Page 80 of All That Glitters

“Sure,” I say, and pass my desk even though everything in me is screaming to hurry up and get to work.

Once I’m out in the hall, I finally dare to face Jameson. The frustrated expression he’s wearing is no surprise.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him before he can say anything. “I know I put you in a bad position, but I didn’t want to disappoint him.”

“I don’t have time to write an article from scratch, Goldie,” Jameson says, and I can tell he’s trying to watch his tone. “I have a game tonight, remember?”

No, I’d forgotten that. Panic flares, but I stamp it out.

“It’ll be okay. I’ll write the majority of it, and you can add to it tomorrow if you have time.”

Jameson gives me a concerned look.

“You don’t have time for this either. I know you haven’t finished your paper on Russian literature yet, and there’s probably other homework on your list.”

I bristle at his words. “I can get it all done. I always do.”

He rakes a hand through his hair.

“I know you can, but you don’t have to make it harder on yourself.”

“I’m not. Look, I know you’ve been worried about me, but I’ll be okay.”

Jameson looks to the side. I can practically see the war he’s fighting in his mind, though I don’t know what it’s about. None of this is that big of a deal. I know he cares about me resting, but we’re in college. This is what being an academic is about. Losing sleep over deadlines comes with the territory.

“Journalism isn’t even your passion, Goldie. There’s no reason to work yourself into the ground for it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you chose to be on the paper because in high school our communications teacher told you that you were good at it. This comes easy to you. I have no doubt you’ll pull off this article, and it’ll be beautiful. I’m sure my contributions are what’s wrong with this in the first place.” He holds up the paper with Charlie’s critiques. “But do you ever stop and wonder why you’re bending over backward to include the paper in your schedule when your dream has always been to be a novelist?”

I shake my head. “Writing fiction is just a hobby. Journalism is a career. Why wouldn’t I choose to pursue something I’m good at?”

“You’re good at fiction writing too,” he says. “Why not go after that?”

I open my mouth, then close it and frown. He’s right that a part of the reason I kept pursuing journalism was that it came easy to me. My teacher told me I had a gift, and I believed him. Those sorts of things are like destiny. You wouldn’t advise a piano prodigy to take up violin. It makes the most sense to pursue the path of least resistance.

Jameson steps forward and reaches for my hands. I let him take them. I’m not mad at him, but I am confused. He knows me so well, it’s strange for us to not be on the same page about something as important as my future career.

“I’m going to say something hard, but I want you to know I’m saying it because I love you.” He meets my gaze with emphasis. “I think the reason you’re not pursuing your real dream is because you’re scared. Writing the kind of books you want to write will take vulnerability that journalism doesn’t require. And that makes your fear of failing worse. Writing a bad article is one thing, but putting your heart and soul into something that might not succeed is another.”

His words make me uncomfortable, like itchy grass or brand-new shoes. I tug my hands out of his.

“You’re wrong,” I tell him, though I’m not sure if he is. “I love journalism. I love observing people and seeing things in different perspectives. I love research and writing and seeing my name in the byline.”

He gives me a small smile.

“But do you love it more than writing fiction?”

Not even close. Though I wish I did. It would make throwing myself into journalism a lot less draining.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “Because this is what I’m gifted in. I’m not going to give that up because things are a little difficult right now. I’ll send you the article tomorrow. I’m sorry about missing your game, but I’ll watch it from the apartment while I write.”

His expression falls. I step forward and push on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you for looking out for me. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says softly.