Pieces Of You: Pieces Duet Book 1, page 7
Captivated, I make a note of the way she holds the pen, the way the muscles in her wrist shift with every movement. The way the multiple mood rings she always wears change color, reflecting off the overhead lights. The way she stops, her nose scrunching when she feels like she’s made a mistake. And I watch her hands move so fluidly, so expertly, that it makes me question exactly how good those hands of hers are at other things.
“I like hydrangeas,” she murmurs, and I don’t know if she’s talking to me or just talking out loud. “There are approximately seventy-five species in the world, mainly in Korea, China and Japan.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
Her hand freezes, and she looks up. “Huh?”
“I grew up on a nursery. Dad put me to work from the moment I could walk, and since my mom loved them, we’d always have stockpiles of them. And even I don’t know that random piece of information, so… how do you?”
She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Books.”
“You read books about flowers?”
Another shrug before getting lost in her art again. “It was all Gina had.”
I don’t even bother asking who Gina is. “And you memorized facts about hydrangeas?”
“Not just hydrangeas,” she says.
“Let me get this straight,” I ask, watching as she perfects the shape of the leaves. “You memorized facts about a bunch of flowers that you learned from books because it was all Gina had?”
“Yep,” she says, then taps the end of her marker to her temple. “It helps to calm the storm in here.”
My breath halts, and I realize now… I have no fucking clue who the girl sitting in front of me is. And worse? I highly doubt Dean did either.
She’s like… a riddle.
A paradox.
An incomplete picture.
It’s as if she only gives people fragments of herself.
Pieces.
I can’t help but smile.
Jameson Taylor is like a puzzle.
And I’ve always liked puzzles.
Searching for the right piece to fit perfectly in just the right place… it’s time-consuming and challenging, but it brings a kind of order to the chaos, and if you put in the effort, the end result is always rewarding. And that’s why I do it: for the reward.
And now… sitting opposite Jamie, watching her, I feel like I need to somehow piece her together.
I crack a smile at the thought of my newfound hobby.
Jamie does not.
Instead, she looks up, glares across the table at me. “What’s with your face?”
“Nothing.”
She hands me the napkin as she stands, pulling the strap of her bag across her torso. “Can you give this to your mom—to say thank you for the clothes?”
“Sure.”
I don’t meet up with the other girl. I don’t give my mom the picture either. I put it in the drawer, along with the other two. Now I have the first three pieces of the puzzle. I just need one more to have all four corners. And then everything else will fall into place.
12
Jamie
The day after the social worker visit, I no longer questioned why I had no friends, why no one sat beside me on the bus, why no other kids even talked to me. It was just as that realization struck—as I was standing a few feet away from the other kids waiting for the bus, looking down at my worn sneakers with my toes poking through the tops—that a gentle hand landed on my shoulder. I looked up at the older woman beside me, from her brown leather shoes to her gray stockings and the plaid skirt past her knees. She wore a blouse, crisp and blindingly white, not a single stain.
She was the complete opposite of everything I was.
Everything I knew.
The woman’s gray eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled down at me. “It will get easier,” she said. “I promise.”
I shoved my hands deep in the pockets of my coat to hide them. I’d spent all night trying to rid the dirt—the evidence of my so-called abuse. After a phone call from school, Beaker had thrown a wire brush at my head and stood over me while I scrubbed and scrubbed until my cuticles bled and the tears that fell mixed with the crimson staining the water.
When I got off the bus that afternoon, the elderly woman was there again, waiting. “Do you remember me from this morning?” she asked, and I nodded in response. “Can I walk you home?”
I nodded again, and we fell in step, side by side.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I glanced up at her. “Jamie,” I said. And because I had no idea what was happening or why she was there, I asked her, “Are you my grandma?”
“No, darling.” She shook her head, her eyes sad as she took my hand in hers. “But I can be your Gina.”
13
Holden
I’m in a mood, and I’m not even attempting to hide it. I’m throwing shit around, cursing under my breath. You know, just being a general asshole. Even Esme’s surprise of having her pool fixed and usable, along with her offer of allowing us to use it didn’t bring a hint of a smile to my face.
I drop the wheelbarrow I’d been hauling around, maybe a little too carelessly, and it topples over to one side, dumping its contents all over the ground we’d just cleared. “Fuck.”
“You’re an idiot.”
Oh, and I also have to deal with Whiney Wilma and her wise-ass comments. The last thing I need right now is to be in possession of sharp objects, burning alive under the sweltering sun while listening to Jamie tell me how useless I am.
When I don’t respond, she asks, “Did your mom like the drawing?”
It’s been a whole week since I’ve seen Jamie in more than just passing, and this is the first conversation we’ve had that doesn’t involve me grunting in frustration and her sighing for the same reason. “Yeah, she liked it a lot,” I lie. My mom didn’t even see the drawing. It’s still sitting in my drawer, waiting for the next piece of the puzzle.
“I started doing a proper one on cotton paper with watercolors, but then I wasn’t sure what species she liked best, so…” she trails off, dumping a handful of pulled weeds into the wheelbarrow. “So I didn’t know what colors to use, and it’s probably stupid anyway, like who the hell am I? Thinking my crappy two-minute doodles are worthy of gift-giving?”
I glance over at her, and unlike the many other times I’ve done the same, I don’t catch her watching me. She’s staring off into the distance, chest rising and falling to a steady rhythm. She seems lost, and I don’t know how long she’s been like this because I’ve been too fucking consumed in my own superficial misery that I’ve barely looked twice at her.
“Jamie,” I say, and then I stutter a breath when her eyes meet mine. It’s strange. When I’m not with her, I barely think of her. But when she is around, and she’s this close, she consumes every thought, every breath, every heartbeat. “You should finish it,” I tell her. “I’m sure she’d love it.” And by she I mean me. I would love it. “I’m sorry I’m being such a dick.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Wow, an apology?” She’s smiling a half-smile, but it’s enough to pick away at the hardened pieces of me she hasn’t yet seen. Until today. After a shrug, she adds, “It’s okay. I figure you’re just going through something.”
“And you’re not curious what it is?” We’re both on our feet now, facing each other. And The Staring Game doesn’t feel like such a game anymore.
“If you want to tell me, you will. When have you ever held back before?” That’s true. “But I’m here… if you need to vent or dump your emotional baggage on someone.”
“I don’t know that your shoulders are strong enough to carry that weight.”
“You’d be surprised,” she muses, and I have absolutely no doubt she’s right.
“We had our first practice game last Friday.”
She nods as if she already knows what’s coming. “I heard.”
“How much did you hear?”
With a grimace, she replies, “I don’t know shit about football, but your name’s been thrown around, and people seem to be pissed, so…”
“It’s not about the fucking game.” I sigh, motioning toward a bench in the shade where we keep our water bottles. I lead her there and sit, then wait for her to do the same. “I choked in the last five seconds and lost the game, but I feel like that’s all that’s been happening with me lately.”
“Losing games?” she asks, half turning her body to mine.
I shake my head. “Choking in the last five seconds.”
She doesn’t respond. And how could she? “None of what I’m saying makes sense. It barely makes sense to me, and I’m the one living the lies, putting on the face, the facade, when all I want to do is crawl into the same hole everyone else around me seems to have done. And some days, I just want to fucking break down and beat the shit out of everything, but I can’t because it’s not who I am. And then there’s the pressure to be what everyone expects of me. To be a good son, which yeah, I am, but I don’t know how much longer I can watch my mom struggle to get out of bed every morning and not shake her and say I exist too, because she’s so caught up in what happened with my best friend, Mia. And Mia…. our entire lives, I’ve been her rock, her constant, and when it counted, I failed her. And now Mom wants me to actually work hard in school so I can go to college and get a degree, all because she couldn’t because she was too busy growing a fetus. I don’t even want to go to college. I don’t know what I want to do, what I want to be, and it’s fucking bullshit that I have to decide right fucking now. Add all that to the fact that my parents can’t even afford…” I take a breath. “I just—I need… I need…”
“I know what you need,” Jamie cuts in, and holy shit, I wasn’t even aware that I’d said all that, out loud, and unleashed all my feelings, and to Jamie of all people. Great, now she has way more material on me than I do on her, which means she has the upper hand in this game. It’s like I let her peek at my fucking hand, and now she can use it to annihilate me.
“What?” I ask. God only knows what the hell’s going to come out of her mouth next.
“A hug.”
A burst of laughter emits from deep in my chest. “A hug?”
She moves to stand in front of me and motions with her hands for me to do the same. With a heavy inhale and an even heavier exhale, I groan when I get up, raising my arms and rolling my eyes like the petulant child I am. “Fine. Hug me, but it won’t help.”
“You don’t know that,” she insists, raising her arms just enough to slide around my waist.
“I’m quashing your expectations now, so you don’t get all butt hurt over it.”
“Shut up,” she says, then adds as she moves in close, pressing her chest to my abs, “Keep your hands in all the safe places.” She shifts closer again, leaving nothing between us—no space, no air, no questions, and… no games.
Her hands flatten on my back, her cheek pressed against my pecs, and she’s closer than she’s ever been.
Without thinking, I hold her to me, rest my chin on top of her head. My nostrils fill with her now-familiar scent, and I close my eyes, keep them that way.
“Your heart’s pounding,” she says, pulling away.
“Wait.” It comes out before I can stop it, and I don’t know… maybe she has some wicked good superpower, or maybe she just gives good hugs. “Your hugs hit different,” I tell her, my eyes snapping open, going wide, because what the fuck? Your hugs hit different? Who says that?
“They do?” She rears back so she can look up at me. With her arms still around me, her soft fingers splay across my hard back.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I mean, to be fair, it’s the first time I’ve hugged a girl without imagining them naked, so…”
She pulls away, all the way away, and I stupidly miss her touch. And her smell. Jesus. “And you’re not imagining me naked?” She almost sounds disappointed.
“No,” I answer truthfully. “Do you want me to?”
She shrugs. “Every girl wants to feel attractive, I guess. Even to a manwhore like you.”
“You are attractive,” I assure.
“Oh, great. A pity compliment. That’s where we are now?” she says through a giggle.
“No.” I’m shaking my head, laughing with her. “You are, in like…” Shit. How the fuck do I say this? “This kind of…”
“Oh my god, stop. I’m not your type. I get it.”
“Honestly, no. You’re not.”
Her smile falters, just for a second. “Thank God for that, right?” she mumbles, turning to get back to work.
I grasp onto her shirt to stop her. “Wait. That came out wrong.”
She faces me, her smile genuine. “Holden, honestly, it’s fine. I won’t be losing sleep over—”
“What I should’ve said is that imagining a girl naked is the first and pretty much only thing I do when I’m even touching a girl, but you’re… different.” Too late, I rush out, “In a good way! And no, you’re not my usual type because you’re not easy. And I don’t just mean sex, I mean, in general. You’re complex and unpredictable and….” I take a breath. Then another. “And I like you because you challenge me.”
And I like the way you look at me.
The way your eyes hold mine.
The way you can read me without forcing me to be an open book.
After seconds of silently staring at me, she finally says, “Thank you.”
And I reply, “You’re welcome.”
“Nice save, by the way.” She starts back toward where we’d been working, and, over her shoulder, she adds, “Should’ve done that on Friday night. Maybe if you were always that quick on your feet, you wouldn’t have choked so badly.”
My eyes narrow, aimed at her retreating back. “You’re mean.”
“No,” she says, facing me with a smirk that has every single muscle in my body loosening, my lungs expanding, and my smile widening. “I’m challenging you.”
I laugh. “Game on, Grandma.”
“Kids!” Esme calls out, opening the back door, “someone’s here to see you!”
Jamie
At the sight of Dean standing next to Esme, my breath falters, and it’s loud enough that Holden notices. He also notices the way I step closer to him as if he’s somehow going to protect me from the raging storm I’m suddenly caught in. “You good?” he asks low enough that only I can hear him.
With a nod, I try to shake off the nervous energy causing goose bumps across my flesh. It’s different having to deal with Dean at school. Multiple exits make it easy to avoid him, spit a few heated words in his direction, and then carry on with my day as if Dean Griffith doesn’t exist. At least physically. But in my mind, he’s there, and those thoughts of him are a constant gray cloud looming over me, watching me, judging me.
“What’s up?” Holden calls out, somehow blocking Dean from my view completely. I pretend to focus on the work I’d been doing while simultaneously trying to level my breathing.
“One of the other teams needs someone with a truck, so I’m letting you loose,” Dean answers, and he’s closer now, only feet away.
“You have a truck,” Holden retorts.
Dean makes a hissing sound. “Yeah, the other team is Bethany, and she sure as hell doesn’t want me there.”
My jaw tenses, while Holden says, “I fail to see how that’s my problem.” There’s a bite in his tone, and I don’t quite understand where it’s coming from.
“Look, my dad’s there waiting to help you lift some furniture, so…” So, Holden has no out, no real reason not to go.
“You couldn’t have called with this? Sent a text?” Holden sounds outraged. “You didn’t have to show up here.”
Dean’s quiet for so long my curiosity gets the better of me, and I look over my shoulder at him. He’s already watching me; his lips turned down at the sides. “I figured Jamie would need a ride home.”
I start to protest, but Holden beats me to it. “Jamie’s coming with me.”
“You have a two-seater, and Bethany will need to go with you to sign off on some shit,” Dean replies. He seems to have an answer for everything. “I suppose Jamie and Bethany could share a seat?”
“No,” I cut in, my eyes pleading with Holden. “You can go. I’ll be fine.”
Holden lowers his head, shaking it. “This is bullshit, Dean. Obviously, she doesn’t want to ride with you.”
“When did you suddenly become an expert on what she wants?” he accuses.
“When you paired us together, or did you forget about that?”
“Shut the fuck up, Holden,” Dean sneers.
My head spins, trying to catch up with their back and forth.
“Between us?” Holden almost shouts. “The fact you’re here proves otherwise.”
“Dude, what the hell are you doing?”
“You didn’t want her, but you don’t want anyone else to have her, right?” He scoffs. “I’m taking her with me,” Holden says, adamant. “She can stay in my truck, and Bethany can drive herself.”
Dean is pissed. “What do you think I’m going to do to her? She’ll be fine.”
I finally find my voice. “She is standing right here.” That shuts them both up, and it gives me the quiet I need to figure out that Dean had paired me with Holden on purpose because he didn’t want me with anyone else. But Holden? Granted, they’re friends, and even though I’m new to the school, it didn’t take me long to work out Holden’s reputation when it comes to girls—and Dean wanted me with him because…
Because he was so positive Holden wouldn’t want me.
Just like he didn’t want me.
I face Holden. “I’ll be fine,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady. The last thing I want is for him to ruin his friendship with Dean over something as insignificant as me. And I can handle Dean. I’ve handled much, much worse.
“Are you sure?” Holden asks.
And Dean murmurs, “Jesus Christ.”
I nod, keeping my gaze on Holden, who sighs as he removes his gloves. “Let’s go clean up.”
