Page 5 of All That Glitters

Except for one time. But there’s no way Paisley knows about that.

“Men who pine like you don't go through life without writing at least one poem,” Paisley says, like her words hold some kind of philosophical truth.

I’m not pining. But I get the feeling that Paisley won’t accept that reply.

“You have issues.”

She shrugs. “Maybe so, but at least one of them isn’t betraying my best friend.”

I give her a flat look. She grants me a saccharine smile that explains how she’s friends with Marigold. They must feed off each other’s sass.

“I can’t tell whether you hate me or you want me to be friends with Marigold again.”

“I want whatever is best for Marigold. And I think you could be good for her, if you repair what you broke.”

My heart cracks at the implications of her words. I broke Marigold. My best friend. My person. I grip the strap of my backpack.

“I don’t want things to be this way,” I confess around the lump in my throat.

Paisley nods. “I know. So what are you going to do about it?”

If only I knew a good answer to her question.

Chapter three

One Day

Marigold Belmore

I barely resist the urge to slam the door to my apartment. My roommates don’t deserve that, so instead I’ll slam my hands against my computer keyboard. Or my head against my desk. Whatever gets Jameson’s gravelly voice out of my brain.

My left shoe doesn’t slide off as easily as it should, and I let out a frustrated growl. Once I’ve tugged it off and set it beside the other girls’ shoes, I trudge into the kitchen.

“Don’t you look chipper,” Jasmine says from her spot by the stove.

Jasmine is on her way to being the best chef in the world. She’s always cooking or baking, which means she’s always feeding us roommates. If it wasn’t for her, I’d exist off of food from the café or vending machines. I never learned how to cook. My parents never taught me, and I didn’t take the time to teach myself. I can boil water and hit buttons on the microwave, but that’s it.

“You will not believe what happened today,” I grumble as I plop down at our kitchen island. My messenger bag thumps as it hits the ground.

“I’m guessing it has something to do with the Traitor?” Jasmine asks with a smirk as she fills a bowl with some kind of delicious-smelling pasta concoction.

I started referring to Jameson as the Traitor to my friends. Sometimes when one of them says it I get the tiniest twinge of guilt deep inside, but I ignore it. He betrayed me, thus the moniker.

“He got the cover story for next week’s paper, and somehow that’s not the worst part.”

Jasmine sticks a fork in the bowl, then slides it across the counter.

“Carmelized cabbage with miso butter noodles,” she says with a gesture to the bowl.

I eye it skeptically, though I know better than to question her at this point. She could tell me she was feeding me cow brains, and I’d still eat it. I take a bite and hum. The sweet and salty is perfect. And there’s nothing like pasta to comfort you after a long day.

“If I didn’t know Shep was in love with you, I’d tell you he’s dating you just for your cooking skills.”

Jasmine laughs. Last semester, she ended up falling for her chess rival, who also happens to be the star quarterback of the Thrashers football team. Shepherd is a great guy and treats Jasmine well. Which is good, because if he didn’t, he’d pay.

“I take it that means you like it?”

I nod in response, shoveling in another mouthful. Jasmine watches me for a moment. I slow down a little, knowing she’s probably wondering when the last time I ate real food was. It’s not like I want to starve myself; it just feels difficult to make time for food when my to-do list grows longer by the second. If I want to pass my classes, excel at the paper, and write, I don’t have time to breathe, much less make a meal.