Page 11 of All That Glitters

“I seem to recall telling you last semester that this was my section of the library,” I remind him in a terse tone.

He hadn’t been here since the new semester started. I’d thought I’d won. What a foolish thought. I’m always losing when it comes to Jameson.

“And I seem to recall telling you that you don’t own the library,” he shoots back.

“There are hundreds of other tables to choose from,” I say, exasperated. “This building has three floors, Jameson. Why do you insist on invading my territory?”

Jameson opens up his book. There’s a waterfall of black tabs, and even from here I can see the notes he took in the margins. I scowl. He’s probably here because he knows I tend to procrastinate. I bet his essay is already done and he’s showing off his annotations to bother me.

“Your territory?” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I didn’t know we’d resorted to battle.”

“Cry havoc,” I mutter, the urge to sneak in even a half quote too strong to resist.

“And let slip the dogs of war.” Jameson finishes my reference.

My stomach tightens. I look down.

“I didn’t know you read Julius Caesar," I say softly.

Jameson wasn’t a fan of Shakespeare. He rarely slogged through the text, only deigning to when it was required by a teacher or … if I asked him to. Last year before we graduated, I read the play and insisted he read it too.

“Over the summer,” he rasped.

Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I blink rapidly to keep them in. I won’t cry in front of him. Not again.

“Gol—Marigold,” he corrects. “Can we talk for a minute? Please,” he pleads.

I shake my head.

“We can talk about the article. That’s it. That’s—” I shake my head again. “I don’t want to talk about anything else.”

I stand up and start to shove everything back in my bag.

“Wait,” Jameson says, standing too. “Don’t. I’ll go. It’s your territory.” The last part of his sentence hitches up, like he wants to laugh but can’t bear it.

I don’t say anything. I sit back down and stare at my bag, watching him in my periphery until he leaves without another word. The entire time all I can think is:

Why?

Why would the same man who wrecked our friendship read Shakespeare even though he hates it? I angrily swipe at a rebel tear streaking down my face.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry over him anymore. It doesn’t matter that he read the play. Such a small thing could never outweigh the way he betrayed my trust. I yank my book back out and flip it open. No more distractions.

Chapter six

Pinky Promise

Jameson Sinclair

I’m not a stalker. If someone saw me waiting for Marigold to leave the library, then watched me follow her back to her building … they might disagree. But opinions are subjective by nature. So I’m choosing to ignore those opinions in favor of my correct one. And I’m of the opinion that walking Marigold home from a distance does not equate to stalking.

Up ahead, Marigold turns the corner down a path in between two buildings. The winter wind bites at my face and tousles my hair. It’s going to be a long, cold walk back to my dorm. Marigold tends to stay in the library until it closes at 11 p.m. Sometimes later, if she can manage to avoid the librarian’s attention. That makes for late nights for me, especially after a long day of classes and practice and homework. But it’s worth it if I can see to it that she’s safe. No matter what happens between us, I’ll never stop looking out for her.

I clench my hands in the pocket of my Thrashers Hockey hoodie. I shouldn’t have quoted Julius Caesar earlier. But it felt like a bit of us was alive again. Like I had my Goldie back. My chest burns as though I’ve done one too many laps around the ice. The hurt in her expression when I spoke the line tore me in half. What was supposed to be a happy surprise ended up being Brutus’s dagger.

Marigold slips into her apartment building. I don’t follow any farther than that. I only did that once, when she brought up the elevators to her building being broken to Paisley. This irrational worry that some creep would attack her in the stairwell wouldn’t leave my mind. That would probably push me over the line into stalker territory, but as long as she’s safe I’ll take any criticism in stride. Not that anyone is going to know, because I’ve never told a soul. Her roommate Jasmine might be suspicious of me after I returned Marigold’s book last semester, but that’s all she has on me.

I turn around and head to the athletic dormitory on the other side of campus. By the time I make it inside my dorm I’m freezing and exhausted. So naturally, Nash is awake and smiling at me like he’s had five shots of espresso. Knowing that he doesn’t consume caffeine outside of the occasional piece of chocolate only makes his energy level more annoying.