Marry Me by Heidi Wessman Kneale

She ignored the bruise Mr. Wilson had inflicted on her upper arm. If her mother continued her silly advocacy of Mr. Elliott, she would show her what he had done to her. Let her contest his suitability then.
    Raymond and Elliott circled each other. Raymond moved smooth, like a cat whereas Elliott bounced. Both were in shirtsleeves, though Millie didn’t see where Mr. Elliott’s jacket had gone.
    “Millie’s n-not y-y-ours.” Raymond feinted at Elliot, who dodged.
    Jab-jab, then retreat. Elliot danced back then advanced, swinging a right hook that fell well clear of its intended target.
    “Aw, stop playing with ’em, Wilson,” a man called out from the crowd. The crowd laughed at that.
    Mr. Elliott’s face reddened. “He’s stealing my girl!” he shouted at them.
    “I wasn’t yours in the first place,” Millie shouted back. “Why don’t you just clear off?”
    Mr. Elliott shook his head. “Don’t you see? You don’t know what you want. He’s bad for you. Got you believing all sorts of wrong things.” But he kept his eyes on Raymond.
    Millie’s hand closed tight on the jacket and the heart. “Has it ever occurred to you that I chose him?”
    His eyes tightened. He hesitated and frowned.
    That was all the opening Raymond needed. In a one-two-three combination, he socked Elliott’s face, spinning him around. Elliott fell to his knees, his hands slamming hard on the tiled floor.
    The crowd cheered, a hearty sound full of male glee. Millie looked about. Most of the women had retreated, leaving a circle of men enclosing the pugilists.
    Mr. Elliott spat out bloody saliva. He pushed himself upright, rage contorting his face. “Millie, we’re leaving!” He lunged at her.
    Millie screamed and backed off.
    Raymond was there. He tripped Elliott and followed it up with a kick to his backside. Elliott sprawled on the floor once more, but Raymond wasn’t leaving him there. He hauled Elliott up with both hands and they squared off once more.
    Mr. Elliott’s anger had blossomed. With a cry of rage, he launched himself at Raymond. Both men tumbled to the floor, to the oohs of the crowd.
    Raymond rolled them over and delivered another punch to Elliott before springing to his feet. Perspiration dampened his sprung collar. Elliott only had a few moments to rise when he received a straight one-two punch to his face.
    “G-g-g-ive up,” Raymond urged. A few flecks of blood—not his—spattered the front of his shirt.
    “No.” Elliott rushed him again. Raymond stepped aside.
    Mr. Elliott stumbled and didn’t fall down.
    “S-s-ay Uncle.”
    That needled Mr. Elliott’s anger. He rushed Raymond again, who had no problems tripping him and dropping Mr. Elliott to the floor once more. This time, he planted his knee in Elliott’s back.
    “S-s-say Uncle.”
    Mr. Elliott murmured an unintelligible reply.
    “S-s-s-a it-t-t.”
    “Mmmfh!”
    Raymond bent down. “Sh-she’s not y-y-your girl. N-n-never-r w-w-as.” Instead of leaping up to resume the fight, he beckoned a couple of fellows over. “T-t-take out th-the trash, p-p-please?”
    “Love to,” they replied. Together, they hauled a dishevelled and blood-streaked Mr. Elliott up between them. “Any final words?” one of them asked.
    Elliott’s final words were not for polite company. Everyone gasped when he told Raymond what he could do with himself.
    “Mr. Elliott!” Millie declared. She marched up in front of him. “How dare you use such language in front of me?” She drew a deep breath to steady her nerves. She would speak slowly and calmly. Otherwise, she feared she’d tear off his face herself. “I will make myself very clear.” Her voice wavered at the end and she inhaled once more. Surely there was some courage lurking in the air? “I was never yours. I don’t like you. I don’t know why you thought I was—” She shook her head. “Just—” she held up her hand. “Go away.”
    Mr. Elliott murmured something under his breath, over and over.