She thinks I don't pay attention, but I do.
She only responds when I call her Rogue. Every time I say Marie, I see the confused look in her eyes, as if she doesn't remember telling me her birth name the first time we had class together. She tries to brush it off and smiles at me like she always does, that slight curve of her lips that could just as easily be meant for a stranger. When I put an arm around her, I can feel how rigid she is, how it takes her a few seconds to lower her shoulders and lean into my side. So I call her Rogue and never Marie and I let her think that I do it subconsciously.
She only really focuses on me when no one else is in the room. At first, when people fill the room and she flits from place to place, she tells me she just wants to get to know everyone better, that she needs to know more people than just me or else they'll think she's stuck-up, but she assures me that I'm more than enough for her. And when she has gotten to know everyone better, she blurts out random things not at all related to what I'm saying and pretends that she's been paying attention, that she just asks strange questions because she has a short attention span. I just smile at her and tell her it's ok, that I find her hectic thoughts endearing, that I know she's been listening to my every word. But I've seen her when she's alone, looking out the window, one same, singular expression on her face. I know her mind is focused on no more than one person. She always seems to have enough attention for Him.
I asked her once about what happened on Liberty Island, and she tucked her gloved hands into her sweatshirt pocket and stared out the window, biting her lip until it almost bled. When she spoke, it was in a detached voice telling me she didn't want to talk about it. I nodded and broached a different, less personal subject, but it was three full days before she was even able to look me in the eye again. I was planning on re-asking the question when we knew each other a little better and she was comfortable with me. I haven't asked her yet.
Whenever I get distracted enough to look away from her for a second, I turn back to find her fingering the dogtags around her neck thoughtfully. When I asked her about them, she told me they were from a friend but she won't say who. I know who they're from. I noticed them around her neck the moment she left the foosball tournament and came back, the sound of a stolen motorcycle purring in the background.
She won't let me touch her because she's afraid she'll hurt me, but she runs to Logan and throws her arms around his neck without hesitation when he opens the door. And I can't help the jealousy that rises in my gut at that simple act of trust. Not for one second does she think that he can't take care of himself around her. I'm just Bobby Drake, an untested teenage boy, and Logan, Logan is a force of nature. He embraces her without fear and he doesn't have to do anything to incite the wide grin on Marie's face, something I've never gotten the pleasure of being acquainted with.
It's jealousy that makes me assert myself as her boyfriend, but I find him giving me only one dismissive glance and a slight smirk, as if he knows this is only temporary, that I don't have what it takes to hold Marie's heart. I hate that I know it, too.