Page 25 of All That Glitters

“Then why did you get so few?” I ask as he finishes off the other half of his taco in one huge bite.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin. While I wait for him to reply, I take a bite. It’s so delicious I could cry. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to eat until tasting this. I might be the one who needs more than three tacos.

“Sometimes I wonder if you should be a detective instead of a writer,” he says, making me smirk. “Since I know you’re not going to let this go, I ate not long ago after practice with Nash, so I’m not that hungry.”

“Then why…” I trail off. “Oh.”

For me. He knew I’d need to eat, but got something for himself so it would look less like he was taking care of me. Like he used to.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I whisper as I look down at my taco.

“Just eat, Goldie,” he says gently. He must not realize his slipup, because he doesn’t correct himself. Neither do I. “Then we’ll go over the article.”

I nod, unsure of how to respond. My emotions are jumbled up in my chest. It’s as though each one is a scene I’m trying to turn into a book, but I don’t know how they fit together. Nothing makes sense anymore. The plot I was following has twisted one too many times. I’m Alice, stumbling around Wonderland not sure which way is up.

We eat in silence. I think of all the meals we’ve shared over the years. None of them felt quite as heavy as this one. As I’m finishing my last taco, Jameson slides another toward me. I press my lips together tight. If I had eaten more today, maybe I would have attempted to turn him down. Instead, I just accept the kind gesture. As I finish eating, Jameson writes in a small black notebook I’ve never seen before. I open my mouth to ask what he’s doing but realize that it’s none of my business. Him bringing me food already crossed the line. I don’t need to travel further away from it.

“I was thinking we could combine our perspectives in the form of vignettes,” I say as I wipe my hands with a few of the napkins.

Jameson looks up from his notebook, blinking as if he’d forgotten for a moment where he was and why we were here together.

“Vignettes,” he echoes. “What do you mean?”

“We could start off with your perspective of the game. Make it first person, almost like a novel,” I say, the words coming quicker as I recall my excitement about the idea. “Then flash to my outsider perspective. We could switch back and forth. During big moments like the shot from Conrad, you could narrate the moment, and then I’ll cut in with a quote from our interview. By the end, we’ll have told a whole story, from multiple points of view.”

Jameson’s brow creases and my heart sinks. I had been so excited about the idea that my disdain toward working together had faded to tolerance.

“You don’t like it.” I’m unable to keep the defeat from my voice.

He shakes his head. “No, I do. It’s just, that sort of style isn’t my strong suit. You’re the novelist.”

My heart—the traitorous organ—warms at his words. A novelist. I’m not even close, but the sentiment is nice. Even if it’s coming from someone I’m supposed to hate.

“I can help,” I offer. “But I think this would be a fresh way to write an article. Something to make us stand out.”

“I’ll try,” he replies with a hesitant smile. “But don’t be disappointed when you read my work and it’s awful.”

I roll my eyes.

“I’ve read all your articles. None of them have been awful.”

His eyes light with pleasant surprise.

“All of them?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. That was not a confession I planned to utter tonight. But now I have, so there’s no going back.

I shrug one shoulder in feigned nonchalance.

“You’re my direct competition. It would be foolish not to read your work.”

Jameson’s gaze is too keen for my liking. He’s known me for too long. He can see right through me.

“Have you read all the reporters’ articles? They’re your competition, too.”

“Of course,” I lie.

Jameson swipes a hand over his mouth, barely disguising the smile tugging at his lips.