Lacy

I'm a hot mess.

We're talking, pull up Google, type in the term and my face would be the first thing you see. All pristine-like with glorious beads of sweat glistening beautifully across my forehead as my hair does its traitorous job of dancing ferociously along my head in all directions. Combine that with the small confine of space I'm currently working with and I think I've pretty well sealed the title for hot mess extraordinaire.

If it weren't for the fact that my place of living happens to be inside the one thing I'm still proud of, I might actually dump my life into the category of a shitshow. But deciding to buy a drool worthy mint green 1967 VW Bus as my first major purchase fresh out of college four years ago, is currently playing in my favor. Nevermind the fact it's been both an art studio and a form of transportation over the years, but it's now granted me a solid place of sleep while I lie in that dreaded in-between-apartments land.

Fact of the matter is, losing my apartment to my landlord's lazy ass son who, by the way, quit his job at the local Surf and Sip because the hours interfered with his gaming schedule, isn't actually the end of the world. Sure, I had two weeks to find a new place—which I didn't—but it landed me here, with a front row view of Crescent Bay's main attraction.

The relief of the cool ocean breeze sails through the open side door, clinging to my muggy damp skin. It's a well needed boost of energy as I carve my scalpel into the detailed edge of clay I'm attempting to mold into something worth anything. The music fills the air, causing my hips to do their usual back and forth sway, the one that somehow brings that extra spark of focus.

It's the mixture of sounds outside I'm trying to drown out, the various torments of noise always aching to grab my attention and send me spiraling away from the work at hand. It's why the rhythmic beat of 90s favorites echoes throughout the tight, heated space of my beloved van.

Dry remnants of clay cake my arms, creating a familiar tight pull as I reach for a piece of driftwood. Does the current work in progress require driftwood? No. Was it in the original masterpiece I dreamt up this morning while the peaceful lull of the waves crashed in the background? Of course not. But they are laying there along the white leather seat, calling my name in a chorus of chants.

That's all it takes for my vision to swiftly change, for the art itself to take on a mind of its own. It likes to do that. To call to the earthly remnants around it as if it's its own beacon. I'm not one to stand in the way.

Just as I hold it up to the sculpted figure in front of me, the loud obnoxious ring of my phone has me jumping, nearly throwing the piece of wood out the door. I reach for my phone, sliding it between my ear and shoulder so as not to break the flow of inspiration flooding my gut.

"I'm cooking," I answer, not breaking stride as I angle the mini piece of lumber delicately in place.

The laugh on the other side of the line has my heart warming. "Referring to your art as cooking is really not the same as actually cooking, Lacy." My friend and colleague, Kelsey, chuckles with a knowing huff.

"And yet, you knew exactly what I meant," I retort.

"The sun's up, of course you're wrapped up in something creative."

I smile at the thought, taking a moment to glance out the window of my van. The sun is glowing, the sparkle of diamonds dancing along the surface of the water. It's moments like this when everything feels like it's falling into place, like the rest of the darkened shadows don't actually exist.

"Which is exactly why you need to enter the showcase in the city," Kelsey cuts back in, pulling my gaze from the tranquil waters in front of me and back to the piece of clay trying to take form.

Thing is, Kelsey is the English teacher at the school I work at. She's always looking for these hidden opportunities for students to enter in writing contests or attend author readings. Somehow along her findings, she discovered a contest for new artists to be seen. And now I'm the center of her ever so lovingly and nagging form of convincing.

"I already told you–"

"You already told me it wasn't for you. I know. But since you're totally avoiding, I'm going to keep prying until I break down one of those ironclad walls you've welded into place. You know I'm good with a powertool."

My shoulders shake with amusement as I reach back for the scalpel. This dang piece of driftwood is off by about an inch. If I can manage to MacGyver this tool into a saw, I can carve out the perfect notch and slide this baby into place.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"So, did you find a place yet?"

My shoulders drop, causing my hands to shift and the phone to wobble on my shoulder as I adjust to keep it from falling. "No. But I'm starting to think I've found my new home right here."

"Sleeping in your van is not a home, Lacy. Not to mention, you know how many creeps prowl at night? I hate that you're in there alone."

What should have me rolling my eyes and laughing at her overprotective sentiment falls short as that tight pull strains my heart. The filed claws dig into my chest, penetrating that very wall that is supposed to be unbreakable. It's not, though. If Kelsey only knew how vulnerable the foundation was, she wouldn't poke so hard to watch it crumble.

"I'm fine," I choke out the words, wishing they didn't sound so broken as they wobble free.

"I know you're badass and all, but I'd feel a lot better if you were in a place with actual walls. And a deadbolt. Deadbolts are good, you know?"

The shake that's found my hands has me fumbling, a steady rattle now making the task at hand a whole lot more difficult. I push past the clammy texture of my palms, taking one of those heavy breaths that always feel like I'm drowning.

"It's really not that bad. Besides, I'm not the only one with a new living arrangement."

"I see what you're doing," she says, taking a small breath as I continue to fiddle with this overly stubborn piece of driftwood. "I accept your deflection, though, and raise you an invite to our housewarming next weekend."

I smile, squeezing the phone between my chin and shoulder as I begin to carve out the perfect little notch of wood. "Of course I'll be there."

"Good. Because I feel a bit like Monica in Friends right now. You know, so incredibly excited to be taking this step with Gabe but also a little swept up in the fact that I have to live with a boy," she whines out the last few words, the perfect impression of Monica, and it has me laughing.

"Kels, you'll be...shit!" I shout, throwing the wood down in front of me as a puddle of blood begins to gather along the small surface of my work space. I pull my finger to my mouth, trying to stop the blood from staining the fabric of the seats.

"What's wrong?" Kelsey blurts through a veil of panic.

"Nothing," I mutter behind my hand. "I just cut my finger. It's fine." I pull my hand from my mouth, watching the blood immediately begin to drain down my hand in gushing waves. I pull at the open wound, nearly losing my breakfast when what appears to be my bone stares back at me. Great. "Actually," I begin, pausing to reach for a towel and hold it firmly to the gash. "Let me call you back."

I reach for a hair tie, spinning it a few times around the towel fastened to my finger before closing the side doors and slipping into the driver's seat.

In the matter of a swift two hour wait in the emergency room—you know, because the blood spilling out of my paper towel is truly not a big concern—I find myself planted on the edge of a hospital bed. The nurse gave my finger a good look, deeming it necessary for the doctor to come in and give it the official inspection.

The wonderful world of hospitals plays its hopeful tune again as I spend another twenty minutes swinging my legs from the bed and examining the various posters along the walls. From skeletal outlines to STDs, I'm becoming rather informed. I might even walk out of here with a medical degree.

The two quiet knocks at the door have me shifting my posture and preparing for those casual, often awkward, pleasantries.

"Hi, I'm–" But his words cut off as his eyes fall on me, the silence definitely hitting on that bit of awkward I was preparing for.

Except nothing could prepare me for this moment. Because the set of emerald eyes staring back at me are crystal clear in familiarity, shining with memories of a time I barely remembered until this exact moment. A slideshow of tiny moments locked away and slowly drifting to the surface. So much so that I'm suddenly very aware of the fact I'm providing the dictionary definition of messy bun atop my head. Fantastic.

I swallow the lump of shock, quickly replacing it with a knowing, and confident smile. "Trevor fucking James," I finish for him.