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

Which basically means that she knows everything about me. Including the fact that I don’t do birthdays.

Not even when I was a kid.

My birthdays have never been very joyous occasions in my house.

That has never stopped Mo, though.

Every year since I was a kid, Mo has not only remembered my birthday but also celebrated it by making me a cherry pie — my favorite — and a birthday card.

So this is surprising.

Her backing off so easily.

And I think I know the reason why and since I don’t want to talk about it, I choose a neutral topic. “How’s your knee?”

“It’s fine.”

“Any difference in the swelling?”

Mo’s left knee has been bothering her for years and despite my insistence that she get it checked out, she’s always been reluctant. Until I put my foot down a couple of months ago — told her I’d fire her nephew who works with the groundkeeper and isn’t very good at his job anyway, if I saw her limping around one more time — and she finally went to the doctor. I knew if I’d threatened her job, she wouldn’t have taken me seriously or even cared. But threatening her loved one did the trick.

People tend to do stupid things when it comes to love.

Not that going to the doctor was a stupid thing, but still.

The doctor suggested surgery to alleviate the pain, and here we are. Two months post-op, and while she’s still going to PT, her pain has been much better than before.

“Yes, the swelling has gone down some.”

“And the pain.”

“That’s fine too.”

I’m about to ask another question but she says, “But thanks for asking, Mr. Marshall. I’ll be going now.”

Jesus. Fuck.

Mr. Marshall.

She’s bringing out the big guns.

To the world, I’m either Mr. Marshall or Dr. Marshall or Professor Marshall.

I wasn’t always, however.

Before I left Middlemarch, I was Alaric, the disappointing son of the town’s mayor and a greatly celebrated family of Middlemarch. But when I came back from grad school and postdoctoral studies — with my father out of the picture — I was upgraded to Mr. Marshall.

I made sure of that.

I made sure to live up to that name. Made sure that everyone knew that the new Mr. Marshall was as intimidating as the old one.

Except to Mo.

While she knows that there are certain lines even she can’t cross, she’s the only one I’ve given the freedom to call me by my given name. Only in private — I wouldn’t tolerate such disrespect in public — but still.

She’s not the only one though, is she?

I clench my teeth at the thought.

I don’t need this right now. I don’t need to be thinking about her.

Sighing, I rub my forehead again. “How long do you think you’re going to keep this up?”

Silence.

She wasn’t expecting me to get into it.

Which is fine, because it wasn’t my intention to get into it either. I have better things to do with my time. But let’s do it.

Let’s get into it and get it over with once and for all.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

That’s what does it.

That’s what ends my patience with her.

Because even though she is allowed some liberties, I’m still her boss. I’m still the man who signs her fucking paychecks and it may upset me to fire her but I absolutely fucking will, if need be.

Turning away from the window, I begin in a stern voice, “All right. This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to stop with your passive aggressive bullshit because I’ve tolerated it for weeks now. I’ve given you time to get it out of your system and that’s only out of respect for our relationship. But that time ends now. Now, you’re going to start talking so we can discuss it like two adults and move on. Now do you know what I’m talking about?”

When I finish I realize I may have been harsher than I intended.

But that’s okay.

It’s always better to be perceived as cruel and hard than as weak and soft.

And it always works wonders.

Because in the next second, I hear a sigh and Mo says, “I apologize. You’re right. I have been passive aggressive with you for the past couple of months. I shouldn’t have been. And not because you’re my boss but because I’ve always considered you as my own. I’ve always cared about you, loved you. I’ve watched you grow up. And I know this will upset you, but you’re the same boy to me who left as a sweet, intelligent teenager but came back as this harsh, intimidating man.”

She takes a few moments of pause. As if giving me time to absorb her words.

And she’s right to do that.

I do need time to absorb her words. To get past her statement about who I was, who I pathetically used to be, and who I am now. Whom I’ve changed into.