Hey, Mister Marshall (St. Mary's Rebels 4)

From what I gather about myself, I’m a super touchy-feely girlfriend who needs her boyfriend around her all the time. And from what I’m gathering about him, he’s the same way as well.

So when I reach him, I go all the way.

As in I don’t stop until the toes of our shoes are knocking together and my hands are on his ridged abs and I’m giving him my weight.

He’s doesn’t stop either. Not until he’s gripping my waist, taking more of my weight, and leaning down, making my spine arch.

So we are all aligned in the way stars and planets are.

Because we’re soulmates, see.

I’m about to say something when a strong gust of wind zooms in and threatens to take my hat away. But he saves it at the last minute. He puts his big guardian hand on top of it and keeps it glued to my head. Reaching up myself, I put my hand over his and when he’s satisfied that my hat is going to be okay, only then does he go back to my waist.

But before I can thank him, his fingers on my waist tighten and he speaks with a frown. “What the fuck took you so long?”

Yeah, he missed me.

With my hair flying around my face, I breathe out, “Sorry. But I’m here now.”

“Good.”

“Thanks for saving my hat.”

His chocolate chip eyes flash at my breathy words. “Are you going to thank me every time I do something for you?”

Still clutching my hat, I bite my lip at his repeated words from long ago. “It’s my favorite hat.”

He glances at my mouth for a second before he says, “I know. Lady Gaga Over Purple.”

I smile. “You remember?”

“That you have strange names for all your clothes and accessories, yeah.”

I frown. “Hey, you love that.”

His lips pull up on one side. “I do.” Then, “So what’s the name of this one?”

I know what he’s asking and licking my lipstick covered lips, I whisper, “Cute Corruption.”

“I’m guessing there’s a reason why you’re wearing it.”

“There is.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Well first, because I’m cute.”

“Is that so?” he murmurs, inching up my glasses with his index finger.

Something I’m finding out that he loves to do. And something I love to have him to do as well.

“Yes.” I nod primly. “My boyfriend tells me all the time.”

In the beginning, he had some trouble with the terminology. As in, me calling him my boyfriend.

He said that it made him sound like a teenager.

But I told him to suck it up. Because he is my boyfriend and I am his girlfriend.

Have been for two weeks now.

And it’s been the best two weeks of my life.

Ever since he told me that he loved me, I’ve been living in a dream.

I told him that night that we’d wasted so much time being away from each other, fighting our feelings and whatnot. When we could’ve been together. When we could’ve made new memories to replace his old ones. Something I’m very determined to do.

So now he makes sure that we spend as much time together as possible. Sort of like a catch up.

And I love it.

I love waking up with him at the mansion and spending the day with him. I love exploring the woods and the grounds. He takes me out on dates and shopping sprees. We go for long drives, long walks. We go to the movies because he told me one time that he’d only been to the movies on a handful of occasions and oh my God, I had to rectify that.

Not to mention I love staying home with him. Especially when he’s in his study, working, and I’m sewing my dresses or sketching them. And now that he’s quit the school board and all the other responsibilities that he never liked but fulfilled nonetheless, he only works on things that he loves — his papers and grants and his book. And so I get to see him all relaxed and fun all the time.

I mean, yes there are times when he gets agitated and angsty. Especially when a few days ago he showed me all his hiding places around the mansion and the woods. I could tell he was embarrassed by that. He was angry at himself, and even though I wanted to break down and cry and sob for all the cruelties he had to go through, I pulled myself back. I got a handle on my emotions and told him that he had nothing to be ashamed of.

That I was proud of him.

For surviving. For protecting himself.

Besides it was the fault of his abusers, his father, this town. Not his.

I know it was hard for him to believe me, but we’ll get there.

We’ll get to the day when he believes me wholeheartedly. Until then I’ll keep reminding him.

He hums. “Well, he sounds like a smart guy.”