Dangerous: A Marcel Styles Fan Fiction

34: Letters From the Heart

34: Letters From the Heart

   I’d thought a lot about Georgia Rose’s words. Probably, more than I’d ever pondered the implications of anything else. It kept me awake after she left long into the night, and made me dry heave on several occasions. These thoughts were a sickness. This was a world where I was forced to ask myself constantly if this sickness was love, but, of course, I came up short.

   What Georgia Rose had said was correct, Marcel really had been my first everything. Though I was popular I had no history with guys. Crushes just wasted time and I’d spent a good few years constantly rejecting Kevin’s advances when Georgia Rose wasn’t around.

   I admitted a connection to Marcel, which, therefore, was my first connection with a boy. Though it had seemed meaningless, his kisses were still my first kisses. And, obviously, he’d taken my virginity and I his.

   “Guess he’s gotta laser off that butterfly now,” Georgia Rose had muttered to me, as we watched the boy clad in leather from our lockers across the hall.

   “He said he’d keep it, no matter what,” I spoke. It made my heart hurt to think he’d ever break that promise, like I’d already shattered so many. He was the good guy, I was the bad guy. He would commit to this, even if it was a constant reminder of being broken.

   It was safe to say my focus was not invested in the math in first period. All throughout this entire drama playing out to be my life, the necessity to mention the seating plan of my algebra class slipped. I did sit directly behind the boy I’d betrayed, which was just a constant reminder to the two of us of what I had done.

   When we’d gotten the work we were supposed to do I thought about Georgia Rose’s words the previous night more. I thought about what I knew I needed to do, but the word “love” playing over and over in my head gave me back the unease and the feeling of potential vomit. Instead, I tore out a sheet of useless paper and scribbled out: “I’m sorry,” making a point of pushing hard on my pencil to break the tip at the end of the “y.” I gave the paper a quick fold and rose.

   It wasn’t love, but I still made it blunt. I was sorry, and I didn’t care how many times I had to repeat it to get it through his skull! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I would say it a thousand times just to get him to forgive me and, at least, be my friend again!

   I walked passed his desk with my pencil, subtly, but obviously placing the note and went to sharpen the tip of my pencil. I watched whilst cranking as he let out a sigh and let his hand go to the folded note.

   I proceeded back to my seat when the lizard eyes of my algebra teacher Ms. Meaney became too much to handle. Of course she was a math teacher. Like her surname described she was the definition of evil.

   I looked down at the math I was supposed to be doing, but even the single glance gave me a headache stronger than the tequila hangover. Marcel probably was a great tutor – I really did believe that – unless he was madly in love with the dumbass he was tutoring. Or, formerly madly in love.

   I glanced back up and watched as he scribbled on the sheet of paper and folded it again. He waited, pretending to be reading from his textbook whilst twirling his pencil between his fingers, until Ms. Meaney stepped away to answer the confused questions of Diana Matson on the other side of the room. At that moment, he lifted his arms in the air, pretending to stretch, and dropped the note down beside my desk.

   To make bending to grab the paper seem appropriate, I flicked my pencil until it rolled over the edge of my desk and fell to the floor. I reached for it, first grabbing the pencil. The toe of a black, pleather pump stopped me from going for the note, and Ms. Meaney’s stern voice picked up.

   “Ms. Bleu, Mr. Styles, I’m sure whatever you must say to each other can wait until after my class.” Her green eyes met mine with a strict tension. She bent down and snatched the folded paper, holding it like a war prize.

   “Read it!” Jimmy Rodriguez shouted from the back of the class.

   As all I’d written were the words, “I’m sorry,” I had absolutely nothing to object to. When Marcel made no motions to protest, Ms. Meaney unfolded the note.

   “‘I’m sorry,’” she read out my part of our conversation; “‘I don’t care.’”

   I could have sworn at that moment, if one were to have listened close enough, they could have heard the sounds of my heart stopping and snapping in half.

   “Enough of a ‘thrill ride’ for you, Mr. Rodriguez?” Ms. Meaney spoke bitterly and sarcastically before she returned back up to her desk.

   Georgia Rose shot me a sympathetic look, but it still didn’t give me hope during this second round of the breaking. He could have at least been a little less blunt, like when we’d spoken yesterday outside HJ. He’d still kept it simple, but, if I wasn’t mistaken, not once had he said he didn’t care. And, because of this experience, when the bell rang, I met Marcel at his locker.

   “Marcel –”

   “Why are you doing this?” he asked me, turning his emerald orbs on me. “Why are you just torturing yourself like this? Just move on. I get it. Knowing the band got you more popularity. I understand. They’re hot and famous, and I’m not.”

   He slammed his locker door and walked away down the hall within the stream of students heading to their next classes.

   Nothing he’d just said was true. It wasn’t the band! And it wasn’t the popularity! I had wanted to be his friend at some point. Despite what he said, I had hurt him, and I wasn’t giving up until he finally forgave me.