I'm With You

Chapter Two: Marcella

Chapter Two: Marcella 

I don't hesitate in kicking the shin of the dark figure as hard as I can and then shoving him so he hits the ground with a loud thwack. Gripping my purse, I'm fully prepared to beat this man to death when he looks up with a scowl, and I suddenly recognize my "attacker."

"Marcella, what-" he's cut off when I bring my purse down on his head with the force of a vengeful warrior angel.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" I yell, bringing my purse down on his head twice more before he grabs it and snatches it from my grasp. He hops to his feet in one smooth move.

"Trying to make sure my girlfriend gets home safely, but apparently that's deserving of a beating," Ash grumbles, dramatically rubbing his head where I hit him.

"First off, I didn't ask you to do that," I seethe, snatching my purse back from his grasp. "Secondly, I don't see how scaring me half to death is helping my health in any way! What, did you get tired of stalking from a distance?"

"What are you talking about?"

I open my mouth, ready to shoot off a biting remark, when I realize he's being serious. He wasn't the one walking behind me.

"I just. . ." My words fall flat as I realize I have no idea how to explain to him that I'm being paranoid about my best friend going missing, and now I'm seeing ghosts around every corner. I've already let my obsession over her get between our relationship once. I can't bring myself to make him worry over me anymore.

"Why are you here, Ash?" I question. And for the first time tonight, I feel the little butterflies, the ones that made a home in my chest five months ago when I first met him, take flight. My heart beats a little faster as I take in the sight of the boyfriend I haven't seen in about four days.

His olive skin is smooth and marked only by a tattoo design inked into his skin along the right side of his chest and traveling across his shoulder to his bicep. The tattoo itself is a work of art, looking like a mandala design. His hair is black and long enough so that he runs his hands through it to keep it swept back and out of his face. He's a little under the six-foot mark, but compared to my short stature he's practically a giant.

The first thing the girls at my old high school noticed were his broad shoulders and muscled frame. A friend of mine had even said he looked like a boxer (or a street fighter, she had whispered to me conspiratorially, and we both giggled like school girls at that.)

Most of my previously fellow students were simply mesmerized by the fact that he was twenty years old at the time I started dating him at eighteen. When you're in high school, a twenty-year-old, even though it's only a two-year gap, seems far more mature and older than the rest of us.

The first things I noticed about him were his dark green eyes the color of rich healthy grass on a warm summer day, and his brilliant smile that is both flirtatiously teasing and sly. Both never fail to bring a blush to my face, even if I am furious with him.

"When I asked you five days ago if you wanted to go get dinner sometime, you lined up your full schedule for me so that I knew there was at least a reason you were avoiding me." I open my mouth to interject, but he plows on, "I saw that you were going to be leaving the Zhao's home around 11 at night, so I thought I'd at least walk you home."

My heart pangs with guilt, and I struggle not to drop my eyes to the ground in shame. This man has treated me far better than I deserve the past few weeks. I can't even deny that I've been avoiding him because, well. . .I have been.