Chapter 9 Marigold #3
It was partly a lie. I did feel like I knew him.
Maybe not all the intricacies of his life—maybe not where he went to elementary school, or if he played sports in high school.
But I knew him. What made him smile. What made him embarrassed.
The way he always felt awkward in social situations, how he couldn’t help but take everything literally, to the point that half the bad jokes I made flew right over his head.
But I needed to know more.
He looked flustered, one hand still gripped in a fist against the edge of the table. I wondered if he felt it, too—that inexorable draw between us, a cord knotted from one heart to the other.
“Not much to say, really. You already know I’m from Iowa.
I studied at Iowa State in middle and high school—they have a great music program, and I was really lucky to be allowed to get involved so young.
Ummm…let’s see, what else? I grew up in Boone.
It’s this tiny place outside of Des Moines.
Like, imagine small town but with the worst people you can think of. Unavoidable assholes.”
I gave an exaggerated shudder. “Oh, come on. That bad?”
“Okay, maybe I’m being a little unfair. They weren’t all assholes. But there were a lot. My brother’s gay. People are pretty shitty to him about it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That must have been hard. What about your parents? Are they cool?”
“They’re divorced,” Jamie said with a loose shrug. “My mom’s great. My dad…I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
I couldn’t imagine what that would be like. My mother might be sick, but at least she was here.
“Anyway, I swear my life is not just tragedies,” Jamie said, laughing a little.
I gave him a look. “Yeah? Prove it.”
“Okay. I did boxing in high school and won more than half my fights. I got to beta test the sequel to my favorite video game. I love my brother. I was an introvert, but I had friends growing up. My best friend’s family and I would go on trips to Clear Lake together—his parents had a house up there.
I tried to learn how to slalom water-ski and wiped out pretty much every time. ”
“I like that visual.”
He smirked. “I bet you do.”
Of course then I was also picturing Jamie soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead in some tight-fitting spandex wet suit. Stopppppp.
“Your turn,” he said. “Life story. Let’s hear it.”
Shit. I really didn’t think this one through, huh? Now I had to make myself sound interesting, which I very definitely was not.
“Um. Okay. Well, I’ve pretty much been doing piano my whole life. I don’t have any fun hobbies, and I don’t know how to water-ski.”
“So what do you do when you aren’t playing piano?”
I literally had to think about it. That’s how pathetic it all was. “Read, I guess. Watch shitty TV with Cessy. Hang out with my dad.”
“Reading and TV are hobbies.”
“I mean…if you say so.” I wasn’t sure that watching Love Island qualified. “But like I said, it’s not like…peak cinema. I still haven’t seen Fight Club.”
“You haven’t seen Fight Club? Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Yeah. It’s not like I don’t know the twist. So what’s the point?”
“What’s the point,” Jamie echoed, shaking his head in disbelief. “The point is that it’s a great film. The point is that it’s fun. Seriously, Marigold. That’s so sad.”
“I told you I don’t have fun hobbies!”
“Well, not for long,” he declared. “You’re watching it. We’ll watch it together. Even if it has to be on my ancient 2012 laptop. I’m not letting you continue to muddle your way through life without watching fucking Fight Club.”
I laughed. “Yeah, fine. You provide the popcorn, though.”
Jamie wanted me to watch Fight Club with him. Jamie wanted me to watch Fight Club with him. On his laptop. Did that mean, like…in his dorm room?
On his bed?
I could tell I was blushing again from the way my cheeks suddenly felt over-hot, like I’d caught a fever. I ducked my head to take another sip of water through my straw, hoping it hid me somewhat. But when I looked up again, Jamie was staring at me, those gorgeous dark blue eyes fixed on my lips.
I opened my mouth, and I wasn’t sure what I was about to say, but it was something—only then a server approached our table, pointedly sliding the check across the laminate.
Jamie glanced at his watch. “It’s almost two a.m. I guess this is our cue.”
I produced my card, and the waitress reappeared almost instantly to take it and swipe it against the machine. I made sure to leave her a large tip; I knew the staff would probably be stuck here another hour closing because of us.
But I still wished we could stay another hour, or even longer. I wished I had an excuse to lean across this table and delve deeper into Jamie Larson’s mind, figure out what made him tick.
Instead we gathered our stuff and ducked out into the chilly November air, stuffing hands into coats and shuffling feet against the asphalt.
“I’m headed to my dad’s place,” I said. “Tomorrow’s Shabbat dinner.”
“I’m going to the dorms,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
The silence dragged out taut between us, quivering like a plucked violin string.
Jamie was standing so close to me, close enough I could see the pilling on his jacket and the tiny scar on his chin, probably from some toddler-age accident.
The wind caught my hair, pulling a stray lock across my face; it got caught on my lip gloss.
“Here,” Jamie murmured and reached over, tucking my hair gently behind my ear.
My stomach felt like it was full of fluttering moths, my skin suddenly hyperaware of how cold it was out here, tingling everywhere it was exposed to the elements.
“Thanks,” I said. It came out a little husky, raw.
Jamie’s gaze flitted between my eyes and my mouth, then lingered there. His fingertips grazed my shoulder for a long moment before falling.
And then the moment broke as Jamie looked away, toward the sky. “Well,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you, then.”
“Right.”
He stepped back and lifted a hand in an awkward wave. “See you, then. Don’t forget about Fight Club.”
I took the long way home, walking instead of catching a bus. And every step of the way, I thought about what would have happened if I’d reached across, laced my fingers through Jamie’s hair, and stayed.