Page 57 of All That Glitters

Julius Caesar.

From the looks of the edges, it’s been annotated. I flip open to the midpoint, and a laugh escapes me at his critical commentary in the margins. When I let the pages waterfall back to the beginning, I catch a note on the internal title page.

I’ll always read Shakespeare for you. —J

My throat constricts. Everything I’ve been holding in, including my tears, breaks through the dam. I swipe at my cheeks and suck in a breath, trying to calm myself.

“Marigold?” Paisley’s concerned voice makes me look up from the book.

I quickly open a desk drawer and shove it inside, snapping the drawer shut after.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, hurrying around my desk to kneel beside my chair. Her floral dress pools around her on the floor.

I search for a way to answer her and come up short.

“I think—” I clear my throat. “I’m not feeling very well.”

Paisley frowns and reaches up to place a cool palm on my forehead.

“You do feel a little warm.”

Crying tends to make my face feel hot, so that’s not surprising.

“I’ll walk you back to your dorm. You should rest,” Paisley says.

I shake my head. There’s too much work to be done to leave when I’m not really sick.

“No, I’m okay. If anything it’s just a little cold.”

Paisley grabs my hand in my lap and squeezes it.

“You’ve been burning the candle at both ends. I think you need a break.”

I muster up what I hope is a reassuring smile.

“I’m okay,” I lie. “I’ll finish this work hour, then rest.”

“Marigold, I love you, which is why I’m going to be honest with you: you look awful. I can tell how little you’ve been sleeping. You look like you’re made of shadows.”

I force a laugh. “Are you sure you aren’t a writer? That was a good metaphor.”

She gives me a pointed look. “I’m serious.”

I squeeze her hand.

“I know you are, but I’m all right. I’ve got a headache, that’s all.”

Her eyes narrow. “You said you thought it might be a cold.”

“Headaches are a cold symptom.” I pull my hand away and turn back toward my desk. “I’ll work for a little while, and then I’ll go straight to bed.”

Maybe. Depends on how many of my to-do list items are flashing red when I open up my laptop in a minute.

“You better. You can’t keep this up. Eventually, something has to break.” Her words make my chest pinch with anxiety. “I don’t want that something to be you.”

Me either. But I feel as though my fate is sealed. I’m a train on a track headed toward my downfall. I can’t change my direction, only the speed at which I barrel toward the end. And lately it’s hard to tell whether sleep slows down the train or speeds it up. If I rest, I feel more clearheaded. But I wake up behind, so my stress ticks higher. I can’t win.

“I’ll do better,” I tell her, and feel my stomach drop with the lie. I’m in no position to make promises.