Chapter 29 Fight
Chapter twenty-nine
Fight
Jasmine Chamberlain
“Jaz?” Saylor’s voice sounds slightly muffled from outside my bedroom door.
I’m curled up beneath a mound of blankets, next to a pile of laundry that I can’t remember if it’s clean and I haven’t folded it, or if it’s dirty and I dropped it there because I was supposed to wash my sheets today.
“Have you called her that before?” Marigold asks.
“No, but it seemed nice,” Saylor says back.
“What if she doesn’t like it? What if you made her more sad?”
I let out a wet laugh, wiping away my tears with the corner of my comforter.
Since I got Shepherd’s text last night, I haven’t left my room.
It’s almost noon the next day—at least that’s what my phone said when I rewatched his press conference for the fourth time.
Listened to the promise he made to the entire country.
Watched the brokenness consume him over and over.
I hate it every time, but I can’t stop. Some part of me thinks that maybe one more time will make me figure out why he would say to me what he did.
I poke my head out from under the covers. “Jaz is fine. My family calls me that,” I say weakly.
Whispers that I can’t make out float beneath the door.
“Can we come in?” Saylor asks after what was either a discussion or an argument, I’m not sure.
My chest rises and falls with a sigh. I shouldn’t pull away. That’s exactly what Shepherd did to me, and I’m broken over it. I can’t do that to my friends.
“Sure, but don’t judge my room,” I call out, mostly for Saylor’s sake.
I keep my door closed most of the time, because any time Saylor gets a peek, she lets out this horrified gasp that belongs in a Lifetime movie.
Then she asks to clean it for me. To which I say I was planning to clean it the following Sunday.
That never happens. The most I do is throw away the collection of coconut water bottles gathering dust on my nightstand.
I glance at the nightstand in question. Three bottles of varying levels of consumption sit in a little triangle beside a book my sister asked me to read, a tangle of necklaces I gave up on, and a sticky note that says Don’t Forget! stuck to my lampshade. Not sure what that’s referring to.
Usually, I don’t mind the state of my room, because the rest of my life is going well. Now, it feels like a symbol of everything wrong. Each half-drunk water bottle taunts me.
My door opens and Marigold walks in first, followed by Saylor, whose eyes are as wide as soup bowls. I give her credit, though, because she doesn’t voice any of her terror.
Marigold sits on the edge of my bed next to where my knees are curled to my chest. “We’re worried about you. Did something happen after the game? I know the team lost, but I wouldn’t think you’d be this broken up about that.”
“It’s not about the loss—well, not exactly—it’s about Shepherd.” I punctuate my sentence with a sniffle.
Saylor sits on the end of my bed, eying the laundry next to her. I almost laugh at the barely concealed horror.
“What happened? Do I need to add him to my list?” Saylor asks, turning her attention to me.
I pull out my phone and open up our text thread. I’m not sure I could get the words out, so I let them read it instead. Marigold takes the phone and holds it between her and Saylor.
Shepherd: I’m sorry, but I think I need some space. I have to be focused if I want to accomplish my goals. I can’t make any more mistakes. I won’t be at chess club again, and I’ll be spending all my free time working on being the best for my team. I hope you can understand.
“He sounds so defeated, just like in that press conference thing, except for the end when he made that speech,” Saylor says.
“You guys watched it?” I ask as I take my phone back.
“After a loss like that, I knew it would be intense, so I left it on,” Marigold explains.
I bring the covers up to my chin again. “He’s not doing well.
I could see it all over his face and hear it in his voice.
But he pushed me away, even after we shared so much.
” My chin wobbles. Fresh tears gather in my eyes.
“I told him about my parents, about my dreams. He shared things, too, and I told him if things went wrong, he could come to me. I thought he would.”
Marigold sets a hand on my knee, compassion in her gaze. “I’m sorry. I know that has to sting.”
I wipe my face and draw in a shuddering breath. “What hurts the most is knowing that he’s hurting and won’t let anyone help him. Instead of acknowledging what happened and moving on, I know he’s ruminating on it. He’s going to work himself into the ground.”
Marigold’s gaze drops, her expression drawn.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper, the confession as broken as I feel.
“Have you thought about fighting?” Saylor asks.
My brow furrows. “Fighting? What do you mean?”
“Sometimes all someone needs is to know there’s a person—or a few people, if they’re lucky—who will fight for them.”
I sit up out of my cocoon and scoot back against the headboard so I can face her better. “But I already showed him I was fighting for him, and he turned me down.”
She nods. “I get that. But what if to fight for him you have to just…fight him? It’s not like you don’t know how to do that,” she says with a small smile.
“I think she might be onto something,” Marigold adds. “If he’s as broken over this as you say, then he might need you to shake him out of it. He’s got to be stubborn to have made it as far as he has, so it might take some yelling to get through.”
I wipe my face again with the sleeves of my sweatshirt. “So I just go over to his dorm and yell at him?” I ask. That can’t be what they’re suggesting.
“Go and tell him that he hurt you and he’s an idiot for pulling away from people who care about him when he’s hurting. If that requires a little yelling—” Marigold shrugs. “Then so be it. Hope campus security doesn’t get called and go for it.”
I nod slowly, coming to terms with the plan.
“And what if he still pushes me away?” I voice my fears.
“Then he goes on the list,” Saylor says matter-of-factly.
“And I’ll write a hit piece on him for the paper. It probably won’t run, but I’ll write it,” Marigold adds.
“I’ll key his car,” Aurora says from the doorway, making us all jump in surprise. She’s in her typical outfit, layers of soft pink, gray, and white fabrics. She dresses for warmth and strips off layers as she rehearses in the dance studio.
“Where did you come from?” Saylor asks, which Marigold follows with, “When did you get so violent?”
A faint smile tugs at the corners of Aurora’s mouth. “I just got back from dance, and I’m not violent. I just don’t like when people mess with my friends.” She takes a step back. “I’m going to grab some ice cream. That feels appropriate.”
We all nod in unison. She walks to the kitchen freezer. I turn to Marigold and Saylor.
“She called us her friends!” Saylor whispers.
I grin. “She did.”
“I can’t believe she said she’d key his car for you,” Marigold says.
“I can. There’s an edge to our ballerina, I think,” I reply.
“So? Are you going to go yell at your man?” Saylor asks with expectant eyes.
“He’s not my man. He’s a friend.” I receive a series of looks that lets me know they don’t believe me. And I’m pretty sure Aurora laughs in the other room. “But yes, after ice cream, I’ll go.”
I’m going to need the sugar to recuperate all the energy I lost from crying my eyes out. I climb out of bed and stretch, my muscles tight after lying down for so long.
“Could I maybe, possibly cleanyourroomwhileyou’regone?” Saylor asks in a rush.
I start to say no, but then I get a good look at the disaster zone I’ve been living in.
I heave a sigh. “Fine.”
“Yes!” she shouts, making me laugh.
We file into the kitchen and huddle around the kitchen island. As we dig into our pints, I look around and smile. No matter what happens with Shepherd, at least I have my girls to fall back on.