𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐬 || Jameson Hawthorne

drink or drink

༄ "𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀?"

Jameson grabbed the vodka bottle from the wine cellar with quick movements. "Everybody could use some vodka." He held the bottle out for me to see. "This stuff was from like, medieval times."

I snorted, grabbing the bottle from Jamesons hands and reading the name and date.

Chateau Margaux 1900s

"Not medieval times, but definitely a long time ago." I handed the bottle back to Jameson. "Hey, isn't it a fact that like, this stuff gets better over time?"

"Think so," Jameson shrugged. "Or, it could be toxic and we'll die."

I stared blankly at him.

"Jesus Lizzie, I was kidding." Jameson walked past me and didn't look back when he said, "Meet me in the theater, we need to play a game."

"Like that's ever good," I murmured.

Stepping into the theater brought back memories, good and bad. Almost all of them were tainted with the memory of Emily Laughlin, her red hair swinging around her face, those green eyes mesmerizing anyone in her path.

"Come on," Jameson said, patting the seat next to him. I hadn't even realized my hands were curled into tight fists, the blood rushing to my fingertips all at once.

Sitting down next to him, I noticed the bottle already had a dent in it. "How much did you drink on the way here?" that was a two minute walk.

Jameson shrugged and pressed a button, the seat expanding as he sunk into the reclining couch. "Champagne problems."

Typical Jameson.

"So," I said, taking the bottle from Jamesons hand. "what's going on with Avery?" I took a sip out of the bottle and cringed at the bitter taste on my lips.

Jameson stared at me. "Why?"

I shrugged, casual and calm, but inside I was dying because I didn't want him to think I did care, even if I really did. "Just wondering. I mean, it's kind've a big deal what's happened in the past couple of days."

"Yeah," Jameson said, his voice strangled.

We sat there in silence for a few moments, but it was too deafening and I couldn't take much more of it. "So, what were you—"

"Can we not do this?" Jameson gestured in between us. "This thing where we act like we don't care? Like it's some dumb competition?"

I laughed, but nothing was funny. "I think you've had too much to drink."

"No, I think you are living in denial all the goddamn time." The walls felt like they were closing around me when Jameson stood up. "Why won't you talk to me anymore? Any of us?"

You know why. "There's nothing to talk about."

Jameson shook his head, a small laugh reverberating throughout the dusty, unused room. Thirteen months in counting.

"You never come around anymore. I can count on my hand how many times i've talked to you— and none of them were a conversation." Jameson took another swig at the bottle, and he almost lost his balance while doing so.

"There was no reason to. You made it pretty clear where we stood." Now I was angry, every feeling I had been holding in bursting out at the seams. Whether I liked it or not.

"I didn't mean it." Jameson couldn't look me in the eyes when he spoke, the words poking at his tongue  like needles. "I needed you. You needed me."

"How the hell was I supposed to know that?"

Jameson threw the bottle on the ground, and the sound of glass breaking filled my ears in an instant. Vodka seeped into the carpet, the way poison did in someone veins. Mine.

Jameson covered his face with his hands, and I didn't have to see his reaction to know what he was feeling. One thing.

Regret.

My feet were moving backward with each strangled breath Jameson took. I wasn't scared of him, no, I could never be scared of him.

But the pain I felt in my chest, for him— for Grayson — and everything in between was too much. I wanted to run and run and run until there was no where left to go.

Jameson looked up at me, something unspoken written on his face. "Liz.."

That pain in my chest only grew when he said Liz. Not Lizzie.

But that pain wasn't normal. I recognized that pain, and I'd only ever felt it once. I—

"Shit." I placed a hand on my chest.

Jameson narrowed his eyes at me. "What's wrong? Are you—"

"I have to go." Ignoring any of Jamesons protests, I turned on my heel and ran out the theater door as fast as I could. No, this couldn't be happening. Please no.

I was running aimlessly through Hawthorne House, pictures of Tobias Hawthorne haunting me on the walls. What do you want with me?

It's hard to breathe.

I snapped my head forward, only to be met with a brick wall— and a nose that fucking hurt.

I fell to the ground in pain, holding my nose. "What the fuck!"

"Kid, what did you do to yourself?" A hand wrapped around my shoulder, and by his Texas accent and large grip on me, I knew who it was.

Nash.
—
༄

a/n:

i'm eating the drama up in this story sm like i'm screaming and giggling. 😁🤞🏻 THANKS FOR ALL THE READSSSS :)