It’s a Long Story...

I can’t help but remember the day I met him. The man with the vibrant green eyes, like sunstained grass in early autumn mornings. Heavy eyebrows that fell over the thick, dark lashes - shadowing the kaleidoscopic, picturesque features. A sculpted chin and high chiseled cheekbones, everything about him was seemingly impossible, improbable for anyone to attain such beauty. I’d fallen in love. Possibly the worst scenario to meet my husband. He was intelligent, insightful, and to me, I saw past his appearance, and any of his flaws, and was captivated by he in himself. I will admit, his looks surpassed most, and yet, I was allured by his benevolence and charity. But I remember that day, perfectly. I was about 17 at the time; clutching my chest, struggling to breathe, as I sat in the corner of the airport, people passed me by in a haze as I crumpled to the awfully germ-infested floor of the facility. Panic attacks weren’t uncommon, I was prone to these types of episodes. I did live in New York, so no one bothered to lend a hand, and I wasn’t expecting one. A brunette kneeled down next to me, just catching my peripheral vision range. My eyes shifted over to the man, I was expecting him to take my purse and run off with my things. Yet I could only sit there, helpless, breathless, alone. Surprisingly, I felt his rough, calloused hand grip my shoulder and shake me gently. “Miss?” I heard him say, his voice was far away and detached from any discernable direction. “Miss, you okay?” He murmured gently, his Southern drawl like hot chocolate being poured on a frigid day; like satin and silk dresses flowing gracefully in absolute beauty. He was my savior, and I could feel him wrap me up in his arms, carrying me up to one of the medics in the establishment. The trip to the hospital I don’t remember, or I’d blacked out at that point from hyperventilation. I’d awoken the next day, surprised that there sat the man from the other day, fast asleep, slumped over in one of the obscenely tacky arm chairs. The ones that are olive green, accented with mocha browns and shades of beige. At first I was skeptical, then grateful, then furious. I appreciated him helping me and seeing that I slept alright, (which, to be frank, was unsettling), but I had missed the flight down to Waco. There was no special reason I’d decided, other than getting a scholarship to Baylor University, one of the top 20 fashion colleges within the United States. Even though I lived in New York, one of