Page 63 of Dear Future Husband

I am a rug that is constantly trampled over. A punching bag that takes the hits. A useless thing that is ignored or mistreated.

I won’t do it.

I can’t.

I don’t think I can survive a lifetime of this.

There is so much I don’t know, so much about life I don’t understand, and so much that I fear.

That isn’t a life I want to live.

A life where I am imprisoned in my skin. An existence where I am barred from connection and interaction, all because one individual proved to me the dark depths humankind can reach. That man has stolen so much from me, but I refuse to allow him toconfiscate my faith.

So, for you, for me… I will hope.

I will hope for a life where I meet a boy who is gentle. A boy who grows to be a man. A man who will see me, who knows me inside and out.

A man who knows every way he can break me, but, instead, helps build me.

I will hope for a me that is vulnerable. A me that is accepting. A me that can breathe without tears and a me that can learn to trust again.

Hope.

That is what you, my beautiful book of written words, are to me. You are my hope, bound by ink and faith. You are the hope I hold to, the hope I carry in my battered heart for a better, more peaceful life.

Love,

Maybelle Mason

24 The Plot Thickens

Maybelle

The weekend with Trey home was needed. I almost shed a tear when he had to leave me again for school.

Saturday morning, I woke up in his arms. His soft breathing puffed through my hair.

It was a beautifully surreal moment making me want, for the first time, to stay in bed. I could’ve stayed snuggled up in his massive arms, happy and warm for the rest of the weekend.

Later that morning, Trey and Chelsea did a quick brunch date while I stayed home, reading the book Trey got for me. After their date, they came home to grab me for a day at the beach.

We spent our time reading and sunbathing, which was heaven on earth for me. The cherry on top: Trey was a shirtless, sculpted masterpiece I got to admire through sneaky glances over the pages of my book. He laid himself out on a towel in front of me, a tanned muscular feast I got to sit and devour with my eyes.

He, unfortunately, didn’t sleep in my room that night. He fell asleep on the couch during a movie we’d been watching, after Chelsea left for work.

I wanted to cuddle up against his hard body, but Iwasn’t eager to break my back trying to squeeze onto the small, stiff cushions. So, I went to bed, but not before draping a blanket over him and planting an innocent kiss on his cheek.

Sunday morning, I woke to sunlight forcing its way through my shutters. Thrilled to rise with the sun all on my own, I got up, put on a comfortable pair of what Chelsea calledmom jeansand a swoop neck, long sleeve, black top before walking out to the living room to see Trey.

He was still sleeping on the couch, which made me puff with pride because this was the first time I was awake before him. The best part: I didn’t feel exhausted being up this early. I was well-rested, and my body felt energized for the new day.

I tip-toed into the kitchen, searched in the fridge for eggs, butter, and bacon. Then I got to work. Within a half hour I had breakfast cooked for two. Perfect timing because my handsome breakfast date rose from his sleep, caramel waves a pretty mess on his head.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. I made you breakfast,” I announced, beaming as I set the table.

“Wow, you didn’t have to do this,” he said, peering at the food I plated, stretching his arms above his head.

I filled him a glass of orange juice, then gestured for him to sit. “Hush, sit down and let me treat you.”