I’ve waited for Grant to apologize for a long time. Patiently. But time has created distance between me and any forgiveness I reserved for him.
The café’s bell rings. The tall, blonde guy that initiated this reunion walks out of the shop. I’m not obligated to be standing here any longer.
“There. He’s gone.” I pull my lips into a sarcastic smile, ready to leave, when the lo-fi music playing through the speakers pauses. Silence lasts for a few seconds before Now That We Don’t Talk by Taylor Swift plays, paired with Kameron’s laughter behind the counter.
I throw daggers at him—of course he would make a spectacle about this—but it reminds me why I subjected myself to this.
Kam. Grant. Textbook.
Assignment.
Do I really want to ask him for help when he royally screwed me last time? I almost failed the entire class. I’m basically failing my class now. I’m close to failing my entire semester.
Unfortunately, if I’m already at the bottom, the only way I can go is up.
“You still owe me. I’m too tired and annoyed, honestly, to do anything here. But I want my end of the deal.”
“Of course,” he answers quickly.
“Good.” I nod, both in agreement and to shake the defeated look on his face. Time is of the essence with my first draft deadline soon, but for both our sakes, I’ll give myself at least half a day to process everything.
“What time are you free tomorrow?”
It takes two hands and all the strength I can muster to pull the bulky library door open. It’s two sets of stairs and four students napping into their schoolwork before I find the door labeled 3A in the back corner.
Grant didn’t oppose when I suggested meeting today. He was too enthusiastic, I’d argue, when I mentioned it last night.
Over dinner, Rosie agreed my feelings were totally valid. After bottling them up for so long, it was bound to overflow the first chance it got.
We also agreed it was wise of me to step back for the night and give myself room to breathe. My best friend, however, continues to stand by her dating idea and claims if I’m willing to rekindle my friendship for a grade, I should be willing to date a few random guys too.
I told her dating men is a lot scarier than asking for some textbook insight from someone I already know, and there would be a rekindling of absolutely nothing today.
I’m going to ask him what it is they could possibly be teaching him about “romanticism” and see if I can apply it to my own work. Then I’ll walk out with my findings and go back to life without Grant McCarthy.
Two birds, one stone.
The study room door is a lot lighter than the building’s, but when it shuts behind me the air grows heavy. White walls feel like they’re moving in on the room’s small wooden table. Aside from the large dry-erase board that barely fits along the front wall, there isn’t much to look at—except Grant’s covered in a half-zip sweater, sleeves rolled up, and green eyes staring at me.
His sketchbook is laid out in front of him, flipped to a page with shapes lightly traced onto the paper, and midnight-colored headphones resting over his ears. I’ve seen this before. His daily drawing session coupled with whatever playlist he’s decided is his favorite of the week.
I wonder if he still listens to The Band CAMINO.
“Hey.” He tugs the headphones off, the old desk chair’s legs squeaking when he sits up straighter. “Glad you came.”
“Yeah.” It was my idea, after all. Did he think I was going to stand him up after last night?
I considered it. It would have been an attempt at creating my own karma, but when I brought it up to Rosie, she pointed out if I wasn’t desperate enough to show, I wouldn’t have suggested it.
The uninteresting formalities of “How are you?” and “Did you have class today?” are exchanged while I set up my own area across the table. My clear click pen embellished with purple printed bows is meticulously placed on my planner, and I fidget with it a few times before I force myself into a real conversation.
“So. About the deal.” My shoulders straighten, bracing myself to awkwardly explain this to him. “I have to write a romance short story, and right now, I’m closer to dropping out than I am to writing anything tangible.”
The chair squeaks from under him again. Grant places his elbows on the table and frowns.
“What?”
“That’s the background information. I need to write a short story for my romance writing class.” I take a deep breath. “And it turns out, I suck at writing, so...”
