Where Do Broken Hearts Go?

39. Without Ransom

Marcel has been teasing me with the nickname Princess, but today, he made me feel as such with our visit to Disneyland.

He methodically told me to put on something cute and to follow him. With no questions asked, I disappeared and reemerged in a white, skater dress with red hearts sprinkled all over.

At first sight, the playful assemble made Marcel's face light up. He called it perfect. Before my shoes were tied, we had arrived at the theme park. I was rewarded with a pair of red-sequin, Minnie Mouse ears.

Once we reached Sleeping Beauty's Castle, the ears were replaced with a tiara. Marcel took the liberty of coronating me.

Yes, this may sound childish or even stupid to you, but the way my heart fluttered, smile pained my face, and laughs echoed throughout the park made me forget a world existed outside of Marcel and me.

It amazes me how much magic a man can create in one day, one hour, one minute or one second. One second of excitement by looking into his eyes and the thrill of his unpredictable nature. 48 hours that come and go like winter days. 2880 minutes that feel like they should last a lifetime.

How did I allow someone to come into my life and hold a world I've always wanted to see behind his eyes without any form of ransom?

"Who said you were allowed to do this?" I play in Marcel's short hair as we lounge on his bed. No matter where we are in the world, if he claims a bed as his, it's my favorite place to be.

"I thought it was time for something new." He shakes up the clipped locks.

"You didn't consult with me."

"I didn't know I needed to." He smiles as the sun sets in his eyes. They seem washed out as his pupils constrict from the brightness. The true waves sparkle as they sway about my face.

"100%."

"Mmm." He turns his concern towards the window. "It's not going to be the same tomorrow." He checks on me as my brows bunch. "You won't be here."

"It won't be your first time seeing the Eiffel Tower without me."

"Yes, it will."

"I thought..." I ponder, searching for a fib. "You've never been to Paris?"

"It's a special city. I had to bring someone to match this beautiful city's quality." He pinches my chin, then pulls his lips into his mouth.

Although I don't detach my eyes from his, I wouldn't say I gave consent to be read. I just can't stray away from him as something heavy sits on my heart.

"I don't want to disappoint you," I say, my shy voice only reaching a whisper.

"How could you do that?"

"I don't want to hurt you when I leave." I wait for him to tell me I won't, but we both know it's inevitable at this point.

"What about you? How are you going to feel when you leave?"

"Like I'm leaving something behind." I bite the inside of my lip as punishment for my boldness.

Clearing his throat, Marcel's eyes begin to dart around the room, uncomfortable with the coming certainty and conclusion to this fluffy whirlwind.

"Isn't that how you felt when you left New York?"

"Yes."

"Do you even want to leave?" 

"I have unfinished business in New York."

"Okay." He accepts the indirectly answered question. "In these past few months, I've made many promises to myself. One: Don't force anything."

Though his eyes are on me, they hold a faraway look. He had countless other thoughts scratching at the surface; all threatening to shut him down with overwhelment. Drawing a deep breath, he releases it all through his nose, trying to flush the stacked notions. His mood is sinking in.

"When we go home, are you going to pull away from me?"

"I promise I won't."

"Thanks." My nod turns into a saddened bow. This could very well be our last trip together. As silence hangs in the air, I believe he knows it as well. I'm not ready for this. "Can we save this for another day? I don't want to have this conversation yet."

"Don't, because you may feel differently as time goes on. You're not done convincing yourself." He says as I look down, but Marcel lifts my chin from self-pity. "Don't feel bad about that. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty about doing what you feel is best for you. I can't tell you how to live your life. I'm just asking you to be apart of mine until then." He requests, setting his hand down after getting a glimpse of my wedding ring.

To avoid reality, he keeps his hands to himself by stationing them over his bend legs. Knocking my hair off my shoulder, I rub his knee, then perch my head on it.

Marcel's fighting himself; battling his mood as novel feelings spin in his head. The weight of them become too much as he dangles his head between his legs. 

I massage the back of his neck hoping to relax him. As he sits up, Marcel does everything to evade my gaze. When my hand comes to his face, he gives me the attention I've been begging for. Noting the contact, his skin grows warmer.

Did he want me touching him, stroking his cheek, remembering where his lonely dimple sits?

With my heart pounding against my chest, I muster the bravery to lay my thumb upon his petal-soft lips. It's uncharted territory, yet surprisingly I'm willing to test its waters. When Marcel doesn't pull away from me, I take the risk of drowning and lean into him. He doesn't stray. Instead, our eyes fall to the other's lips.

My thumb digresses to fill the space between his lips with mine. It feels as if someone tossed a lit match at my feet, causing my whole body to go up in flames. Sadly, someone immediately hoses me down. Receiving nothing in return, I drag my face away from Marcel's. Clamping my lip under my teeth, I regret the brave and unusual move. Still able to taste his lips, I'm forced to let go of my own. With the rejection I'm suffering, I don't want to familiarize myself with the sweet sample.

"I'm sor-" 

The remainder of my apology is lost against Marcel's mouth as he cups my jaw to properly introduce his lips to mine.

I set a hand on his chest, steadying myself, but I find that rather tough to do with his heart skipping off rhythm. Through my weariness, my lips fold over his, encouraging him. His lips begin to slowly move against mine. The faint taste of cinnamon sits on the tip of his tongue and a sweeter known flavor beneath – Marcel.

There had always been a small groan in the back of my throat, but as his teasing tongue just barely flicks my upper lip, he releases it. Why would he do that then pull away? Blindly, I raise my chin in search of him. I'm rewarded with the small puff of his knowing scoff. Aware of my greedy ways, a smirk appears as his breath tickles my sensitive lips.

Marcel's lips brush against mine, waiting for me to retake the bait. I do. As he played with the hair at the back of my neck, my clutch on his shirt grows a bit tauter. I sink, falling further victim to his delicate, yet thorough rule.

Detaching, we admit the milestone. His eyes collect me and all of my divested vulnerability. With ring-clad fingers gracing my cheekbones, Marcel leans in again. His lips dust over my cheeks, nose, forehead, eyelids, and chin. He kisses me as if everything pure and beautiful about the world is sitting in his gentle palms. 

Over my giggles, I assure the reality through touch – my thumb caressing the delicate skin of his neck. I'm unconscious of where my joyous daze has taken my hands, until my finger dips into the once hidden dimple. My dreamy eyes find an adorably-delighted smile. 

Marcel's soft chuckle sounds like a scoff before he declares, "Sebastian told me to do that."