Page 39 of All That Glitters

She looks down, her lips pressed together. I think she’s fighting a smile, but she could be upset too. Either reaction, I can handle, because I have hope again.

“Emily Dickinson,” she mutters. The source of the quote.

My heart soars like the bird Dickinson alluded to in her poem. I can see a light at the end of this dark and dreary tunnel. One that I’ll keep running toward, wishing with all my might that it doesn’t signify the end, but a new beginning.

Chapter nineteen

Shattered

Marigold Belmore

“I think this is going to be a great article,” Jameson says while slicing off a bite of our shared pancake stack.

I nod my agreement. “I think so too.”

After the ice cream incident with Sue the waitress, Jameson moved right into the article, which surprised me. I was grateful, but I’m still waiting for him to bring it back up. There’s no way he leaves it alone.

I wish I wouldn’t have asked her about the drinks. When I got in, it felt like I’d stepped back in time. And not just because the restaurant looks like an old train station. I remembered all of our good times at Kimmy’s and realized it had been so long since I’d had an ice cream float. I wasn’t sure if I should get it, and the diner being out of ice cream made it feel as though fate told me no. But then Sue brought it up in front of Jameson. So it seems like fate is as indecisive as I am.

Now we’re done with our article aside from finishing touches, but my coffee is still warm and the booth is cozy. Rain streams down the window next to us. I don’t want to leave, which scares me. I should want to. But it’s as if my soul knows the pieces of it that have been missing are within reach, and it doesn’t want to be parted from them again.

“What do you think of the place?” Jameson gestures with his fork.

I adjust to crisscross my legs in the booth, but my knee brushes Jameson’s leg.

“Sorry,” I say, and start to move, but he shakes his head.

“It’s no big deal. I’m invading your space.” His smile is soft and good-natured. He seems as relaxed as I feel.

I let my knee rest against his shin. My stomach turns into a butterfly exhibit. There was a time when I wouldn’t question touching him. I’d lean against his shoulder at the movies, grab his hand to drag him where I wanted to go, and push his chest when he was being obstinate. Now, each brush feels charged, and I can’t tell if the energy is positive or negative.

“It’s good,” I answer in response to his earlier question. “Not as good as Kimmy’s, though that could be the nostalgia talking.”

I grab my coffee cup and cradle it between my hands, letting the ceramic warm my palms. The coffee is basic, and a touch burnt like all diner coffee seems to be, but paired with chocolate chip pancakes it’s perfect.

“I think I could be at a five-star restaurant and still wish I was in that corner booth, so I agree with you,” Jameson says.

I grip my mug a little tighter. Memories spring up like weeds in the garden of forgetfulness I’ve been carefully cultivating since last summer.

“Have you been back?” I ask him, though I know I shouldn’t. No matter how he answers, it’s bound to hurt.

He looks down at his own mug of coffee.

“No.”

I draw in a slow breath, trying—and failing—to not think about the implications of that.

“Have you?” he asks softly.

I shake my head, then take a sip of coffee to look casual, and not as though I just revealed a tender bruise on my heart.

“Do you think Amos is wondering where we went?” Jameson asks, and I can’t help but laugh.

“I think he’s thanking the Lord that we haven’t come back.”

Jameson chuckles. “He loved us.”

“We loved him, because he tolerated our antics,” I correct. “That grouch is definitely glad to be rid of us.”