.
Prior to the race that night, he ran into me on pit lane when I was talking with Aiden.
“Why can’t Tommy spot for you tonight?” Aiden asked distraughtly.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” I reached inside my car for my ear buds. “You spot for me every week.” I wasn’t understanding his vagueness as to why he didn’t want to spot tonight. “Besides, Tommy is in Grand Rapids tonight.”
“Well,” Aiden began shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “Have you ever been on that tower in a night race?”
“Not that I can remember. Usually I’m in the car.”
He let out a nervous laugh. “Exactly ... you have no idea how many bugs are up there.”
“Bugs?”
“Yes, bugs. Lots of them,”
“Close your mouth.”
Although I refused to step foot on the tower, I knew about the cicada in Richmond and to say they had a problem was an understatement. It was nearly a plague with those noisy obtrusive insects.
“It’s not that simple,” Aidan argued. “How do suppose I spot for you with my mouth closed?”
“Really, Aiden, this shouldn’t be that hard,” I pointed to Jeb, Bobby’s spotter. “He wears a ski mask on night races. You do the same.”
Aiden seemed satisfied with that answer but still tried to pay Ethan, the kid who drove the hauler from race-to-race, a thousand dollars to spot for me. Ethan declined the offer.
Apparently, the bugs were that bad at Richmond.
With any luck, Aiden would focus on the race instead of the bugs. You rely on your spotter heavily at tracks like Richmond where things happen and reaction time needs to be instant. Spotters not only act as your guide, with poor visibility due to all the safety devices in place, you can only see the car directly in front of you. That was where the spotter came in. Trust was essential, if I didn’t trust Aiden completely, he wouldn’t be spotting for me.
I have to be able to say, “Is there room?” and if he says, “Clear high,” he better be right.
If not, I just pushed someone up the track, possibly wrecked them and maybe a few others.
How do you think I would feel about that? Shitty. Not only do I take all the heat for that, but our team has to salvage a wadded up car all because Aiden misjudged the car beside me. Like I said, trust.
After introductions and Aiden’s rant, I was getting ready to get inside the car when Darrin walked past.
There was more than enough room in between Spencer and me for him to maneuver past us, but, no, he ran into my right shoulder knocking me forward against my car. My arms instinctively braced myself against the door.
The media was hovering so I kept my response short.
“My nephew is more mature than you.”
Darrin simply snorted and kept walking toward his car.
My car was what some in the garage called as “hooked-up” and running anywhere. Just the same as dirt racing, every track has its own unique characteristics and changed throughout the night.
Despite that, my car ran anywhere I put it. I could run up high to pass and then shoot down low on the inside if needed the next lap.
What wasn’t working for me was an asshole in a yellow number fourteen car with a chip on his fucking shoulder.
The race was pretty much the same cheap ass hits, all of which NASCAR seemed to turn their head the other direction. If I made those hits against the “golden boy,” you had better believe they would have parked me.
When I took over the lead around lap one-twenty, I had a feeling it wasn’t the last time I’d see him that night. When I say that most drivers love a night race, so do their tempers because not only do we love the night races, we all want to win them.
Tempers flare, drivers make rash impulsive moves, and shit gets heated even more than the temperature of the track. We don’t become malleable like tires. We get rigid and obdurately focused on the win.
Just like any other Saturday night race under the lights at your local bullring track, tempers ignite.
“You want to get a drink with me?” Blake asked after class.
I have never been on a real date before nor have I ever gone out with guy—aside from Jameson.
Sure, I ventured to prom with Cooper but other than that, nope.
“I don’t know,” glancing down at my shoes, I avoided eye contact with him as I continued to walk toward my truck. Once through the large metal doors and into the spring night air, I inhaled. “I have a test tomorrow,” I let out the breath I inhaled.
“So do I, any more excuses you want to use?” his head tipped making an effort to capture my attention. “Just have a drink with me. That’s all I’m asking.”
Letting go of my pathetic dithering, we went to a local bar up the street that many of the local college students flocked to on Saturday nights. Being a sports bar, racing was on.
And not just any race, the Subway 400 Winston Cup race that Jameson had the pole for. Usually I’d be in my apartment cuddled up watching by myself, but no, I was out here, at a bar, with another guy.
Bring on the anxiety.
Not that I had any need to feel this way, but I felt dirty being out with someone other than Jameson when I felt so strongly for him.
The night went relatively smoothly for the most part but when a couple guys at the bar started knocking Jameson, who was leading the race with twenty laps to go and aggressively holding onto it, I accidently-on-purposely spilled their pitcher of beer when I walked past them. Happy they were now drenched in Blue Moon, I made my way back to Blake and his friend Neil.
I didn’t like Neil, not even a little bit. For one, he couldn’t say one decent remark about Jameson and two, he had enormous eyebrows that made me think he had live caterpillars on his forehead, and they were going to eat me every time he spoke.
On top of the snide observations of Jameson’s racing skills, he had the nerve to revile Elma.
That was my snapping point and like fuel meeting spark, I ignited.
“Listen, asshole,” I began reproachfully pointing my finger at his caterpillars. “I don’t give a shit who you think the best NASCAR driver is,” I air quoted, “but you talking shit about Jameson and my home town ... I’m going to rip those caterpillars off your face before they become butterflies!”
Neil’s expression was something similar to Tina Turner when Ike first hit her, shock and then indignant.
“Jameson is her friend,” Blake whispered toward Neil with a derisory edge, his eyes dancing around the bar, avoiding mine. In spite of his mocking tone, he couldn’t look me in the fucking eye.
Neil snorted taking a slow drawn out drink of his beer.
“I’m sure,” setting his beer on the bar, he finally looked over at me, disparagingly. “Everyone thinks they’re his friend now that he has money.”
Immediately, I was protective.
“I’ve known him since I was eleven, jerk face,”
The group of people beside us cheered and clapped, their eyes engrossed on the five televisions spread over the walls of the bar, all of them broadcasting the Richmond race, with Jameson leading. There were about five laps remaining, with him and Darrin all over each other.
“He’s not going to win,” Neil mumbled.
“Yes, he will,” I finished the last of my beer and slammed the glass on the bar. I wanted it to make a loud noise to show how annoyed I was but with all the screaming, it didn’t make a sound.
With one lap to go, Jameson and Darrin were side-by-side coming out of four when Darrin bumped him. I know Jameson’s dexterity, I know that ordinarily this would not have caused him to wreck, but he did.
The crowd went hysterical booing and some cheering. It was insane.
This wasn’t good, I sensed.
I stood there staring at the screen in disbelief, anger rising within me creating airlessness. My first thought was to be pissed at this douche Neil for knocking my boy, listen to me, boy. I sound like I’m a fourteen-year-old.
My second thought as I watched Jameson hoist himself on the window ledge was commiseration as he was about to do something stupid.
The camera shot to him while he sat there on the edge of his window, his head hunched forward resting against the roof. Though his helmet was still on, I knew exactly what he was feeling. Particularly when his fist slammed down on the roof a few times before he threw his legs over the side, making his way toward the infield, his helmet still on.
As I said many times, I knew Jameson very well, better than I knew myself. Times like this he took the hardest because he was not only disappointed in himself but he felt as though he was letting his entire team down. Now it didn’t consist of a few men, Riley Racing had about seventy-five people working for them on the two teams. All of them felt it when Jameson didn’t finish.
To give you an example of this, take Harry, the engine builder for both teams. So he spends around sixty hours a week working on the engines for the team. How do you think he feels when the engine blows? Not good.
Not only does Jameson not finish the race, but he has sponsors looking at him as to why he couldn’t finish the race. Jimi and Randy want to know why the engine failed and here Harry is wondering what the hell went wrong. Was it something he did? Was it the way Jameson was running the car? Was it an adjustment the crew made? It’s a mystery, nonetheless, but my point is not just one individual is affected if the car doesn’t finish well. They’re a team and they feel it like a team.
Knowing all that, I knew the weight that was on him each week. Every point is critical as every race is critical.
By now, Jameson had made his way to the pits and a news broadcaster was pushing a microphone in his face as he walked stalked to his hauler.
“Jameson?” the reporter struggled to gain his attention as he kept walking, “Can you tell us what happened out there? It looked as though he just came down on you.”
“I’m not real sure,” Jameson said edgily.
He had sunglasses on by that point so I couldn’t see his eyes to tell if he was upset or not. Who was I kidding, he was most certainly upset.
Jameson finally spoke but kept walking. “We had a run on him coming out of four but I couldn’t tell how close he was ... next thing I knew ... I was in the wall,” his voice sounded wrong, it didn’t even sound like him. The fact that his sunglasses were on frustrated me even more in that moment, I needed to see his eyes to know for sure he was okay.
Alley pushed him inside his hauler, which was probably wise.
I stopped listening after that, I didn’t want to hear them bashing Jameson so I turned to drinking. Before I knew it, Blake was holding me up as we walked outside. College kids lined the streets, partying as usual.
Knowing Tommy was in town, I sent him a text to see if he could pick me up as we made our way through the young boisterous crowd.
I was in no shape to be driving and I wasn’t about to leave with Blake.
Blake had other ideas when he followed me toward my truck, his arm slung around my shoulders.
“Don’t Blake, I need to get home.”
I caught a glimpse of his eyes, covetously glowing. But they were the wrong color. I wanted those grass green, intensely jaded eyes. Instead I saw Blake’s muddy hazel eyes.
“You’re such a tease,” he groaned pushing me against my truck, his breath oppressively heavy against my skin, it felt wrong, very wrong.
Everything felt different, the hands weren’t the same and the smell wasn’t the same. Nothing was. Where there were soft hands, I wanted to feel the familiar calloused hands I knew so well. The smell of his Obsession was overbearing where Jameson never needed cologne and I worshiped the heady pungent traces of racing on him.
“I said no,” I pushed against Blake again.
My hands trembled against his dark shirt and I wasn’t sure how far he was going to push the issue. Not only was I impaired by alcohol but Blake had at least a hundred pounds on me.
“And I say, yes,” his mouth attacked my neck with sloppy overbearing kisses.
Blake must not know me well because those who really know me know that when I say no, I fucking mean it.
My knee came up hastily between his legs. Any erection he may have had was now gone. “I said no!”
“Wow,” a voice behind me laughed through Blake’s howling. “And to think I thought I was going to have to fight him off you.”
I spun around letting Blake collapse to the ground to see Tommy standing there with a grin. I’d never been so happy to see that orange head in my entire life. I could fend for myself, sure, but emotionally, I was rattled a little.
Back at my apartment, a couple beers to calm my nerves, Tommy and I spent the rest of the evening talking while he tried to convince me to tell Jameson what happened with Blake.
“Why should I?”
“He’s your best friend. You tell him everything.”
“He doesn’t need my drama along with his own, Tommy.” I tossed a bag of chips at him and another beer. “Just leave it alone.”
“If you say so, but if he finds out from someone other than you,” he shook his head. “I hope I’m not there to see it.”
“He’s not that bad.”
Tommy quirked an imperceptive look in my direction, “Let me tell you something ... do you remember that race out in Terre Haute in 2000 when you disappeared.”
“I didn’t disappear!” dropping down beside him on the couch in my apartment—I took his beer from him. “I went to the bathroom.”
“Whatever, you were gone for like two hours and no one could find you.”
“I was constipated. What’s your point?”
“My point is ... he is protective of you. If he thought for one second you were in danger in any way, he’d destroy everything and anyone to get to you. Did you know that he refused to start the feature that night until you were found?”
“He’s not that bad.”
“You’re in denial. He is that bad, when it comes to you.”
“Why do you keep saying that? We’re friends, nothing more.”
“The sooner you two realize that you’re way more than friends, the better off we all will be,” Tommy laughed. “He’s one moody motherfucker when you’re not there.”
“Do you think he wants more?”
Tommy paused and glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, then looked away. “It’s not my place to say.”
“Nice,” I retorted rolling my eyes.
“I don’t know if you have noticed this before but Jameson scares the shit out of me. No way in hell I’m telling you what he tells me.”
“Get out.”
“What—why?” His expression was similar to a child’s when they find out there is no Santa Claus and your parents lied to you.
“Because.”
“No, I have nowhere to sleep tonight.”
“Fine, sleep on the couch—share with Mr. Jangles.”
“Mr ... who?”
“Jangles,” I finished for him. “He’s my cat.”
Tommy glanced down at the overly large ball of fluff at his feet and then back at me with a wary expression. “Are you sure that’s a cat.”
“What else would he be? A shark?”
“Or a cow,” Tommy balked. “I mean, Jesus Christ Sway, he’s fucking huge. Did he have a twin or something and eat it?”
“That’s enough, fire crotch. You don’t see him making fun of your orange hair.”
That effectively ended our argument. He was sensitive about his orange hair. When we were young, he once tried to die it brown only to have it fall out and, if possible, it was an even brighter shade of orange now.
I spent a good twenty minutes on the toilet texting Jameson. It was the only peaceful room I had without Tommy.
S: Are you okay?
It was around one in the morning, I hoped he had made it from the track by now and was on his way home.
It took him a few minutes but he responded.
J: Yeah, I’m fine. Just frustrated.
S: I know. Sorry.
J: Don’t apologize.
S: Call me tomorrow.
J: I have shit to do all day. I’ll call you sometime after seven, my time.
S: Sleep well. I wasn’t sure what else to say. I didn’t want to go emotional on him through texting.
He never responded so I set my phone down on my nightstand while I brushed my teeth.
Just as I was getting into bed, Tommy yelled for me to come out into the living room. Thinking he was going to complain about Mr. Jangles, I took my sweet ass time.
When I eventually walked back into the living room, I realized this time he wasn’t fucking with me, his concerned expression told me he wasn’t done with our previous conversation, before he bashed Mr. Jangles non-existent metabolism.
Throwing myself into the chair beside the couch, I sighed. “What?”
“We’re friends, right?”
“Yeah,”
“So are you and Jameson.”
“Yeah?”
I wasn’t following this conversation real well but it might have had something to do with it being three in the morning.
“Me and you don’t kiss, we don’t touch, and we don’t spend the night texting each other like teenager girls but... you and him do. That right there should tell you the answer to your question.”
Did I mean more to him than his best friend?
I couldn’t sleep after that so I laid in my bed trying to force myself to sleep but it didn’t work.
My phone buzzed causing me to jump, my head smacked against my headboard. Glancing down, I noticed Jameson had responded to my text message.
You too honey. Talk to you tomorrow. Thanks for being there for me.
Did he feel more than friend status?
Whatever he felt, I couldn’t change the feelings I had. So unfamiliar, they felt like someone else’s thoughts, surging tides engulfing me in the memory of him.