Page 86 of All That Glitters

“You were right.” Her words come out in a whisper. “I-I don’t love journalism like I love fiction. But I’m good at it. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Her eyes open again. I give her a small smile.

“First of all, you’re good at writing fiction too.” Marigold’s uncertainty is painted over her expression. I continue anyway. “Second of all, it only counts if it’s something you want to do.”

It’s my turn to run my thumb over her hand.

“Not everyone has a job they love,” she points out.

“That’s true, but in that case, I think those people should have time to relax and have hobbies. Or at least get a few hours of sleep a night.” I give her a meaningful look that has her averting her gaze.

“I keep telling myself this is just what college is like,” she says with a frown. “But even though my roommates are all busy with classes and extracurriculars, they don’t seem as stressed as me. At the same time, I—” She cuts off, tears welling up in her beautiful hazel eyes.

I let go of her hand and cup her cheek, swiping the first of her tears away.

“You know you can tell me anything.”

She nods, wiping at her face with the sleeves of my old sweatshirt. I pull my hand away to give her space to breathe and recalibrate.

“Since high school—maybe even before that—I’ve been a procrastinator. Sometimes I swear I do my best work when there are minutes left on the clock and all that’s in my system is caffeine.” She laughs a little and shakes her head. “But I don’t like being that way. I don’t like the stress and always feeling behind. It makes me wonder if I could do both journalism and writing if I was just better.”

It looks like she still has more to say, so I hold off, simply nodding to let her know I’m paying attention.

“I think you were right when you said I was scared of failure.” Her voice grows small. “That fear is so deeply etched into my soul it’s like I’m wired to procrastinate until I’m forced to try. Because actually trying?” She swipes another tear away. “Terrifies me.”

“I think you can learn to overcome that fear,” I say gently. “But that will take time, and during that, I think pulling back could help alleviate some of the stress and pressure on you.”

She nods. “I know you’re right, but I hate giving up. All I can think about is what my mom will say—” Her voice cracks. “Or if she’ll stop calling, because there’s nothing about me worth showing off to her friends.”

“Goldie,” I whisper, and reach for her. “Come here.” I tug her hand toward the bed.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she protests.

“I’ll be fine—there’s plenty of room.”

She looks doubtful but squeezes in next to me anyway on the side of my good knee. I scoot over a little bit to give her room, gritting my teeth against a stab of pain. Marigold curls into my side, tucking her head against my chest, and I know in that moment that I’d go through worse pain to comfort her.

“You have spent your entire life vacillating between pleasing your parents and avoiding them at all costs,” I begin, trying to temper the blunt nature of my words with a gentle tone. “I’ve watched you push yourself beyond your limits for recognition you shouldn’t have had to beg for in the first place.”

Her shoulders shake. I feel her tears begin to soak through my hospital gown.

“I think it’s time to let go,” I whisper, and kiss the crown of her head. “They may never love you the way you deserve to be loved, but that’s their loss. You have so many people who adore you.”

I glance over at the bedside table where my belongings are. I brought my journal with me to the game, since Marigold wasn’t there. I wanted to be able to write the experience down—whether it was good or bad.

It’s hard not to let out a groan as I reach for it, but somehow I manage. I place it on her lap. My stomach swoops at the thought of sharing it with her. I knew I would someday, but it’s still nerve-wracking.

“And if you ever forget how loved you are, read this.”

Marigold lifts her head off my chest and brushes her fingertips against the black book.

“What is it?” she asks with a sniffle. “I’ve seen you writing in it occasionally.”

“I started it after our fight about the internship. I wrote in this journal every time I wanted to talk to you but couldn’t.”

June 7th

One of your favorite songs came on unexpectedly today. Okay, I put on our shared playlist. Wasn’t my smartest idea because now I’m wishing you were here in the passenger seat, turning the music up too loud because you hate how you sound when you sing. I miss your voice.