Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Featherlight
Jameson Sinclair
I don’t regret kissing Marigold. I could never regret the best night of my life. But everything after? I wish I could go back in time and change every decision from the moment we pulled apart.
I should have told her I loved her.
Ice sprays as I turn fast and push off to skate to the opposite side of the rink.
When she made me promise not to talk about it, I should have refused.
My knee aches as I force myself to go faster, pushing my body to its limit.
I should have told my parents no to the internship. Or at least talked to Goldie about it.
I suck in air, my chest heaving as I do lap after lap. Punishing my body for the state of my mind.
I should—
“—have known you’d be here.” A voice finishes off the sentence in my head.
Goldie’s voice. My head snaps to the side. I barely have the capacity to stop before hitting the wall. I blink, thinking she’s some kind of cortisol-induced mirage. When she doesn’t disappear from the player’s bench, I skate over to her.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, the question coming out gruffer than I intended.
I take off my helmet and rake a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. My whole body is drenched.
She raises a brow. “We were supposed to meet to talk about the next article.”
I tip my head back. How did I forget that?
“I’m sorry,” I say with a sigh. “I must have mixed up the days.”
Marigold eyes me like she doesn’t quite believe me, but she doesn’t say anything. Ever since the party on Saturday, she’s been distant. It’s now Tuesday, and we’re in a time crunch to get the next article done, so I guess that’s why she’s breaking her silence.
“Do you have time to work on it now?”
I nod. “Yeah, let me run through the shower real quick, and then we can meet. Are you hungry?” I ask her.
The way her eyes drop to the ground makes me think she is but doesn’t want to say so.
“Because I’m starving,” I add. “There’s a diner a block away called Junction. It doesn't beat Kimmy’s, but it’s pretty good.”
Kimmy’s Hometown Diner is where we used to go in high school to get ice cream floats. It’s a thirty-minute drive without traffic to get there, though, so not the best choice when I’m already late to our meeting.
“Okay, I can go grab a booth while you shower,” she offers.
I give her a small smile. “Thanks. If you want, you can go ahead and order for me. They have a lot of the same stuff as Kimmy’s.”
Her expression turns apprehensive, but she doesn’t say anything else.
I skate over to the tunnel and head into the locker room to clean up.
Everyone is already gone from practice, so it’s silent.
I’m grateful for the time alone, though it does give my thoughts the microphone.
There are times I wish I could leave the labyrinth of ruminating I spend my days in, but if I did, I’d lose Marigold altogether.
Because the only way out would be to try to forget about her.
Not that I’m capable of doing that anyway.
I make sure my shower is quick, even though my sore muscles wish for longer beneath the hot water.
Then I get dressed and head to the diner.
Once I arrive, I enter the train-themed restaurant and search the place for Marigold.
I smile when I note her booth choice. It’s in the far corner, next to a window, just like our spot at Kimmy’s.
Though this one won’t have our names doodled in silver Sharpie on the bottom of the table.
She looks up as I approach. Her brow is slightly pinched. I wonder if she’s thinking of the past, too.
“Have you ordered?” I ask her as I slide in the cracked-leather booth seat across from her. I drop my backpack next to me.
She bobs her head. “Yeah, I did right before you got here.”
I don’t ask her what she ordered. She knows me well enough to get something I’ll like.
Marigold takes a sip of her drink. It looks like some kind of soda, and my heart fissures at the sight.
No ice cream float. I didn’t expect it, but a part of me hoped that maybe after she saw the pen and had time to process things, she’d return the gesture with one of her own.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, then open my backpack and pull out my laptop. “So, did you have any specific ideas for the article? I know Charlie liked the format so we’re keeping that, but did you have an area you wanted to focus on?”
“I wasn’t sure,” Marigold says as she flips through her little journal. “I’ve got a few ideas, but none of them have stood out.”
“Do you want to list them out and then we can see if any of my notes would fit with them the best?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Sure, that works.”
I shift in my seat, then draw in a sharp breath as pain shoots through my knee. Marigold’s gaze flicks up to my face.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Just overworked myself. A little sore.” I wince as I try to find a comfortable position. Being tall and sitting in a booth isn’t a big deal on a normal day, but my leg needs to be stretched out, and that’s not really an option in this cramped space.
Marigold frowns. “Your knee?”
My chest warms at her remembering my struggles.
I dealt with the injury during my senior year of high school.
It should have healed by now, but I keep pushing myself too far.
I know I shouldn’t. Sometimes it feels like I have to choose between a healthy body and a clear head, since hockey is the only thing that helps me work through my problems.
“Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have skated extra after practice,” I say, making her frown deepen.
“Definitely not. You should probably take time off in general. Is there something you need? Do you want me to ask if they can make you an ice pack?”
A smile tugs at my lips. She cares. Even if she doesn’t want to, she does.
“I’ll be all right, Goldie,” I assure her. “Once I get home and can stretch out, I’ll feel better.”
She scoots over a little. “Put your foot up next to me and see if that helps.”
“Someone is bossy today,” I joke, but do as she says. I’m feeling bad enough to not be able to refuse. The relief is instantaneous, and I let out a sigh.
“I’m not bossy,” she says, then turns her attention back to her notebook. “Now, let’s focus on the article.”
I chuckle at her not bossy tone. She shoots me a look like she knows why I’m laughing.
“What if we do a piece on playing through injuries?” she asks, and my smile drops. “It’s common in sports, right? And it would be good to get the story from all angles, especially your point of view.”
I scratch the back of my neck. I don’t want to reject her idea, but …
“Advertising my injury isn’t something I’m fond of. Coach wouldn’t like it, either. None of the guys would. It puts a target on our backs for other teams and might get us benched if Coach thinks we’d be better off the ice.”
Marigold taps her pen against her bottom lip.
Not the pen I gave her on Valentine’s Day.
I ordered that one as a gift for our first day of school but never gave it to her.
I try to trick myself into thinking she’s displayed it on her desk or something.
Because the alternative is that she threw it away.
I didn’t plan on giving it to her that night.
I’ve been carrying it around in my pocket for months now, using it for my journal.
But when she asked, it felt like the perfect moment. Until she ran away.
“Maybe we could talk about it in the past sense?” Marigold suggests. “Talk about overcoming adversity and what it’s like.”
I tip my head from side to side, thinking.
While I’m considering, our waitress arrives with our food.
She sets a platter of chicken tenders and sweet potato fries in front of Marigold, then presents me with a burger the size of my head, with a side of regular fries.
After that, she places a plate of chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream in the middle of the table.
We used to get pancakes to split when we couldn’t decide if we wanted dinner or breakfast.
“I’m sorry again for not having ice cream, darlin’,” the waitress says to Marigold. “Hopefully the pancakes satisfy your sweet tooth.”
Marigold blushes and mumbles her thanks.
I forget about the pain in my knee. Forget about the article and every negative thought I’ve had today.
Because if she was going to order ice cream that means she was going to get an ice cream float.
A grin stretches my lips. Marigold glares at me, her cheeks still pink.
“What?” she snaps, but there’s no real bite to it.
I reply with a quote. “Hope is the thing with feathers.”
She looks down, her lips pressed together. I think she’s fighting a smile, but she could be upset too. Either reaction, I can handle, because I have hope again.
“Emily Dickinson,” she mutters. The source of the quote.
My heart soars like the bird Dickinson alluded to in her poem. I can see a light at the end of this dark and dreary tunnel. One that I’ll keep running toward, wishing with all my might that it doesn’t signify the end, but a new beginning.