Chapter 5 Invasion
Chapter five
Invasion
Marigold Belmore
I storm out of the arena, plumes of anger pouring off me.
Who is he to bring up the past like that?
As if the memories don’t feel like a thousand-pound weight on my chest every second of every day.
As if just looking at him doesn’t dig up all the hurt I’ve been burying since last summer.
He doesn’t get to talk about middle school like we’re still friends.
Not when he threw our friendship away like last week’s newspaper.
“Hey, Red, got a sec?” Nash’s voice makes me stop my parking lot rampage and turn around. The blond hockey player pushes off the wall he was leaning on and saunters over.
“I thought you had a date to get to,” I say skeptically.
He shrugs. “Maybe I have a little more time than I let on. I tease Sinclair, but I don’t wanna push him too far. He’s got that nickname for a reason.”
I bob my head, though the last thing I want to do is talk about Jameson’s hockey skills.
He’s a very physical player. Always has been, even when we were kids.
And according to Nash earlier, Jameson has earned the moniker Sin Bin Sinclair on account of how many times he gets thrown in the penalty box.
I don’t know if Nash is telling the truth or not, though, because I’ve avoided watching their games.
“Is there something you need?” I ask.
“What’s your history with Sinclair?”
My brows rise at the forward question.
“You’re friends, aren’t you? Ask him.”
Nash gives me a pointed look.
“Have you ever watched those videos of guys deep-sea fishing?”
I blink in response. He chuckles.
“The fish they go for are huge and strong. Sometimes they pull a guy overboard, other times they make the boat half sink.” My eyes widen at his description.
“Getting personal information out of Jameson is like deep-sea fishing. It’s going to take all the effort you’ve got, and you’re not leaving unscathed. ”
He’d never been that way with me. Jameson was always the type to encourage talking it out.
Even after the betrayal. Even after the night where everything changed …
The moment that is the real problem lurking beneath the surface of my mind like a shark ready to attack. The memory I refuse to delve into.
I shake my head to clear the murky waters.
“And this is my problem, because …?”
Nash’s grin shifts into a smirk.
“Because judging by the far-off look you just got, he’s different with you. Or at least was.”
I cross my arms.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Jameson and I aren’t anything but reporters on the same paper.”
“That’s how you’re going to play this, hmm?” He dips his chin, taking a step back. “All right, good to know. I got your number, Red.”
I get the feeling he isn’t talking about my phone number.
My leather messenger bag bounces against my hip as I walk through the library, nursing my fourth coffee of the day.
Jasmine forced me to chug a glass of water and take one of her meal preps with me to the library before she let me near the coffee machine.
It was a good call, as much as I grumbled over it.
With how anxious I’ve felt since Jameson’s practice earlier, caffeine on an almost-empty stomach would be a recipe for disaster.
I round the corner where my favorite table is and smile when I find it empty, as well as the one next to it.
There have been a few times when Jameson has invaded the space I’ve designated as mine.
It infuriates me and guarantees that I won’t be as productive as I need to be. Which cannot happen tonight.
I’ve got an algebra quiz this week that I’m almost certain to fail, a fifteen-page report on The Count of Monte Cristo due tomorrow that I’ve barely started, and the article for the Thrasher hanging over my head.
My doom is as imminent as a blonde in a horror movie. Even so, I have to try to survive.
The sound of my messenger bag hitting the table is akin to dropping a bowling ball on hardwood.
Such is the life of an English major. I’m forever fated to have back problems because all my professors insist on students buying and annotating print copies of books.
Even if said copies are the size of my head.
I love the smell of paper as much as the next reader, but I wasn’t built for this kind of physical labor.
I set down my coffee and then dig in my bottomless pit of a bag to find the container with my dinner.
The box warms my palm as I tug it out. Jasmine heated it up for me while I changed into sweats to prepare for my library campout.
I open the container, and the scent of garlic and cheese makes my mouth water.
She made some sort of puff pastry roll that looks like a less-sad Hot Pocket.
Which is what I would be eating if it weren’t for her.
The first bite rejuvenates my soul, and I use the mood boost to venture back into the abyss and get my copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.
No colorful tabs decorate the edge. There are very few notes in the margins.
Because while I love annotating books, I rarely give myself the time when it comes to required reading.
There’s this evil part of me that refuses to do almost any of my assignments in a timely manner.
My brain has become attached to this system I’ve built for myself over the course of my academic career.
Why take the recommended two weeks for a paper when I can do it all in two days?
Or even less, if I’m feeling particularly villainous.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes.
I don’t know why I’m like this; all I know is I keep ending up in these situations.
It’s my brain’s favorite travel destination.
My souvenirs are shaking hands and a tension headache.
The latter is already winding up the back of my neck.
A loud thump startles me. My eyes fly open. Once my heart realizes there’s not a mountain lion at the table across from me, I’m able to glare at Jameson properly. I’d prefer the lion.
“Why?” I question through clenched teeth.
He pulls out his copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and holds it up. Somehow, it looks less gigantic in his hand. He drops it back onto the table, and I flinch at the sound.
“This is a library,” I hiss, as if I hadn’t just made the same sound with my bag.
There aren’t many students in this quiet corner of the library.
The pair of tables are next to a niche selection of medical journals.
Since finding this place last semester, I’ve only ever seen one person pull something from the shelves.
They put it back immediately after. Anyone else in the vicinity that could be bothered by us bowling with books have headphones on.
“Really? I thought I was in the gym,” Jameson replies dryly before sitting down in the chair that faces me. There’s a span of two whole tables between us, but he might as well have pressed his forehead to mine with how invasive his presence feels.
A memory of that night pops up unbidden. I douse it with gasoline and break out a mental flamethrower.
“I seem to recall telling you last semester that this was my section of the library,” I remind him in a terse tone.
He hadn’t been here since the new semester started. I’d thought I’d won. What a foolish thought. I’m always losing when it comes to Jameson.
“And I seem to recall telling you that you don’t own the library,” he shoots back.
“There are hundreds of other tables to choose from,” I say, exasperated. “This building has three floors, Jameson. Why do you insist on invading my territory?”
Jameson opens up his book. There’s a waterfall of black tabs, and even from here I can see the notes he took in the margins. I scowl. He’s probably here because he knows I tend to procrastinate. I bet his essay is already done and he’s showing off his annotations to bother me.
“Your territory?” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I didn’t know we’d resorted to battle.”
“Cry havoc,” I mutter, the urge to sneak in even a half quote too strong to resist.
“And let slip the dogs of war.” Jameson finishes my reference.
My stomach tightens. I look down.
“I didn’t know you read Julius Caesar," I say softly.
Jameson wasn’t a fan of Shakespeare. He rarely slogged through the text, only deigning to when it was required by a teacher or … if I asked him to. Last year before we graduated, I read the play and insisted he read it too.
“Over the summer,” he rasped.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I blink rapidly to keep them in. I won’t cry in front of him. Not again.
“Gol—Marigold,” he corrects. “Can we talk for a minute? Please,” he pleads.
I shake my head.
“We can talk about the article. That’s it. That’s—” I shake my head again. “I don’t want to talk about anything else.”
I stand up and start to shove everything back in my bag.
“Wait,” Jameson says, standing too. “Don’t. I’ll go. It’s your territory.” The last part of his sentence hitches up, like he wants to laugh but can’t bear it.
I don’t say anything. I sit back down and stare at my bag, watching him in my periphery until he leaves without another word. The entire time all I can think is:
Why?
Why would the same man who wrecked our friendship read Shakespeare even though he hates it? I angrily swipe at a rebel tear streaking down my face.
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry over him anymore. It doesn’t matter that he read the play. Such a small thing could never outweigh the way he betrayed my trust. I yank my book back out and flip it open. No more distractions.