“Do you think one of those would help?”
“My art textbooks?”
Grant reaches into his backpack and yanks out the books that are too spotless for halfway through the semester. Not a pen mark or bent spine in sight.
They’re tossed onto the table, the one that really matters flopping onto the pile loudly. I tug my bottom lip between my teeth. Grant’s hands open and motion towards them.
“This is all I’ve got.”
“I see.” Twirling my pen in my hand, I attempt subtleness and nod at the one I want. “What about that one?”
“My romanticism textbook?” His lips morph into a smile. “I mean, sure. If your story is about early 18thcentury art trends in Europe?”
He chuckles, and my blood runs cold.
I blame Kameron.
It’s like Grant is speaking in another language, but I know the underlying message. Whatever romanticism is, it has absolutely nothing to do with couples being cute in art and translating into an academic sense. It holds no information on how artists view lovers, and how to portray lust and affection in a condensed piece. Nothing like the theories Kam indoctrinated me with.
Mortification is finding me so often lately, I’m starting to become numb to it.
Before I can talk my way out of this and start to consider Rosie’s twisted solution ala dating app, Grant snaps his fingers.
“Wait. Do you mean, like, you want to learn about how visual artists explore creativity? So you can apply it into how you brainstorm for your assignment?”
No. I don’t know what he means or what he’s referring to. Is this how he felt when he was getting rock bands and random adjectives jumbled up?
I’m not sure if my expression shows how lost I am, but Grant’s jaw is dropped, eyes wide. Like he’s in shock, or in awe. Like I’ve done something revolutionary. It fills a sort of satisfaction in me I’ve been hooked on all my life. Validation.
Before I can think about it, I nod. “Yes. Exactly.”
Grant breaks out into a wide smile, eyes sparkling. “That’s brilliant. If you’re at a writer’s block, I can see it helping a lot. Putting yourself into a different art medium could change your perspective.”
His words blur. All I catch onto is “brilliant” and “helping a lot.” Everything else is irrelevant.
A grin splits across my face. I can’t remember the last time I smiled at Grant like this.
“You can help me, then?”
“With figuring out how to apply this stuff,” he says, pointing to the books. “To writing a story? Definitely. Exploring creativity is the thing I’m most confident in.”
This isn’t where I intended for the conversation to go, nor is it what I thought that textbook was about, but it’s something. The closest thing I’ve got to progress.
Hope inflates in me. Maybe this wasn’t the most horrible idea I’ve had.
Leaning over the table, I extend my hand to Grant, open to whatever his ideas are. “So, you’re going to help me figure out a way out of this and pass my class. Deal?”
The corner of his mouth turns, fingers twitching twice. “There’s one more thing, actually.”
“What?”
“I thought of it last night. I think there might be a chance that blonde guy comes by the café every Thursday, now that he saw me there. And I really can’t be seen there alone, or have him see you there without me.”
The table makes a thud sound when my arm drops. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s trying to say.
“So, let me help you with your assignment. I already have some ideas.” Grant sounds hopeful and infectious. “I just need you to be seen with me at the café for a few more Thursdays. If he doesn’t show up, then I won’t bother you at work, and we can pretend this didn’t happen.”
Grant’s arm extends this time, protruding hand veins and defined muscles visible under the fluorescent light.
