Chapter 6 Pinky Promise
Chapter six
Pinky Promise
Jameson Sinclair
I’m not a stalker. If someone saw me waiting for Marigold to leave the library, then watched me follow her back to her building …
they might disagree. But opinions are subjective by nature.
So I’m choosing to ignore those opinions in favor of my correct one.
And I’m of the opinion that walking Marigold home from a distance does not equate to stalking.
Up ahead, Marigold turns the corner down a path in between two buildings.
The winter wind bites at my face and tousles my hair.
It’s going to be a long, cold walk back to my dorm.
Marigold tends to stay in the library until it closes at 11 p.m. Sometimes later, if she can manage to avoid the librarian’s attention.
That makes for late nights for me, especially after a long day of classes and practice and homework.
But it’s worth it if I can see to it that she’s safe.
No matter what happens between us, I’ll never stop looking out for her.
I clench my hands in the pocket of my Thrashers Hockey hoodie.
I shouldn’t have quoted Julius Caesar earlier.
But it felt like a bit of us was alive again.
Like I had my Goldie back. My chest burns as though I’ve done one too many laps around the ice.
The hurt in her expression when I spoke the line tore me in half.
What was supposed to be a happy surprise ended up being Brutus’s dagger.
Marigold slips into her apartment building.
I don’t follow any farther than that. I only did that once, when she brought up the elevators to her building being broken to Paisley.
This irrational worry that some creep would attack her in the stairwell wouldn’t leave my mind.
That would probably push me over the line into stalker territory, but as long as she’s safe I’ll take any criticism in stride.
Not that anyone is going to know, because I’ve never told a soul.
Her roommate Jasmine might be suspicious of me after I returned Marigold’s book last semester, but that’s all she has on me.
I turn around and head to the athletic dormitory on the other side of campus.
By the time I make it inside my dorm I’m freezing and exhausted.
So naturally, Nash is awake and smiling at me like he’s had five shots of espresso.
Knowing that he doesn’t consume caffeine outside of the occasional piece of chocolate only makes his energy level more annoying.
“How was the library?” he asks, chipper as ever.
He’s sprawled out on our couch with the latest Pokémon game on the TV. When we first met, he told me he played video games. I pictured Call of Duty or Fortnite. Stuff my other friends played growing up. Nope. He says the point of video games is to de-stress, and those games do the opposite.
“Fine.”
I drop my backpack on the floor by the door, then slip off my sneakers.
“Did you see Marigold?”
“No.”
“Are you lying to me?”
I glare at him in reply and walk into the kitchen.
Our shared suite is bigger than most dorms, in that it has a living room and kitchen, but it’s not big enough to be a true apartment either.
You can have a conversation standing at the stove with someone in the living room without raising your voice.
“Best friends don’t lie to each other,” Nash teases, turning around on the couch to face me.
“I thought Porter was your best friend,” I say as I put water in our electric kettle.
“Make me a cup of chocolate mint, will you?” Nash asks, so I fill the kettle higher. “And he’s my best friend, too. You can have more than one.”
An image of Marigold holding out her pinky to me in the third grade comes to my mind.
“Promise I’ll be your only best friend forever,” she commands.
I laugh but wrap my pinky around hers. “I promise.”
She’d always been the possessive type. We had other friends, of course, but she made sure they knew who came first. A headache starts building behind my eyes.
“I saw her,” I say instead of continuing the ridiculous conversation about best friends.
“It didn’t go well.”
“I resent the lack of question in your voice,” I grumble as I pull out our box of teas.
Growing up, my mom made tea all the time. I got used to having it on a daily basis and kept it up even after leaving home. Marigold used to say that tea was for people too weak to drink coffee. But she’d still try the new blends my mom bought, just to make her smile.
I put a bag of chamomile in one mug and a chocolate mint in the other. Even though I’m exhausted, I have a feeling my jumbled thoughts are liable to keep me up without a little help to calm me down.
“When I saw her outside the arena, she looked madder than a hornet, so it’s hard for me to imagine that changing within just a few hours.”
I turn around and lean against the cabinets while waiting for the kettle to boil.
“I thought you left to go on a date.”
Nash grins. “No, I left because you were ready to wring my neck. I waited to see if I could get some information out of your dear Marigold, since you’re a vault of a man.”
I run a hand through my hair and sigh.
“I told you we would talk about things. Why did you bother her? No wonder she was extra upset tonight.”
“I know better than to think you’re going to tell me everything. Not that she told me anything either. You two are peas in a very secure pod.”
I give him an unamused look. The kettle beeps, so I turn to fill our mugs.
“I can leave her alone if it really bothers you. I just thought maybe if I knew more I could help. Be your wingman.” Nash’s tone turns a touch more sincere.
I set his mug down on the end table beside his arm, then head to sit on the opposite side of the couch. One of the throw pillows Nash’s mom got us smooshes under my weight.
“It’s fine, I guess. But there’s nothing you can do to help. I made a mistake, a big one, and she used it as a reason to put distance between us after a … moment.”
“That explanation is clear as mud, but as long as you didn’t cheat on her, I’ll help you get her back.”
My head rears back, almost hitting the wall behind the couch.
“First, we’ve never dated. Second, if we did, I would never cheat on her. I love her.”
The words come as easy as breathing. Marigold is my person. I know it the same way I know my name. It was taught to me—though I can’t pinpoint when or where—and it’s so ingrained in my soul that when I hear her name I turn as if it’s my own.
“So you’ve never dated her, but you love her, and she hates you.” Nash nods. “You weren’t kidding about this being complicated.”
I breathe in the floral steam of my tea. It doesn’t calm me as well as I hoped it would.
“I might explain more one day, but tonight I need to sleep,” I say and push myself up off of the couch.
“All right. See you tomorrow.”
I trudge to my room, grateful that Nash didn’t push me more.
As tired as I am, I might have said too much.
If he knew the exact circumstances, he’d be more motivated than ever to push Marigold and I to each other.
And I don’t want that. If Marigold ever lets me get close to her again, I want it to be because she chose to, not because one of my friends played matchmaker.
My mug clinks onto my bedside table next to an ever-present stack of books.
At the bottom of the stack is a paperback that makes my heart constrict.
My annotated and tabbed copy of Julius Caesar holds up the rest of my current reads.
After our falling out, I read it in hopes that she would call or text or show up at my house.
As if there was some string that tied the pages of her copy to mine, and she’d know I was reading it for her.
I pull my journal off the top of the stack and slide the pen out of the loop on the side.
Though I’m a writer, I was never big on journaling until after my friendship with Marigold ended.
Now, I write daily, if not more than once.
After I fill a page, I set it back down and pick up my tea again, then lean against my headboard.
I should change, but all I want to do is sit on my bed until my eyes get too tired to stay open.
Half a cup of tea later, my wish comes true. I feel my eyes start to droop, so I set my mug aside and slide beneath my comforter.
I fall asleep staring at the spine of Julius Caesar, wondering if my betrayal hurt Marigold as badly as Brutus hurt Caesar.