Chapter 12 Never Believe Me
Chapter twelve
Never Believe Me
Marigold Belmore
My leg bounces beneath the library table.
Any minute now, Jameson is going to round the corner.
He’ll sit across from me, and I’ll have to come up with enough words to hold a conversation.
Usually, that wouldn’t be hard for me, but after the incident in the newsroom, I’m worried I’ll be tongue-tied again.
I glance at my cup of coffee. I’d downed half on my way here, but I’m starting to feel the negative effects of that decision.
When was the last time I ate? My brows scrunch together.
Days and nights are starting to blur with my lack of a sleep schedule.
I check the time on my phone. Five minutes until seven.
Maybe I can snag a protein bar from a vending machine.
The very thought of an artificially flavored bar of chalk makes my stomach turn, but something is better than nothing.
I should have stopped by the apartment to get one of Jasmine’s meal preps, but I checked my calendar of upcoming deadlines and immediately got sucked into trying to lessen the long list.
I riffle through my bag for my wallet and tuck it into the pocket of my hoodie, then stand, ignoring the way the room spins.
Maybe I’ll get a bar and some pretzels. And water.
I frown as I realize I left my reusable water bottle at home this morning, which means I haven’t had so much as a sip today.
“I’m a wreck,” I mumble, and push my chair back.
I hurry around the corner and run straight into someone. My already precarious balance is thrown off, making me sway. Without thinking, I grip the sweatshirt of the person I’ve run into. A strong arm wraps around my back to keep me upright.
“I’m so—” My words cut off as I tip my head back and meet an all-too-familiar pair of brown eyes. “Jameson,” I whisper.
His mouth hitches up on one side.
“Did you decide to bail on me?”
There’s mirth in his expression, as if he’s amused by the idea of me running away after inviting him. I swallow, my throat dry. I haven’t been this close to him since that dreadful, perfect night.
“I–um–I was going to get a snack from the vending machine,” I stutter.
He holds up a paper bag with the hand not secured around my waist.
“I brought food. Street tacos, with extra cilantro and hot sauce.”
It occurs to me that my hands are still clenched in the fabric of his sweatshirt. I flatten them, but that only makes the tingling sensation against my palms worse. The fog around my brain starts to clear, and I push against his chest, getting him to release his hold so I can stumble backward.
“You didn’t need to get food.”
Jameson shrugs, eying me like he knows just how much being close to him affected me.
“I was hungry, and I figured you might be too.”
He walks over to the table where all my stuff is splayed out and sets the bag down. My stomach growls at the thought of one of my favorite foods. It sounds much better than flavored chalk, that’s for sure. I’m too hungry to negotiate with my pride, so I walk back to the table.
“How much was it? I’ll pay you back.”
Jameson shoots me a look that says that’s not happening. We never split things while we were friends. We’d just get things for each other and say it would even out eventually. A part of me always felt like Jameson did more for me than I did for him, but he never made it seem that way.
He pulls out two water bottles first, then a few cups of salsa, before dumping a mixture of foil-wrapped tacos and a stack of slightly soiled napkins onto the center of the table.
My mouth waters as I take my seat. I grab a taco and a container of hot sauce.
As I’m unfolding the foil, Jameson wordlessly slides two more tacos toward me, along with the rest of the sauce. He never liked it.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, looking up at him through my lashes.
He just nods and unwraps his taco. There are only three on his side, which is unusual for him. I frown. I’ve seen him eat six easily in one sitting.
“Did you bring this for yourself and decide to half it with me?” I ask him.
He finishes chewing before replying, “I wouldn’t have gotten hot sauce if that were the case.”
“Then why did you get so few?” I ask as he finishes off the other half of his taco in one huge bite.
He wipes his mouth with a napkin. While I wait for him to reply, I take a bite. It’s so delicious I could cry. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to eat until tasting this. I might be the one who needs more than three tacos.
“Sometimes I wonder if you should be a detective instead of a writer,” he says, making me smirk. “Since I know you’re not going to let this go, I ate not long ago after practice with Nash, so I’m not that hungry.”
“Then why…” I trail off. “Oh.”
For me. He knew I’d need to eat, but got something for himself so it would look less like he was taking care of me. Like he used to.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I whisper as I look down at my taco.
“Just eat, Goldie,” he says gently. He must not realize his slipup, because he doesn’t correct himself. Neither do I. “Then we’ll go over the article.”
I nod, unsure of how to respond. My emotions are jumbled up in my chest. It’s as though each one is a scene I’m trying to turn into a book, but I don’t know how they fit together.
Nothing makes sense anymore. The plot I was following has twisted one too many times.
I’m Alice, stumbling around Wonderland not sure which way is up.
We eat in silence. I think of all the meals we’ve shared over the years.
None of them felt quite as heavy as this one.
As I’m finishing my last taco, Jameson slides another toward me.
I press my lips together tight. If I had eaten more today, maybe I would have attempted to turn him down.
Instead, I just accept the kind gesture.
As I finish eating, Jameson writes in a small black notebook I’ve never seen before.
I open my mouth to ask what he’s doing but realize that it’s none of my business.
Him bringing me food already crossed the line.
I don’t need to travel further away from it.
“I was thinking we could combine our perspectives in the form of vignettes,” I say as I wipe my hands with a few of the napkins.
Jameson looks up from his notebook, blinking as if he’d forgotten for a moment where he was and why we were here together.
“Vignettes,” he echoes. “What do you mean?”
“We could start off with your perspective of the game. Make it first person, almost like a novel,” I say, the words coming quicker as I recall my excitement about the idea.
“Then flash to my outsider perspective. We could switch back and forth. During big moments like the shot from Conrad, you could narrate the moment, and then I’ll cut in with a quote from our interview.
By the end, we’ll have told a whole story, from multiple points of view. ”
Jameson’s brow creases and my heart sinks. I had been so excited about the idea that my disdain toward working together had faded to tolerance.
“You don’t like it.” I’m unable to keep the defeat from my voice.
He shakes his head. “No, I do. It’s just, that sort of style isn’t my strong suit. You’re the novelist.”
My heart—the traitorous organ—warms at his words. A novelist. I’m not even close, but the sentiment is nice. Even if it’s coming from someone I’m supposed to hate.
“I can help,” I offer. “But I think this would be a fresh way to write an article. Something to make us stand out.”
“I’ll try,” he replies with a hesitant smile. “But don’t be disappointed when you read my work and it’s awful.”
I roll my eyes.
“I’ve read all your articles. None of them have been awful.”
His eyes light with pleasant surprise.
“All of them?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. That was not a confession I planned to utter tonight. But now I have, so there’s no going back.
I shrug one shoulder in feigned nonchalance.
“You’re my direct competition. It would be foolish not to read your work.”
Jameson’s gaze is too keen for my liking. He’s known me for too long. He can see right through me.
“Have you read all the reporters’ articles? They’re your competition, too.”
“Of course,” I lie.
Jameson swipes a hand over his mouth, barely disguising the smile tugging at his lips.
“I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.” He quotes The Outsiders, one of his favorites. We’ve both reread it several times.
I give him a flat look, which sets his grin free. The sight makes my breath catch, and it takes all my willpower to turn my attention to my notes for the article.
I miss that smile. I wish I didn’t. But I do.
“What? You aren’t going to at least say where the quote is from?” he teases.
“No,” I grumble, and he laughs, which only makes my predicament worse. Jameson’s laugh is rare, but it’s the infectious sort, too. The kind that compels you to join in. My lips twitch.
“Careful there, Goldie. That was almost a smile.”
I shake my head, keeping my gaze on my notes, though I’m not comprehending a thing.
My heart is skipping in my chest like a little girl playing double Dutch.
And I hate it. I hate how easily he can make me feel light again.
Make me forget what he did, what happened between us.
I need to remember the pain. If I don’t, I’ll end up more heartbroken than I am now.
It’s one thing to lose our friendship. It’s another to lose my heart entirely.