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

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

Why does he have to be smart?

Why does he have to be such an asshole?

He’s going to ruin everything again, isn’t he? He’s going to break my heart again.

I can’t let him do that. I cannot let him do that.

I need to derail him.

I need to make him forget about Jimmy.

“No, it’s not,” I say with a firm voice, my neck craned up to look at him, my features schooled. “Yes, I’ve been sneaking out but not to see him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Because he doesn’t even live here. He lives in New York.”

That gives him a pause. “New York.”

Good.

“Yes,” I say, nodding. “My stoner boyfriend who isn’t really my boyfriend because you took that away from me by the way, is in a band. So he moved to New York years ago, okay? He lives there.” Then just because I couldn’t resist it, I add, “And from what I hear he has hit it big.”

“He has.”

“Yup,” I say proudly. “He’s not just a high school dropout anymore. He goes on tours. He’s quite a big deal.” I sigh sharply. “So no, Mr. Marshall, I haven’t been sneaking out to see him. Rest assured I’ve been truly trapped here. Like you wanted. So congratulations. You successfully broke my heart and caged me in a reform school.”

He studies my face for a few seconds, I’m sure to check whether or not I’m lying.

Thankfully, he buys it and clips, “Good.”

A pain stabs my chest then, at his good.

Like he’s so happy.

So ecstatic after ruining my life.

And I can’t help but scratch the walls with my nails as I bite out, “You’re not my dad, you know that, don’t you?”

His eyes flash then. “No, I’m not.”

“You had no right. To do what you did. You had no right to tear me apart from him. From the boy I loved.”

That muscle shows up on his cheek again, pulsing and drumming. “Haven’t we had this conversation before? About how I have a document stating my rights.”

“I —”

“Which makes me,” he says as he leans forward slightly, “worse than your dad, doesn’t it? Because I’m here and I’m in charge of you. And I’m standing between you and not only him but also every other guy out there.”

And then I can’t stop it.

Then I can’t stop myself from blurting out the question I’ve been waiting to ask for three years. “Is that why you didn’t do it to my face? Because you’re worse than my dad.”

“What?”

I look at him through a sheen of anger and tears. “That’s what you did, didn’t you? You didn’t even have the decency, the fucking humanity, to break my heart in person. You sent Mo to do it. You sent Mo to threaten me, to put me in my place, to break me. To deliver the news that I was going to St. Mary’s. And then you left. Just like that. You left like you didn’t even care. You didn’t even care to stay behind and see your handiwork. To see the broken pieces of my heart lying on my bedroom floor. Because it didn’t matter to you, did it? It was inconsequential to you that you ruined my love story. As long as you did it. As long as you flexed your power and played the whole control game.” I shake my head at him. “Well, I hope you enjoyed Italy. I hope you get to go back soon. And this time, I hope, and I mean this very fucking sincerely, you choke on some pasta.”

My heart is beating in my ears. It’s beating in my belly.

No, it’s booming.

It’s thundering.

When I thought that it would calm down. Finally. I thought that if I purged my anger, if I confronted him about what he’d done, it would give me peace. It would bring me much needed satisfaction to say all these things to him.

But there’s no relief.

No peace.

And my angst, my restlessness only grows when he moves.

When he comes closer and at last takes his hand out of his pocket, the one that sports the ring — I don’t know why I notice that but I do — and sets it on the wall, up above me.

I shift against the wall, my spine bowing as he leans down, his eyes all heated and molten, his jaw all hard and scruffy, “You’d like that, would you?”

“Like what?”

“Me,” he says with clenched teeth. “Breaking your heart. To your face.”

I swallow. “I… I’m…”

“Is that what you want?” he rasps, his eyes penetrating. “You want me to threaten you to your face. Like I should have.”

“I wanted you to care,” I whisper, despite myself.

Despite not knowing where it came from.

Where did it come from?

But I don’t have the time to analyze it or take it back because he says, his voice rough and a touch above a whisper, “Fine. Consider this as me caring: if I find out that you’re lying about not seeing your piece of shit boyfriend, I’m going to make sure that I be personally present to give you the news that you’re never getting out of here. I’m going to make sure that I personally break your heart into tiny little pieces and look at them lying on the floor. Instead of sending in the person you trusted the most. I’ll personally count them too, those pieces, to make sure that I did a good enough job breaking you this time so you’ll stay away from him. And then, I’ll drag you behind bars myself and lock you in there. Before I throw the key away — personally — while you watch. Is that good enough for you or would you like me to be more graphic and detailed?”