Chapter 40 Between The Lines
Chapter forty
Between The Lines
Jameson Sinclair
I can read Marigold like a book. I know every page, every line. I can see the plot twists before they arrive. So when my best friend, the love of my life, walks into my hospital room, I know that something is wrong. And it’s not just that she’s been worried about me.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, immediately rushing to my bedside.
A smile hitches up the corner of my mouth when I notice what she’s wearing. I reach out and tug on the hem.
“I didn’t know you still had this.”
Her cheeks flame as red as her hair.
“It’s my favorite sweatshirt,” she mumbles, making my smile grow.
“Looks better on you than it ever did on me,” I reply. Her blush brightens further.
“You’re supposed to be telling me how you are,” she reminds me. “I’ve been worried sick, and your parents are too.”
“I’m okay,” I reassure her. “I’ll be even better when they tell me that I didn’t tear anything.”
She winces and glances at my knee propped up in the bed. The nurses have started to alternate heat and ice for pain management. It’s helped, and so has the medicine, thankfully.
“Do you know how long it’ll be before you know?”
I shake my head. “They told me at least an hour, but not to count on that.”
She scrunches her nose in distaste, and I chuckle.
“It’s not like I would be doing anything different anywhere else. Even if they tell me it’s a sprain, I think I'll be stuck like this for a few weeks.”
Marigold grabs my hand and rubs her thumb soothingly along the back. Her being here is already helping me relax in comparison to earlier. It’s easier to face the unknown with her by my side.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s hard to not get to do what you love.” Something in her expression shifts as she utters the last few words of her statement.
I squeeze her hand. “Are you okay? You seem off.”
She looks down at our joined hands.
“It was just scary watching you fall and not being there.”
I read between her words and realization washes over me. She’s upset she wasn’t at the game.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty,” I tell her. “There’s nothing you could have done if you were there. We’d still end up in this same spot.”
I don’t tell her I was distracted in part by her absence. It’s not her fault that someone else tripped me and hurt a knee I shouldn’t have been playing on in the first place.
“I shouldn’t have suggested that deadline,” she says quietly.
My eyebrows rise in surprise. I didn’t expect this so soon. With how stubborn she was being about it, I worried it would take a lot longer to prove to her she was working herself to death.
“What makes you say that?” I ask carefully.
Her eyes flutter shut, and I watch as she takes a deep breath.
“You were right.” Her words come out in a whisper. “I-I don’t love journalism like I love fiction. But I’m good at it. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Her eyes open again. I give her a small smile.
“First of all, you’re good at writing fiction too.” Marigold’s uncertainty is painted over her expression. I continue anyway. “Second of all, it only counts if it’s something you want to do.”
It’s my turn to run my thumb over her hand.
“Not everyone has a job they love,” she points out.
“That’s true, but in that case, I think those people should have time to relax and have hobbies. Or at least get a few hours of sleep a night.” I give her a meaningful look that has her averting her gaze.
“I keep telling myself this is just what college is like,” she says with a frown. “But even though my roommates are all busy with classes and extracurriculars, they don’t seem as stressed as me. At the same time, I—” She cuts off, tears welling up in her beautiful hazel eyes.
I let go of her hand and cup her cheek, swiping the first of her tears away.
“You know you can tell me anything.”
She nods, wiping at her face with the sleeves of my old sweatshirt. I pull my hand away to give her space to breathe and recalibrate.
“Since high school—maybe even before that—I’ve been a procrastinator.
Sometimes I swear I do my best work when there are minutes left on the clock and all that’s in my system is caffeine.
” She laughs a little and shakes her head.
“But I don’t like being that way. I don’t like the stress and always feeling behind.
It makes me wonder if I could do both journalism and writing if I was just better. ”
It looks like she still has more to say, so I hold off, simply nodding to let her know I’m paying attention.
“I think you were right when you said I was scared of failure.” Her voice grows small. “That fear is so deeply etched into my soul it’s like I’m wired to procrastinate until I’m forced to try. Because actually trying?” She swipes another tear away. “Terrifies me.”
“I think you can learn to overcome that fear,” I say gently. “But that will take time, and during that, I think pulling back could help alleviate some of the stress and pressure on you.”
She nods. “I know you’re right, but I hate giving up. All I can think about is what my mom will say—” Her voice cracks. “Or if she’ll stop calling, because there’s nothing about me worth showing off to her friends.”
“Goldie,” I whisper, and reach for her. “Come here.” I tug her hand toward the bed.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she protests.
“I’ll be fine—there’s plenty of room.”
She looks doubtful but squeezes in next to me anyway on the side of my good knee.
I scoot over a little bit to give her room, gritting my teeth against a stab of pain.
Marigold curls into my side, tucking her head against my chest, and I know in that moment that I’d go through worse pain to comfort her.
“You have spent your entire life vacillating between pleasing your parents and avoiding them at all costs,” I begin, trying to temper the blunt nature of my words with a gentle tone.
“I’ve watched you push yourself beyond your limits for recognition you shouldn’t have had to beg for in the first place. ”
Her shoulders shake. I feel her tears begin to soak through my hospital gown.
“I think it’s time to let go,” I whisper, and kiss the crown of her head. “They may never love you the way you deserve to be loved, but that’s their loss. You have so many people who adore you.”
I glance over at the bedside table where my belongings are. I brought my journal with me to the game, since Marigold wasn’t there. I wanted to be able to write the experience down—whether it was good or bad.
It’s hard not to let out a groan as I reach for it, but somehow I manage. I place it on her lap. My stomach swoops at the thought of sharing it with her. I knew I would someday, but it’s still nerve-wracking.
“And if you ever forget how loved you are, read this.”
Marigold lifts her head off my chest and brushes her fingertips against the black book.
“What is it?” she asks with a sniffle. “I’ve seen you writing in it occasionally.”
“I started it after our fight about the internship. I wrote in this journal every time I wanted to talk to you but couldn’t.”