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Marigold opened her mouth with a twist of a smile. The kind that promised I was about to be hit with a shot of pure quick wit, but her phone buzzed obnoxiously between us, and she dropped her attention to it.
I did too.
Hank Marshall.
Who in the fresh hell was Hank Marshall? And why did he have to call just as she was finally lightening up?
“Oh.” She scrambled to her knees, bare feet tucked under her butt, and snagged the phone from the hardwood floor. With a deep breath in, she tapped Accept.
“Hey, Hank.” Her voice took on a musical quality, all high notes and cheer, and she was instantly warm and bright. Like suddenly the outside had come in.
What had this guy done to deserve such a greeting? What did I have to do to get in on that sweet tone? And the smiley responses and flowery spirit. “Sure, I’ve got a minute.”
Excuse me? What about our very valuable can’t-be-wasted project-must-be-finished time? She most certainly did not have a minute for whatever Hank Marshall had to say.
There was a deep murmur on the other end of the line, though I couldn’t make out the words. As she listened, she dragged her focus back to me, brows tilting down, along with the corners of her mouth, giving me an apologetic look. It wasn’t a full-on apology. She didn’t hang up on the guy. But I’d take it.
She dropped her chin, causing her braid to slip down her shoulder, and fiddled with the corner of the page she’d brought to life in her sketchbook. “Oh, yes. Actually, we are.” A pause and then a bark of forced laughter. “Yes, yes. Exactly. Maybe another time?” Another pause. I was pretty sure she was holding her breath. “Well.” She glanced at me and back at the paper. “Yeah. Absolutely. I’ll let you go. We’ll talk soon. Bye.”
She pulled the phone away from her ear and tapped the screen, then tossed it gently to the side. Crossing her legs in front of her again, she picked up her pencil and sketchbook and hunched over her designs.
“What were you saying?” she asked without looking up. “Oh, you know what—”
“Are we not going to talk about that?” I pointed at the elephant (i.e., her phone) in the room.
“What about it?” She shrugged, face still angled down.
She had to know it bothered me. There was no doubt about it.
My heart pounded against my sternum, and nausea swirled in my gut. “Who is Hank?”
“You know Hank. His son plays soccer with the boys. He’s a firefighter at PFD.”
Hank…Hank…nope. Not one bell ringing. But all of a sudden, I was very interested in logging on to all my social media accounts—if I could remember my passwords after so many years—and doing a deep dive into this guy.
Marigold finally peeked up and groaned. “He’s the one who brings oranges for all the boys after games.”
Oh, Orange Guy? What could Orange Guy possibly have to say to her?
“And…” I drew out, angling closer and raising my brows.
“And what?”
“What did he say?”
And why was she so sweet to him? If I dared to call her randomly like that, she would act like the sky was falling.
“Nothing, really. Just checking in.”
My stomach sank. Guys didn’t just check in on single women. Not unless they had ulterior motives.
Marigold pointed her pencil at me violently and let out a sarcastic laugh. “I cannot believe the look you’re giving me.” Said pencil was now swirling in the air dangerously close to me. “I can have guy friends.”
“I know that.” I didn’t necessarily love it, but of course she could have guy friends. That wasn’t the issue here, though.
“How come we can’t be like that? Why can’t you laugh with me? We were friends first, remember? Good friends.”
For an entire year, I flirted with her, learned everything about her. Marigold spent that year cluelessly going along with it, having no idea that I was falling harder and faster every day. It took an entire week of hyping myself up—all the positive self-talk, meditation, lectures to my reflection—before I found the nerve to ask her out. And as an overly confident seventeen-year-old, that said a lot.
