Between the Lines✔ [COMPLETED]

[21] The Witness

Malory

"Why are you so dressed up?" I ask him –he's leaning against the counter while I gather the jar of sugar and the blocks of chocolate from the fridge while the water's heating up on the stove. We're making hot chocolate. "And how did you manage to be down here? Didn't we cancel practice?"

"I went to the gym for a bit. Was planning to have dinner out at a restaurant," he says.

I raise a brow at him, "All by yourself again?" 

"Not that I have a choice," he says, smiling, "And I don't exactly have an excuse for being down here, really. I just thought maybe," he scratches the back of his neck, "maybe while I was walking I'd see if your house was beaming with silent happiness from the outside." I sulk. He frowns. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make that sound like I wa-"

"-It's fine," I say, cutting him off. "I'm used to it."

___

The year's flying by –the second week of November has already approached us. I've made it a habit not to turn TV on around this time because I'm tired of watching the same ads be repeated more times than the actual program being presented within a single hour –every single day.
It's now Thursday, and Kyle is, again, over at my place for practice. 

"I've crossed seas and wrestled giants –fighting over the folly traits of men and disguising my iniquities through empty confessions. I've dared to tackle adventures that tickle the trail up and down my spine –to spin, deliberately, the wheels off the cliff –to draw my sword against myself for the sake of another, and through it all I have survived. So tell me, good brother, tell me what is so exclusively nerve wrecking about a masquerade ball that makes me uneasy in unthinkable ways? Am I as a woman to fret over such an event? Am I weak to consider the anxiety they build at the mere words of an invitation to such a ball? Good brother, do not conclude to be joyous in my attendance –I beg of you. I should fancy myself happier in the ruggedness of the mysterious night."

I stare at Kyle.

Well boy...

It took Kyle all of one week to understand how to say that right –and, yes, Malory Lloyd is going to sound stupid for saying this, but...

Fuck, he sounds so attractive talking like that.

Oh my god.

Send help.

I don't understand why he thinks that he has to yell every two lines whenever he gets to new pieces that he has to learn. He reads like he's reading –not like he's speaking... if you... if you get what I mean by that.

Anyway.

"I'm amazed," I say, blinking at him.

He bites his lip, nervous. "I did practice. I did. I really tried."

"You won't believe how much baggage feels like it's been lifted off my shoulders –you're getting the hang of this so quickly," I tell him, proudly. "But," I say, shrugging, "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You pick things up pretty easily anyway. Genius and all."

A moment passes. He smirks at me. "So you're admitting it without insulting me for once?"

"What?" I ask, suddenly, "That you're a genius? Don't be an imperious, bobble-headed hyena, Davidson. C'est un compliment, mais tu es toujours ennuyeux." I smirk to myself. I know that he doesn't know shit about what I just said. He hasn't read a word of French since Year One, I imagine –I'm topping my class at the Year Five level, which I'd like to think is pretty advanced.
Internally, I give myself a high five.