Pieces Of You: Pieces Duet Book 1, page 22
“Jameson?” Mrs. Heller calls out, standing in the doorway.
Jamie turns to her, holding up a finger. “I’m sorry. Just one minute?” She waits for Mrs. Heller to nod and then go behind her desk before looking up at me. “What are you doing, Holden?”
I stand taller. I thought it was pretty obvious, but maybe I’m as dumb as my academic history shows. “I’m offering to give you a ride.”
Her shoulders deflate with her exhale. “You can’t do these things anymore. You can’t offer to give me rides or show up to my work.” She takes a step back, saying, “Look, I need time to deal with this. I need space. And I need you to give me that.”
I bite back my scoff. “So what? We can’t be friends?”
“Holden,” she says, looking at me in that You Idiot way she used to. “We were never friends.”
My eyes narrow at first, and then it dawns on me… she’s right. We went from her hating me to her kissing me, to whatever we were right before we ended it. There was no build-up, no in-between.
“I’ll see you around.” She holds the dahlia to my chest, and I take it from her. And then she’s gone, leaving me grasping onto one final piece of her.
39
Holden
“Do you mind if I cut out early?” Jamie asks, already removing her gloves. It isn’t the first time she’s spoken to me today, but since we’re at Esme’s, she kind of doesn’t have a choice. So far, we’ve kept the chatter to a bare minimum. And kept our distance.
I check the time on my watch. It’s only five minutes until we’re supposed to be leaving.
She says, “It’s just—if I leave now, I can make the bus. Otherwise, I’d have to wait another forty-five minutes until the next one.
“Right.” Because being in a car with me is too much for her even though we drove here together. She needs time and space—all things I’ve given her since she asked for it almost a week ago. “Sure, go ahead.”
“Thanks,” she says, handing me her gloves. “They’re yours. I’ll have a pair of my own for next time.” I want to roll my eyes. I don’t. Instead, I watch her haul both her messenger bag and her backpack with her change of clothes over her shoulders. “Say bye to Esme for me?”
I nod.
She leaves.
And by the time I finish up and drive away, Jamie’s still walking to the bus stop. I slow down beside her—an instant reaction—and then I remember…
Time.
Space.
I keep driving.
And driving.
And driving.
I’ve been doing that a lot lately—driving around aimlessly. It’s the only thing that seems to clear my head. It doesn’t help much, but it’s enough to make me reset and refocus.
When I get home, I go straight into studying. I do homework for the first time in my life, which—I’ve now come to realize—is too little too late. Then I research colleges in New York City, where Mia will be. I check admission criteria and enrolment costs, and the general cost of living there. And then I look up who I might need to screw to get me there in the place. When all that fails, I check how much I could earn from selling my organs on the black market. Not enough, apparently.
I call Mia.
I call my mom, who’s still with Mia.
I call my dad.
And then, when my eyes fall heavy, and I have no one left to call, I crawl into bed and stare at the picture of a bright-eyed girl with windburned cheeks and a daisy chain for a crown.
It’s the only picture I have of her face. Every other one I’d taken of her was of her legs or hands or other body parts, all covered in art.
I told her it suited her—being out in that field. But in my mind, in my heart, there meant back home...
Back to sunshine and solace.
I imagined surprising her with her own field of daisies one day. I would’ve planted the seeds myself.
It would’ve been perfect.
We could’ve been perfect.
In another time.
Another world.
Where mine wasn’t falling apart.
And hers wasn’t already in pieces.
I’d already told the appropriate people that I wouldn’t be “trying out” for any other teams for the rest of the year. In other words, I quit all sports. But, when it came to football, Coach Griffith wasn’t having it. In his words, it would look worse on my college transcripts to be a quitter than a loser, and he “strongly advised” I play out the rest of the season. So that’s where I am. Under the Friday night lights of the football field while the entire school cheers us on.
For losing.
Again.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Billy Butler says, sidling up next to me as we walk off the field. He’s out of shape and out of breath, just like most of the team.
I remove my helmet and turn to him. “At least you’re walking this time.”
It’s like a bottleneck to get into the tunnel toward the locker rooms with Coach front and center. He throws his clipboard to the ground, stomps on it a few times, and Billy stifles his laugh. “The man’s losing his mind.”
We start to move, slowly, slowly, while the crowd in the stands disperse the same way. The cheerleaders are on the sidelines, still cheering for no real reason. And all I want to do is shower and change and call it a night.
“Jamie!” The voice comes from the front of the pack—Dean, of course—and my head snaps up to the bleachers, eyes searching because he must be seeing things. Jamie’s never been to a game before, so I don’t know why she would now.
But she is.
Standing between a row of seats in dark denim and a leather jacket, loose hair blowing in the wind, she doesn’t look at all like the Jamie I know. The guy behind her—someone I don’t recognize—taps her shoulder, and she turns to him. Smiles. He points toward us, and she follows his gaze, those hazel eyes sparkling beneath the stadium lights. Then she turns back to him, shaking her head, and he… he puts his hands on her shoulders as they move out of the aisle. I watch their backs retreating as they walk side by side, and Billy shoves me forward. “What are you doing, man? Go.”
I reset.
Refocus.
The tunnel ahead of me is clear, but my mind is not. I turn to Billy. “Party at my house tonight. Spread the word.”
The music is too loud, the weed too strong, and the beer too plentiful. It’s exactly what I need to clear my head. Or forget my mind completely.
Bodies pack my living room and the kitchen and flow out onto the back deck and yard. I’d called Mom on the way home and told her I was having a few people over. By few, I meant most of the senior class and at least half of the rest of the school. Dean’s here, too. I don’t know why he is, and right now, I don’t care.
Leaning against the deck railing, I take another hit of the blunt and pass it to Billy. “This shit’s good,” I tell him. “Your brother’s finally getting the right stuff.”
He shakes his head. “This isn’t from him.”
“No?” I blink hard to fight off the effects of all the illegal substances I’ve consumed.
He leans in so he can shout in my ear. “It’s from Melanie.”
“Melanie, who?”
“Sanchez.”
I stare blankly at him. “You know that hot-ass girl with the black hair, big blue eyes.”
A girl walks toward me, offering me a beer, and I shake my head. To Billy, I say, “Oh yeah, I know Melanie.” Jamie’s Melanie.
“You should,” he chuckles. “We had three classes with her last year.”
“Wait.” I turn to him. “She deals?”
He nods, handing the joint back. Before I can take a toke, Bethany’s standing beside us, and what the hell she could possibly want… who fucking knows. If it’s to ask more shit about Jamie, she can fuck right off. “What?” I ask, and she shrugs. Games. So many fucking games, and I’m not even the one playing. So, just to mess with her, I hold out the joint between us.
A ribbon of smoke floats up as she looks from the joint to me, again and again. And then she sighs. “Why the fuck not?” She takes the blunt from me while Billy barks out a laugh.
“Damn, Bethany!” he hollers. “If there was ever a guy to pull that stick out of your ass, it had to be Eastwood.”
40
Jamie
My hands are cramping, and I know I’m gripping the steering wheel way too tight, but I can’t help it. Until last night, it’d been a while since I’d driven, and even then—the diner’s old delivery truck isn’t one I’m used to driving. Honestly, that’s not even the real reason.
I’m nervous.
I spent most of last night tossing and turning, trying to convince myself not to get in the car to find Holden so I could explain why I was at his game with some guy. Not that he deserved an explanation, but it felt like… I don’t know… the right thing to do?
I finally talked myself into sleeping on it, hoping I’d feel different in the morning.
So that’s what I did.
And then I woke up.
And as soon as I opened my eyes, I saw him—Holden—his eyes to be exact. It was the same eyes I’d seen at the end of his games. First the confusion, and then the hurt. The pain.
So I got up, showered, got dressed, and now I’m pulling into his driveway. There’s trash littering the front lawn, mainly beer cans. Obviously, he had a party last night, and I wonder, as I make my way to his front door, how many of these he’d thrown prior to me entering his world. Plenty, I bet.
I swipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, my hands shaking as I raise my fist. Knock. I’d gone over everything I wanted to say on the drive here, and so I’m ready. Or, as ready as I can be, considering we’ve barely said two words to each other since we broke up.
When no one answers, I hesitate to knock again. This isn’t a good idea. Clearly, it’s a step in the wrong direction. Besides, I was the one who needed time, who needed space, and now I’m forcing myself onto him as if—
The door opens.
And Holden is there, shirtless, eyes squinting against the sunlight. “Jamie?” he croaks, and his scent wafts between us and directly into my nostrils. He smells like… like something I haven’t had the pleasure of smelling since Mom died. “What are you doing here?” he asks, opening the door wider.
I take a step back, trying to remain focused on why I’m here instead of fixating on the state of the clearly hungover boy standing in front of me, alcohol seeping through his pores. He’s barefoot, in workout shorts, his hair flying in all directions. And even when he’s like this.... even at his worst, I have to fight the urge to reach over and touch him. The truth is, I miss him. I miss the boy who brought me joy, pumped life back into my otherwise meaningless existence. “Jamie?” he says again, looking over my shoulder. “Who’s car is that?”
“It’s the diner’s.” I shake my head, clear the sudden storm brewing, and rid the memories of my past. “I uh… I wanted to talk to you about last night.”
He licks the dryness off his lips and crosses his arms, his muscles bulging with the movement. Jerking his head, he says, “What about it?”
I clasp my hands in front of me while I take another step back. “I know that you saw me at your game with um… a guy.”
He quirks an eyebrow.
“He’s Zeke’s nephew,” I rush out, because standing in front of him like this has me antsy. “He’s visiting from Europe, and one of the things he wanted to do was watch a high school football game. For some reason, it seems to be a big deal for foreigners. I don’t get it, but...” I trail off.
Holden stares, and stares, and stares some more. And it’s clear I’m crossing some invisible line by being here. I keep my gaze lowered and my defenses up. “Anyway, Zeke paid me to take him, and I did, and that’s all it was.” I’m rambling, but I can’t seem to stop. “And I don’t know why I felt the need to tell you. I just—I wanted you know that I wouldn’t… or couldn’t… move on from—”
“Holden?” My eyes snap up at the sound of his name being called. At the familiar voice calling it. “Have you seen my phone?”
Bethany’s standing in the hallway to the bedrooms, dressed in an oversized Townsend Athletics t-shirt, and I’m pretty sure nothing else.
My heart stills… right before it plummets. I spin around quickly, gasping for air, but the only thing that fills my lungs is pain. Pain so overwhelming it blurs my vision, pounds at my flesh from the inside out.
“Jamie!” Holden shouts, and I can hear him behind me, his rushed steps getting louder and louder. I just need to make it to the car, and once I’m inside and far enough away from this hell, I’ll be okay.
I need to be okay.
“Jamie, stop!” Holden grabs my elbow, turning me to him, and I don’t know what happens next.
I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or the anguish or the anger I’ve carried for far too many days now that has me sobbing. “You could have had any girl, Holden.” I cry as the words tumble out of me. But the way Holden watches me, his empty gaze and stoic stance—I could’ve carved the words across his chest, and it’d be no different. I attempt a breath, but it doesn’t calm the storm. “You chose her because you knew it would hurt me!” I wipe at the pathetic, useless tears. “Well, good job, ‘friend,’ because it did!”
Holden stands to full height as he watches me—watching all the million
reckless,
fleeting,
emotions.
They fly through me, one after the other, racing through my bloodline before expelling with each harsh breath.
Holden’s head tilts to one side as he steps closer, standing over me with his jaw tense. “Have you ever asked yourself why you’re so fucking pressed about Bethany?”
My eyes narrow. “What?”
“You just said it: it could’ve been any other girl, but not her! Why?” He takes another step forward, pushing me back. “Why!”
I sniff back my heartache and lock eyes with him. I refuse to back down, to lose this fight. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He shakes his head, looks down his nose at me. “She was with Dean last night!” he spits, his chest rising and falling with each sharp inhale. Each forced exhale. “Dean! Who you loved, right? And you said it yourself, it’s not like we were in love! But I was, Jamie!” He points to himself, his arms moving, veins popping out of his flesh. “I was in love with you! I was so fucking in love with you that just the idea of hurting you ruined me!” He’s yelling so loud, I feel each of his words inside me, beating me down, one by one. “And if you’d given me a chance to explain that, then you’d know exactly how I feel about you! But you didn’t! And then you come here… accusing me… thinking that I would actually do something like that to you…” He laughs once, his eyes to the sky, and I don’t take a breath. Not a single one. “That just proves how fucking little you think of me!”
Tears blur my vision, but I don’t back down, don’t allow myself the privilege of oxygen. There’s a voice in my head, urging me, begging me to reach up, tap at the hand covering my mouth. But there is no hand, and there is no danger, and there is no Mom whispering in my ear, telling me it’ll be okay. That I am okay.
“Jesus Christ, Jamie! Breathe!” The voice is distant, echoing through a tunnel, and three Deans are standing in front of me. “You can’t talk to her like that, bro!” he says, and then he’s shaking me, his hands on my shoulders. “Breathe, Jamie!”
My eyes widen as I gasp for air, again and again, until my vision clears and reality dawns on me like a heavy blanket, wanting to suffocate me and pull me back under. Three sets of eyes focus on me, staring, and I cry, and I say…
I say, “I’m sorry.”
Because it was the only words spoken after each and every fight.
“I’m sorry.”
41
Holden
I have questions. Lots of them. Mainly why Dean knew to tell Jamie to do something so simple as breathe, and I didn’t. It’s selfish to want the answer to this over why he needed to tell her in the first place, but I figure I can get both answers with one question.
Unfortunately, Jamie doesn’t show up to school on Monday or Tuesday, and sure, I could go to her work or her house, but I don’t.
Now it’s Wednesday, and she’s finally here, standing at her locker right beside mine. I can smell her. Which is pathetic, really, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over her scent or the instant reaction I have to it.
I shut my locker and lean against it, waiting for her to do the same. It’s the beginning of The Patience Game, but I’m the only one playing.
Jamie’s locker slams shut, and she cringes at the sight of me, but before I can get a word out, someone’s calling her name from behind me. Jamie looks over my shoulder, and I turn to see Miss Lockhart, the art teacher, practically running toward us, weaving through the students while waving a piece of paper in the air. She stops in front of Jamie and me, her eyes as bright as her smile. “I’m so glad I caught you before class!” she huffs out, hand to her chest as she takes a few steadying breaths.
Jamie doesn’t smile back. Doesn’t brighten. She merely watches her with that same unnerving stare she used to bestow upon me.
“Your piece was accepted!” Miss Lockhart rejoices, waving the papers again.
Jamie remains silent.
And her reaction clearly isn’t what Miss Lockhart expected because her shoulders drop, and her smile falters just a tad. “That art contest I entered you in, remember?” She’s losing her steam. “They loved your work, and it’s going to be showcased…”
I’m glued to Jamie’s face, to any sign of a reaction. Nothing changes. Not until a single tear falls from her eye, trails down her cheek. It comes so fast and so unexpected that even Jamie seems surprised by its presence. She quickly swipes it away, and I don’t know why my chest tightens at the sight.
