Where Do Broken Hearts Go?

26. Striving

Marcel and I just stare at each other, waiting for one to speak. Then, I realize I'm the one that has to give approval. It didn't feel wrong, but a hint of guilt crept in my heart. I went on to feel guilty about feeling guilty about something so minor and given with solace intention.

"N-no." My eyes ditch his for a calming second. "It was innocent." On the last word, I nearly hesitate again. If I would have, it would have come off as an unconvinced assumption – because that's precisely what it was.

"Obviously. It's not that serious." He shrugs as he jeers, knocking me off my pedestal. 

Clearing my throat, my head almost lowers, but I catch myself by jerking it towards a passing cyclist. 

"Let's go back to the hotel. It's getting dark." Marcel suggests.

"Sure." I get off the bench, tucking away my loose strands. Not wanting to finish our day awkwardly, I affirm, "I believe I deserve chocolate after all the stress you put me through today?"

As Marcel stands, he picks his phone up from the bench. With a smart remark lurking behind the classic smirk, his eyes flick up and down my frame. "You think you're a good girl? Ha!" He draws his head back to release a loud, mocking laugh.

"I'm getting chocolate," I confirm the plan.

Marcel comes towards me only to pass and say, "You nibbled on everything last time. I'm getting my own."

"Then do that!" I begin my steps, but Marcel stops both of us as he turns around.

"Who are you raising your voice at?" 

With false authority between them, his brows furrow. I'm aware he's a bit serious, but really, what's he gonna do?

As I avoid the question, I pull my full lips into my mouth to contain my giggles. However, my chest bounces as one tries to get loose. Looking back to Marcel, there's a hint of frustration in his heightened brows before he continues on his path.

"I'm talking to you, Marcel. I'm getting my chocolate."

"You don't deserve a damn thing." He says over his shoulder.

I smile, creating a tempo with my heels as I approach Marcel. Taking his arm, I set my chin on his shoulder then ask, "Can I keep the rose?"

"Yes, you can keep the rose." He laughs. 

I tap the back of my head to make sure it's still there – it is.

Exhausted from their adventurous day, Marcel and Angel turned in around 11 PM. Angel slept peacefully in her room – accustomed to leaving the left side of her bed open. Marcel laid in his bed, thoughts, and actions of earlier lingering on the ceiling. 

His restless eyes fall upon the empty right side of his bed before rolling on his side to face the window. That's when he hears a noise causing him to jump. Checking over his shoulder, Marcel listens for it again, eyes cutting in each direction, yet catching nothing. Pulling the covers up his bare chest, Marcel turns over and closes his drowsy eyes.

Without warning, he hears the sound of a baby crying. Marcel tosses the blankets from his body, jumps from the bed, and scampers to his bedroom door. As he flicks on the light, he presses his back against the doorframe, chest heaving as a cold sweat washes over his body.

"Hello?" His deep, British accent doesn't bounce off the walls as it normally would – hindered by confusion and fright. Trying to swallow it away, he calls on an "Angel?"

After getting nothing in return, Marcel backs into his room and closes the door (believing it'll keep out whatever is prowling). That's not the case. Turning, he finds the crying, swaddled baby lying in the middle of his bed.