Page 56 of All That Glitters

“Fine, we can make the list. But only if you answer this: is Jameson on it?”

I glare at her, but she’s unfazed. Figures. Jasmine has been secretly team reconciliation. I know when it comes down to it, she’ll be on my side, but she thinks I should talk things through with Jameson. I’m not ready to do that. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be. Even though it’s months later, everything feels as raw as the day I found out about the internship.

Last night comes to mind. He’d said he cared about me, even though I knew I’d upset him. That sort of notion is hard for me to digest. Growing up, my parents would argue; then they’d spend the next few days, sometimes weeks, being passive-aggressive toward one another, sometimes dragging me into things or taking out their pent-up frustration on me in the form of loud lectures about expectations I wasn’t meeting. The expectations were usually ones I was unaware existed, but that didn’t matter to them.

“I guess I don’t want to throw rocks at him,” I admit. “But if we had a list of friends, I wouldn’t put him on it yet either.”

Jasmine raises her brows. “Should I point out that you said yet?”

I scowl down at my now-lukewarm coffee mug.

“No.”

“I’m writing down the nurse I met yesterday during my volunteer hours. She was heinous,” Saylor says, switching the subject back to the list. I give her a grateful smile. “Mean girls should not go into the medical field.”

“Can you put down my Business Ethics professor?” Aurora asks. “I think if a rock hit him, it might help him teach better.”

We start listing out people and airing our grievances. Eventually, we end up just laughing and sharing stories from our week, the sparkly list of names forgotten. It lifts my mood, which is exactly what I need to ease the sting of last night’s failure.

If only being around my friends could help me forget about Jameson. Each time we share a story, I keep thinking of how he would react. It emphasizes the growing hollow ache that I’ve felt since last summer.

I’ve heard it said that time heals all wounds. But how long will it take before I stop feeling like I’m bleeding out every time I take a breath?

Chapter twenty-seven

Tomorrow

Marigold Belmore

I really wish I could have a warning before my mother texts. Though if I had one, I’d probably spend the entire time leading up to her message worrying about what she was going to say, so I suppose it wouldn’t help. My stomach folds and twists itself into knots as I walk into the building where the newsroom is located. The text came through while I was walking here, but I figure I should be someplace private before I open it. I never know what she might say.

I head into the nearest bathroom and lock myself in a stall before reading.

Mom: One of my coworkers said she saw you got an article on the front page of the paper. Good job! When I looked it up, it said you and Jameson wrote it. I thought you weren’t friends anymore?

My heart starts to race as I type out a response. In the thick of my pain, I told my mom that Jameson hurt me and we wouldn’t be hanging out anymore. She’d smiled so big and told me she was proud of me for standing up for myself. It was one of the few times outside of an academic accomplishment that she’d told me she was proud of me.

Marigold: Thanks, Mom! The editor in chief assigned us to the project, that’s why we’re working together.

Her response is faster than normal. Though that tends to be the case when she’s in charge of the conversation. If I reach out to her, I’m ignored for days, or weeks.

Mom: Why don’t you talk to the editor about writing something by yourself? You’re never going to get attention by being the second name.

I close my eyes and grip my phone. She can’t ever just be happy for me. I’d bet my entire scholarship fund that Jameson’s parents were ecstatic when they saw the paper. Which they would have gotten themselves because they definitely subscribe to it, and not because some random person at their job asked about it.

Marigold: I’ll see about it. How are you and Dad?

I wait a minute, watching for a bubble to indicate her response. Nothing. She got what she wanted, and now she’s done. I shove my phone into my messenger bag as tears sting my tired eyes. Endless hours studying and writing until my hands cramp. Taking harder classes than I need to. Drinking too much coffee and not sleeping enough. All for what? One good job laced with judgement?

I wash my hands vigorously, then bend down and splash water on my face. It’s foolish to be upset. That wasn’t even the worst thing she’s said. Not even close, really. But it feels like I’ve been carrying around a thousand pounds and she waltzed in and threw a piece of gum on top. On a normal day it would be manageable, but right now I’m on the edge of collapse.

My hand fumbles for a paper towel until I grasp one and yank it out of the dispenser. I pat my face dry, crumple the damp paper, and meet my gaze in the mirror. Immediately, I wince at the sight of my mother’s eyes. Her hair in waves down my back. How many other ways do I resemble her?

I plop my bag on the counter and frantically comb through the contents for my black pencil. Once I have it, I twist my hair up into the bun Miss Perkins taught me how to do in middle school. The sight of my hair in a style my mother would never do eases some of the tightness in my throat.

Still, I avoid meeting her—my—gaze again and leave the bathroom with my head down. I stay that way all the way to my desk in the newsroom. I’m early as usual, so there are not many other people here. No Paisley, and surprisingly, no Jameson. That’s for the best. They’d both see right through me. At the very least Jameson would.

I drop my bag on the floor and slump into my desk chair. My eyebrows pull together when I notice a book on my desk. I pull it toward me, my heart jumping at the note stuck to the cover. Though I don’t need to, I remove the paper to reveal the title.