Chapter 36 Headstrong Girl
Chapter thirty-six
Headstrong Girl
Jameson Sinclair
I catch Marigold’s eyes across the dinner table.
She beams at me, and it sends a jolt of warmth through my chest. This is the most relaxed she’s been since I forced her to rest. And I’m not sure that she was so much relaxed then as she was just exhausted.
Throughout the course of my life I’ve been hit with waves of gratitude for my parents, and tonight is one of those times.
They’ve welcomed Marigold in with open arms. She’s eaten two plates of food, and if I know my mom, dessert is on the way.
There’s been almost nonstop laughter as we walked down memory lane together.
My mom wipes a stray tear from beneath her eyes. Dad just got done reminding everyone of the time Marigold and I climbed a tree in the park as kids and got stuck. Well, Marigold was stuck. I was there for moral support.
“You were like little kittens mewing from the treetops,” Mom says with a happy sigh.
My dad shakes his head. “More like feral squirrels. I only found them because they were throwing acorns at everyone who passed by.”
That sends us all laughing again. I’m not even sure what’s funny anymore. I think most of our laughter has come from simply being happy.
“Jameson, will you come help me get the dessert?” my mom asks after we calm down.
Marigold starts to stand. “I can help.”
Mom shakes her head. “No, little flower, you stay put. We’ll be right back.”
Marigold shrugs and sits back down. I follow my mom into the kitchen. She uncovers a pan of brownies on the kitchen island.
“Will you cut those for me while I get out the ice cream?” she asks, and I nod.
I pull a knife out of the same drawer it’s been in since I was a kid. As soon as I make the first slice, my mom speaks.
“What’s going on with Marigold?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Her dark circles are showing through her makeup, and she looks much thinner than the last time I saw her.” Mom raises her hands. “Now, if she decided to lose weight, that’s her business, but I’m just a little worried about her.”
“She’s been a little … overwhelmed with school,” I say quietly.
Mom sets the ice cream carton on the counter beside a stack of bowls.
“That explains why she keeps dodging my attempts to schedule time together. She must be busy but doesn’t want to tell me no.”
I sigh as I finish slicing the brownies.
“I think she’s in over her head, but doesn’t want to admit it. I’ve been trying to help her.”
Mom nods in understanding. “Sometimes we have to hit rock bottom before we’ll accept the kind of help that makes a difference.”
“I don’t want to push her too much, but it’s hard watching her kill herself for something I don’t think she wants.”
There’s something about standing in the kitchen with my mom that always makes me say more than I plan to. It’s probably why she insisted I come in here.
“The paper?” Mom guesses as she starts to place brownies in the bowls.
I bob my head. “She's a phenomenal reporter. But she loves literature. When she talks about fiction, it’s like her soul lights up. I think she sticks to writing articles because it’s less vulnerable.”
I reach for the ice cream carton, knowing that my mom will try once and then ask me to use my hockey muscles to finish the job.
“Have you talked to her about it?”
I find the ice cream scoop and get to work.
“No, I’ve been afraid to after—” I cut myself off, realizing to my parents there’s no after.
“After?” she presses.
“After we started dating,” I lie, but it’s only a partial one. The timing checks out. “I don’t want to mess things up.”
She gives me an encouraging smile and pats my shoulder.
“You two have been best friends since elementary school. She knows you love her and want the best for her. If there’s anyone who could talk to her, it’s you.”
If only that were true. I messed up, and though Marigold forgave me, I doubt that me telling her to quit the paper would go over well. Even if she should. The time she spends on it could be used to catch up on school and then focus on what her real passion is: writing novels.
“I’ll try to talk to her soon. In the meantime, maybe hold off on asking for one of your days together. At least until spring break.”
She looks disappointed by my suggestion, but she nods her agreement. We take the bowls back to the table, where Marigold and my dad are talking about the hockey season so far.
“I think we’re on a smooth road to the championship,” Marigold says, pausing to smile and thank me when I hand her a bowl. “Barring a pothole or two with certain teams.”
“The Diamondbacks,” Dad says, and she nods. “I agree. If we get past that, we’re in the clear.”
“You two have a lot of confidence for people who aren’t on the team,” I joke.
Marigold rolls her eyes. “We’re honorary coaches.”
“I’m sure Coach Rhodes would love to hear that.”
She scrunches her nose. “If he took more advice from me, y’all would be better off.”
I chuckle. “We’re undefeated.”
“Yeah, but you’d have bigger leads,” my dad chimes in, and Marigold points at him like he has a valid point.
“A win is a win,” I reply.
“And a strong lead is what secures that win and doesn’t leave you in danger when the Diamondbacks are on the ice,” Marigold shoots back.
“I’ve missed this,” Mom says before taking a bite of her brownie sundae.
“Us arguing?” I ask with a laugh.
She grins. “Yes. No matter the circumstances, I love when our family is all together.”
Marigold’s expression turns soft at my mom’s words. She looks down at her ice cream, and I can bet she’s holding back those tears of hers again.
“Don’t start crying over there.” I tease her softly. “I might get kicked out.”
“Shut up," she mumbles, and swipes at her face with the sleeves of her cardigan.
“Leave my sensitive little flower alone,” Mom scolds.
Marigold gives me a pointed look of agreement. I mouth the word sensitive and smirk. A flash of heat in her gaze is the only warning I get before she flicks her spoon toward me and splatters ice cream across my face. I gape at her, while she grins.
“Now, you two—” My mom doesn’t get to finish her sentence.
I’m out of my chair in seconds. Marigold squeals and half trips out of her seat to run away.
I chase her into the living room. She makes an unexpected break for the stairs.
I let her have a lead, fine with her leading us somewhere more private.
I make it to the upstairs hallway. Marigold runs into my room, and I have to stick my foot in the door to stop her from shutting and locking it. She giggles as she backs away from me. I shut the door and stalk toward her.
“No!” she squeals as I grab her by her waist and toss her onto the bed.
I tickle her for a few minutes, fending off her flailing limbs while laughing.
“Mercy!” she yells, breathless.
I stop, then move so I can hover over her on the bed. Her chest is heaving, and the light in her eyes makes my breath catch.
“You’ve got a little—” She giggles and swipes at some of the ice cream on my face before licking her thumb.
I shake my head, chuckling. “Obstinate, headstrong girl.”
She laughs again. I haven’t heard her laugh so much in forever. I could listen to it every day for the rest of my life, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
She cites the quote. “Pride and Prejudice. And thank you. I take that as a compliment.”
I stare into her hazel eyes, made brown by the dim shadows of my old bedroom.
“We’re not going to have long up here,” I murmur.
She hums in return, reaching up to wrap her arms around my neck.
“Then we should make the most of it.”
One gentle pull of her hands is all it takes for us to be wrapped up in each other.
My thoughts scatter. It’s only us. The warm press of her lips against mine.
A graze of teeth. The slip of her tongue.
She’s sweet and soft, yet fiery too. A heady combination that sends my pulse into overdrive and makes me crave more.
I pull back, satisfaction curling through me at the sound of her gasping inhale. My lips trail over her jaw and to the spot below her ear. I press a gentle, lingering kiss here.
“Jameson,” she whispers. There’s a tortured quality to the way she says my name. A desperation I cling to like a long-sought-after treasure. It’s a longing that holds up a mirror to my own and makes me feel less alone in the way I yearn for her.
“I love you,” I whisper against her skin.
“I love you, too,” she replies softly.
I think back to when she mentioned falling in love when we first arrived at my parents’ house. Hope unfurls its weatherworn wings in my chest. Perhaps one day soon that hope will win out, and she’ll tell me she feels the same way I do.
Marigold tugs my lips back to hers, and I smile into the fevered kiss. For once, I don’t feel afraid of what’s to come with her. It’s just a matter of waiting. And I’ve done that before.