Chapter 9 Try
Chapter nine
Try
Jameson Sinclair
My phone starts to buzz in my hoodie pocket as I’m approaching the doors to the Communications building where the newsroom is. I pull it out and smile a little when I see my mom’s face on the screen.
“Hey, Mom.” I answer and tug open the door.
Warm air bathes my cold skin.
“Hey, sweetie!” my mom chirps. “I’ve got your dad here, too. I snuck into his office to bring him coffee.”
About once a week my mom sneaks into my dad’s accounting firm to bring him coffee and steal a few minutes of his time. In reality, everyone knows she goes there and no one would stop her.
“Hey, Dad,” I say as I lean against the wall outside of the newsroom.
I can see Marigold’s red hair through the window.
My chest aches as the memory from two nights ago resurfaces.
I shouldn’t have said most of what I did, but I’ve gotten so tired of keeping it all inside.
After months of waiting for her to thaw, to be ready to hear me out, she’s still as icy as ever. I can’t take it.
“I’ve got your latest headline on my desk,” my dad booms. “It’s great, as per usual. Not surprised it’s on the cover.”
My mouth tugs up at the edges.
“Thanks, Dad. I worked hard on it.”
I tend to second-guess every word I write, so it takes forever just to get a first draft done. Then, I edit it ruthlessly before sending it to one of the paper’s editors.
“We read one of your articles every week in my book club, you know. Everyone says you’re an amazing reporter!” Mom chimes in.
Her words warm my chest. My parents have always been supportive of my endeavors, whether it be hockey or journalism, but it’s nice to have reassurance. Especially lately, when I’ve struggled so much with my past decisions.
“Aren’t you glad you took that internship?” Dad asks. “I told you it would pay off.”
I rake a hand through my hair and grimace. My parents pushed me to apply. I never told them about my deal with Marigold, worried they would view her differently if they didn’t see it the way she and I did.
“Yeah, it was a great opportunity,” I say stiffly.
There’s no doubt the internship helped my future on the paper, but at what cost?
When I’d applied, it was during a time when I wasn’t thinking straight.
After a certain night I promised not to talk about, Marigold was pulling away.
Dodging my calls and acting strange when I’d come by her house.
I wanted to talk about what happened, but she made me swear to be silent.
It was maddening. Then, my parents found out about the internship and asked me why I hadn’t told them about it.
I was at a loss on how to explain and frustrated by everything going on, so when they sat me down at my laptop and urged me to apply … I did. On the due date.
Every day after that I told myself to tell Marigold.
To just blurt out the words and deal with the fallout they would bring.
But then she started warming up to me again.
As if the moment between us hadn’t happened and we were back to being two best friends headed to college.
So I decided to wait until I got rejected, sure that would be what happened. Only, it didn’t.
“How’s Goldie?” Mom asks, as though she can read my mind. “I read her article this week too. She’s a brilliant little thing. I don’t know where she comes up with those metaphors of hers!”
“She’s good,” I reply. Marigold turns to the right and says something, then laughs. She’s probably talking to Paisley. “We’re working together on a series of articles on the hockey team, so you’ll be able to see both of our names on the same byline soon.”
“Oh, how exciting!” I hear my mom clap. “Isn’t that exciting, Stan?”
“It is,” Dad intones. “I’m proud of both of you. Make sure you tell her that. And I want to see both of you at the house for dinner soon. It’s been too long.”
I close my eyes. If things don’t change soon, I’m going to have to tell them that Marigold and I are on the outs.
The main reason I haven’t is that I thought it would create unnecessary awkwardness once things were fine again.
I’ve been lying and making up excuses on her behalf for months.
They haven’t mentioned reaching out to her themselves, but if they have, Marigold must be keeping up the charade too.
“Yes, sir,” I say quietly. “I should go. I’ve got to work on that article.”
“Have fun, sweetie! Love you! Tell Goldie we say hi and we love her too.” Mom’s smile can be heard through the phone.
“Love you both. I will.”
I hang up after my dad’s goodbye and pocket my phone once more. Then I push off the wall and head inside the newsroom. There’s no sense standing in the hall. It’s not like I’ll be able to get out all of my overthinking before I enter. I might as well be productive while I question my life choices.
“Look who decided to show up,” Paisley teases as I drop my backpack on my desk. “What made you so late, James?”
“I’m not late. This time period is optional.”
Technically speaking, anyway. Everyone knows Charlie thinks less of people who don’t show up for the work hours he sets.
Even if you get your work done, he thinks being in the newsroom together creates a camaraderie that can be felt through the paper.
The look Paisley gives me says she’s thinking about Charlie’s sentiments.
“You missed Marigold getting praised by Charlie,” Paisley informs me.
“Paisley,” Marigold scolds.
“What did he say?” I ask.
Marigold turns her attention toward me. The expression she wears is one that tells me she doesn’t even want to look at me right now, much less talk to me.
“I emailed him Conrad’s interview from the other night to see if it was the direction he was thinking. He told me it was a fresh perspective and he was looking forward to seeing the entire article.”
“That is not what he said.” Paisley earns herself a look of censure from Marigold. “He told her that her rapport with Conrad was a lesson on witty banter. And that the entire interview was a breath of fresh air.”
Marigold’s face turns the shade of her hair. I tip my head to the side.
“I figured you’d want to rub something like that in my face,” I say.
She shrugs. “It’s not like it would make a difference. You get praise like that every other day.”
I shake my head. “Not like that. Did you send me the notes, too? I’d like to read them so I know the tone for my portion.”
Putting my writing next to Marigold’s is going to make me want to set my laptop on fire, but it’s the only way to make progress on this article.
Journalism has always come easy to her, though it’s not her true passion.
She wants to be a novelist, but she rarely admits it to anyone.
I’ve only ever seen a few pages of one of her works in progress, and she spent the entire time on pins and needles.
“Yeah, I emailed it to you,” she replies, averting her gaze to her laptop.
I open my computer and click my inbox. After scanning a few lines, my jaw clenches.
It hurts to read a transcript of my best friend laughing and joking with another guy about hockey, the sport I taught her about.
Conrad compliments her knowledge a little ways through the interview, and she jokingly asks what it says about her that she’s drawn to the most violent sports.
No mention of the hours we spent watching games together with my family.
Or how she used to sit in the arena reading her book while I did drills.
“What do you think?” Marigold asks, making me jerk my head up.
She’s looking at me with uncharacteristic vulnerability. I take a deep breath and try to make sure my emotions don’t leak into my response.
“I think Charlie was right about everything he said. If I were him, I’d take me off the article and let you handle it.”
Marigold looks to be holding back a smile.
“You’re just saying that because you don’t want to work together.”
“Is that what you think? That I don’t want to work together?” I ask her.
Marigold’s expression shutters at my question. Paisley is watching us, her eyes flicking back and forth.
“I try not to think about you at all,” she says, her tone a little too high to be casual.
I nod and look back at my laptop like I’m done with the conversation, but I’m biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Because if there’s one thing I know for certain about words, it’s that the smallest ones sometimes make the greatest impact.
Try.
Marigold said she tries not to think about me. And that means something. I just have to hope it means something good.