After briefly stopping by Father Peter's office and explaining that someone had snapped a picture at the exact moment I promised Mary I wasn't going anywhere, the old priest just laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Bad timing, son. Or very good timing,” he'd said with a grin.
Then, he clasped my shoulder.
“Congratulations on the upcoming nuptials.”
I blinked.
“Father, we haven't actually discussed?—”
“Nonsense. I've seen that look before. You'll be married by Christmas.”
The old man winked.
And then, because apparently everyone in my life has lost their minds, he promised not to tell anyone until we made the official announcement.
A white lie?
Maybe.
But considering I plan on keeping the little redheaded teacher forever?
Marriage seems like the logical conclusion—which brings me back to my current mood.
This stupid motherfucker.
I'm mad.
No, that’s not good enough.
I'm beyond mad.
I am spitting mad.
Seething, furious, enraged—all of the above.
The kind of angry that settles behind your eyes and makes everything look red.
Some asshole started a smear campaign against Mary because she told him no.
Because she refused him.
Because she wouldn't let him put his hands on her.
And now she's had her private life completely exposed and put on public display.
Of course, she’s upset.
Embarrassed.
Questioning herself.
My Firecracker.
The woman who spends her own money buying supplies for kids.