Chapter 27 Tomorrow
Chapter twenty-seven
Tomorrow
Marigold Belmore
I really wish I could have a warning before my mother texts.
Though if I had one, I’d probably spend the entire time leading up to her message worrying about what she was going to say, so I suppose it wouldn’t help.
My stomach folds and twists itself into knots as I walk into the building where the newsroom is located.
The text came through while I was walking here, but I figure I should be someplace private before I open it. I never know what she might say.
I head into the nearest bathroom and lock myself in a stall before reading.
Mom: One of my coworkers said she saw you got an article on the front page of the paper. Good job! When I looked it up, it said you and Jameson wrote it. I thought you weren’t friends anymore?
My heart starts to race as I type out a response.
In the thick of my pain, I told my mom that Jameson hurt me and we wouldn’t be hanging out anymore.
She’d smiled so big and told me she was proud of me for standing up for myself.
It was one of the few times outside of an academic accomplishment that she’d told me she was proud of me.
Marigold: Thanks, Mom! The editor in chief assigned us to the project, that’s why we’re working together.
Her response is faster than normal. Though that tends to be the case when she’s in charge of the conversation. If I reach out to her, I’m ignored for days, or weeks.
Mom: Why don’t you talk to the editor about writing something by yourself? You’re never going to get attention by being the second name.
I close my eyes and grip my phone. She can’t ever just be happy for me.
I’d bet my entire scholarship fund that Jameson’s parents were ecstatic when they saw the paper.
Which they would have gotten themselves because they definitely subscribe to it, and not because some random person at their job asked about it.
Marigold: I’ll see about it. How are you and Dad?
I wait a minute, watching for a bubble to indicate her response.
Nothing. She got what she wanted, and now she’s done.
I shove my phone into my messenger bag as tears sting my tired eyes.
Endless hours studying and writing until my hands cramp.
Taking harder classes than I need to. Drinking too much coffee and not sleeping enough.
All for what? One good job laced with judgement?
I wash my hands vigorously, then bend down and splash water on my face.
It’s foolish to be upset. That wasn’t even the worst thing she’s said.
Not even close, really. But it feels like I’ve been carrying around a thousand pounds and she waltzed in and threw a piece of gum on top.
On a normal day it would be manageable, but right now I’m on the edge of collapse.
My hand fumbles for a paper towel until I grasp one and yank it out of the dispenser. I pat my face dry, crumple the damp paper, and meet my gaze in the mirror. Immediately, I wince at the sight of my mother’s eyes. Her hair in waves down my back. How many other ways do I resemble her?
I plop my bag on the counter and frantically comb through the contents for my black pencil. Once I have it, I twist my hair up into the bun Miss Perkins taught me how to do in middle school. The sight of my hair in a style my mother would never do eases some of the tightness in my throat.
Still, I avoid meeting her—my—gaze again and leave the bathroom with my head down.
I stay that way all the way to my desk in the newsroom.
I’m early as usual, so there are not many other people here.
No Paisley, and surprisingly, no Jameson.
That’s for the best. They’d both see right through me. At the very least Jameson would.
I drop my bag on the floor and slump into my desk chair. My eyebrows pull together when I notice a book on my desk. I pull it toward me, my heart jumping at the note stuck to the cover. Though I don’t need to, I remove the paper to reveal the title.
Julius Caesar.
From the looks of the edges, it’s been annotated. I flip open to the midpoint, and a laugh escapes me at his critical commentary in the margins. When I let the pages waterfall back to the beginning, I catch a note on the internal title page.
I’ll always read Shakespeare for you. —J
My throat constricts. Everything I’ve been holding in, including my tears, breaks through the dam. I swipe at my cheeks and suck in a breath, trying to calm myself.
“Marigold?” Paisley’s concerned voice makes me look up from the book.
I quickly open a desk drawer and shove it inside, snapping the drawer shut after.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, hurrying around my desk to kneel beside my chair. Her floral dress pools around her on the floor.
I search for a way to answer her and come up short.
“I think—” I clear my throat. “I’m not feeling very well.”
Paisley frowns and reaches up to place a cool palm on my forehead.
“You do feel a little warm.”
Crying tends to make my face feel hot, so that’s not surprising.
“I’ll walk you back to your dorm. You should rest,” Paisley says.
I shake my head. There’s too much work to be done to leave when I’m not really sick.
“No, I’m okay. If anything it’s just a little cold.”
Paisley grabs my hand in my lap and squeezes it.
“You’ve been burning the candle at both ends. I think you need a break.”
I muster up what I hope is a reassuring smile.
“I’m okay,” I lie. “I’ll finish this work hour, then rest.”
“Marigold, I love you, which is why I’m going to be honest with you: you look awful. I can tell how little you’ve been sleeping. You look like you’re made of shadows.”
I force a laugh. “Are you sure you aren’t a writer? That was a good metaphor.”
She gives me a pointed look. “I’m serious.”
I squeeze her hand.
“I know you are, but I’m all right. I’ve got a headache, that’s all.”
Her eyes narrow. “You said you thought it might be a cold.”
“Headaches are a cold symptom.” I pull my hand away and turn back toward my desk. “I’ll work for a little while, and then I’ll go straight to bed.”
Maybe. Depends on how many of my to-do list items are flashing red when I open up my laptop in a minute.
“You better. You can’t keep this up. Eventually, something has to break.” Her words make my chest pinch with anxiety. “I don’t want that something to be you.”
Me either. But I feel as though my fate is sealed.
I’m a train on a track headed toward my downfall.
I can’t change my direction, only the speed at which I barrel toward the end.
And lately it’s hard to tell whether sleep slows down the train or speeds it up.
If I rest, I feel more clearheaded. But I wake up behind, so my stress ticks higher. I can’t win.
“I’ll do better,” I tell her, and feel my stomach drop with the lie. I’m in no position to make promises.
Paisley goes quiet, and I do my best to focus on the paper. It’s difficult though when my attention is split between the copy of Julius Caesar in my drawer and Jameson’s empty desk. I’ve never known him to miss a working period.
I bite my lip and glance at my phone. After he’s walked me to my dorm more than once and protected me while we were in the Shadow Ring, it feels like I owe it to him to check on him.
My mind brings up the hurts from the past, but they’re drowned out for the moment by his gestures from the past few days. I pick up my phone.
Marigold: Are you okay?
I stare at the screen for a minute, before locking my phone and setting it down. There’s no sense in waiting for a text—my phone buzzes and I snatch it back up.
Jameson: Worried about me, Goldie?
I roll my eyes. Leave it to him to make me regret reaching out.
Marigold: I’m worried about the article, which you aren’t here to work on.
Jameson: The hockey team had an event today. We were teaching some of the local kids. Just finished up.
Attached to his message is a picture of him and Nash surrounded by a group of young boys who can’t be older than eight. They’re all grinning at the camera, sweat shining on their foreheads. It’s so adorable I barely keep myself from saying awww out loud.
Marigold: Looks like a fun time. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.
Jameson: Isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?
My eyes burn again at the quote, and I blink to keep away the tears. Paisley might drag me to bed if she sees them.
Marigold: Anne of Green Gables.
If only I had the optimism encapsulated in that quote. But each day I wake up and I’ve carried over yesterday’s mistakes into today and borrowed some from tomorrow for good measure. Sometimes I feel as though I’m so full of flaws I might be made of them.
A real headache blooms behind my eyes, but I push through and set my hands on the keyboard. Maybe one day I’ll wake up lighter, but until then, there’s work to be done.