Page 26 of All That Glitters

“I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.” He quotes The Outsiders, one of his favorites. We’ve both reread it several times.

I give him a flat look, which sets his grin free. The sight makes my breath catch, and it takes all my willpower to turn my attention to my notes for the article.

I miss that smile. I wish I didn’t. But I do.

“What? You aren’t going to at least say where the quote is from?” he teases.

“No,” I grumble, and he laughs, which only makes my predicament worse. Jameson’s laugh is rare, but it’s the infectious sort, too. The kind that compels you to join in. My lips twitch.

“Careful there, Goldie. That was almost a smile.”

I shake my head, keeping my gaze on my notes, though I’m not comprehending a thing. My heart is skipping in my chest like a little girl playing double Dutch. And I hate it. I hate how easily he can make me feel light again. Make me forget what he did, what happened between us. I need to remember the pain. If I don’t, I’ll end up more heartbroken than I am now.

It’s one thing to lose our friendship. It’s another to lose my heart entirely.

Chapter thirteen

The Black Pencil

Jameson Sinclair

Marigold twists her red hair up into a bun, then reaches into her bag for what I know will be a black pencil. Some might see it and think that she reached for the pencil by chance. That it was a random choice in a haphazard attempt to get her hair off her neck. But I know better. Know her better.

In middle school, we both had an English teacher, Miss Perkins, who wore her hair up with a black pencil sticking out of it. Marigold admired her a lot, and they grew close over the course of the year and stayed that way even after she wasn’t our teacher anymore. One day, I saw Marigold with the pencil in her hair. She beamed at me when I asked about it and said Miss Perkins had taught her how to do it during lunch period. Ever since then, Marigold has carried around an unsharpened black pencil for this purpose alone.

A part of me has wondered for a while if Marigold likes the idea of taking after someone other than her mother, who also has a similar shade of hair. Sometimes her mom would come to school events, and any time someone mentioned them looking alike, Marigold would shrink. She tried to hide it, but we’ve never been able to hide from each other very well.

“Have you talked to Miss Perkins recently?” I ask after Marigold has secured her hair.

She looks up from the outline we’ve been working on, her expression confused. I gesture to her hair as explanation, and realization sweeps over her features, along with a soft pink blush. I suppose I outed myself as watching her, but it’s too late now to take it back.

“She messages me every now and again about the articles I’ve written.” Marigold twirls a stray curl. “Asks me when my debut novel is coming out.” A little laugh escapes her, as though the idea is preposterous.

“I’m wondering the same thing. Have you been writing?”

Marigold drops her gaze back to her laptop.

“I think we should stick to talking about the article.”

I study her expression, what I can see of it, anyway. She looks downtrodden, and tired. So tired. I relate to the feeling. If I could take away her exhaustion by doubling my own, though, I would. There’s a part of me that feels responsible for her state, but at the same time, Marigold has never been great at sleeping. I used to wake up to texts with her thoughts about whatever novel she was reading or ideas for her book. They’d have time stamps of three in the morning. But even after those late nights she never looked this down.

“We got a lot done. Maybe we should call it a night,” I suggest, hoping she’ll head back to her apartment to rest.

Now that the outline is done and a few of our sections are started, we should be able to finish up on our own, then come together again for final edits. There are still a few days left before the deadline, so we don’t need to complete it tonight.

“Okay, yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” She closes her journal and rubs her eyes. “I’ve got some other things to do anyway.”

I try to think of a way to talk her into going to bed, but if she doesn't want to talk about writing, I doubt she’ll appreciate me trying to manage her sleep schedule. Looks like it’ll be another late night for both of us.

“Mind if I work from here too?” I ask her.

She drops her hands and blinks a few times.

“That’s fine,” she answers in a tone that betrays her hesitancy.

I’ve pushed her plenty recently, so I should give her space. But I’m too worried to let her out of my sight tonight. I can’t be certain, but when she ran into me earlier, it seemed like something was off. More than the tension of being so close. I worry that she’s not taking good care of herself. Maybe it’s not my place to help, but she’s been my best friend for over a decade. I can’t stomach something happening to her.

Marigold pulls out one of the anthologies we’re studying in our Early American Literature class. She must be working on the short analysis essay that’s due tomorrow. I finished mine yesterday. In fact, I’m caught up on all of my work right now. Anything I do tonight will put me ahead. Judging by the despondent look Marigold gives her laptop, she’s just opened up an empty Word document. I’d help her, if I thought I could. She’s better at this than me and works well under pressure. I’d only slow her down.