The Messy Months [EDITING]

August - 5

When Marcy awoke, she knew it was late. There was too much sunshine. She looked at the alarm clock on her nearby desk. It read 9:48. She had class in twelve minutes.

After skipping breakfast and throwing on clothes she knew clashed, she was out the door. Then she was back inside because she couldn't forget her bag or her books. Or to lock the door. After compiling everything, she was on her way, jogging across campus like a lunatic. Amazingly, she didn't crash into anyone or fall on her face, and she arrived just moments before her professor did.

Her class dragged on for what seemed like forever, but Marcy felt alert, taking partial enjoyment in the subject matter they were discussing. Of course, her stomach wouldn't be quiet, and even from her place in the back of the room, she was sure everyone could hear it rumbling. Someone nearby snickered, confirming her suspicion. But if the two granola bars she'd slowly been nibbling on couldn't calm her hunger, what could she do?

When the class ended, Marcy was out the door again, this time in search of some food. She decided the coffee and donut shop were her best bet, even though she got visions of her embarrassing herself again. As she half walked half jogged, she thought about coffee and Trym, and about how he was a close match to the shade of a creamy cappuccino.

She would have turned around right then and there—she didn't need any more embarrassing moments or caffeine to fuel her weird thoughts — but her stomach was persistent, pushing her into dragging on.

The shop was pleasant as usual, with its granular browns and modern greens. She was even able to ignore her timid tendencies by ordering with her shoulders back. Of course, when they called her out to get her drink and lunch, she snatched it up and left before she could get too bold.

Marcy decided there was enough time for her to walk back to campus before her next class started. She ate as she went, trying to convince herself that donuts were healthy. The jelly isn't pure sugar, Marcy thought. It's... jelly. Jelly made with processed fruit. Fruit is good.

The rest of Marcy's day went on as planned. She finished her class—still no Trym (NOT that she wanted to notice)—and shifted to work mode without a hitch. She even received a generous tip from an older couple. The man sort of went ballistic, shouting at Marcy. His wife assured her it was normal and due to a combination of new hearing aid plus meds. Marcy did her best to serve them—even when they requested different meals—and was happy a small bonus had come out of it.

She was exhausted by the end of her shift and decided to walk through campus on her way home. Not because she was hoping to see anyone, but because she wanted to test if this way was shorter, even if it had proved to be much longer many times before.

Marcy was halfway across campus by the time Trym showed up. He just appeared out of nowhere, smiling as he strutted beside Marcy. She glanced at him and his smooth stride, not knowing what to say.

You look nice tonight.

You do look like a cappuccino.

Where have you been?

"You look nice tonight," Trym murmured, and Marcy self-consciously dropped her gaze to her clothes. They were still the mismatched items she'd thrown on earlier.

"Thank you. So do you."

He beamed, showing his nice teeth to her again. "So what is a little lady like you doing out here at night?"

Marcy snorted, appreciating his attempt at a southern drawl. "I'm walking home. What are you doing here so late?"

"Practice."

When he didn't elaborate, Marcy chanced a glance at him. He was already looking at her, and they stopped when their gazes connected. "Practice?"

"Mhm."

Marcy wanted to ask what he was practicing but decided it would be better not to pry. "Sounds fun..." She turned to start walking again, feeling her exhaustion creep back into her system.

"Hey, wait up."

Marcy looked back to watch Trym lower himself into the grass, his long frame taking up much of the small patch of lawn they'd stopped on. He touched his palms to his chest and looked up at her expectantly.

"Um..."

"In order for us to have an inspiring slash tender moment, we need to lie in the grass, on our backs, and marvel at the sky." When Marcy continued to stare, he inquired, "Haven't you noticed that requirement throughout your favorite films and novels?"

Marcy snorted, crossing her arms. "Don't make the mistake of thinking I'll come down there with you. There are bugs in that grass and... dirt. Mud. And probably bird poop."

Trym made his big eyes bigger and his pouty lips poutier. "Come on, M..."

Marcy scowled, finding herself too easily convinced into laying beside him. She felt stupid and self-conscious—which made her feel worse. But it made her feel kind of bold too. When was the last time she laid in the grass beside a cute gentleman?

She tried to not think about it.

Marcy spoke to the sky, thinking it would remove the romantic factor Trym hinted at. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"

Trym's fingers squeezed her elbow. "...you can do this. Also, dirt and mud are synonymous. Sorta."

Marcy turned her head to look at him, shocked to the core. Of all the things he could've said, he said exactly what she needed to hear. In exactly the way it needed to be said in order to convince her.

"Are you a magician?" she breathed, biting down on her lip and wanting instantly to take the words back.

"As a matter of fact, yes, I am." Trym sat up, and Marcy immediately followed. He moved his hand behind her head, used his fingers to tuck her hair back and dramatically pulled his hand back. She was disappointed to see it was empty.

"That's it? You're just going to say you're a magician and then not do anything?" Marcy noticed how his hand stuck in the air, and she lifted her gaze to meet his intense eyes.

"Marcy...," Trym breathed. Marcy couldn't help but admire his eyes and the sky behind his head. They were dazzling. When she could feel his breath on her cheek, he whispered. "Not all magicians have tricks."

Again, his words took her by surprise and she pulled her head back, trying not to register the underlying meaning woven into his statement.

"I need to get going."

"Let me take you home."

"I don't think that would be—"

"Please, Marcy. I won't be able to sleep unless I know you got home safely."

She sighed, looking away. "Alright."

Trym smiled a small smile, folding himself up to stand, then offering his hand to her. She looked away as she took it, feeling how cold his skin was as he helped her up. He squeezed her fingers just slightly before letting go and accompanying her back to her apartment. Their conversation was minimal and awkward, and as soon as Marcy had the door shut and locked, she couldn't help feeling like she'd done and said all the wrong things once again.