The answer is obvious. My memories from undergrad paint her as ambitious. It’s one of the things that drew me to her initially. But now that she’s stressing over rubrics and comments, and not glowing under the positive evaluations she seems destined for, I see her ambition doesn’t allow time to breathe. The longer she stresses over peer evaluations, the more I worry it’s costing her mentally.
Liliana pauses before grabbing her pen and notebook.
“That’s a great line. Do you mind if I steal it for inspiration? It might work in my story.”
“Am I going to get some credit in the acknowledgments?” The fabric of my knitted vest scratches against my skin when I cross my arms. “That’s plagiarism.”
I’ve been testing the waters. This back-and-forth bantering is how I remember us and how I want us to be again. If she shuts me down, I’ll know I’m not on the right track. I’ll default to the original plan of helping with her assignment and send her links to art blogs I’ve researched. But if she jokes back, I’ll try to shift the conversation where I think it needs to go.
She laughs and points her purple bow pen at me. “Consider it my payback for undergrad.”
Hope rushes through my veins.
Perfect.
This is the first time she’s brought up our past without annoyed glances and strained breaths. I have to run with it.
“Speaking of that.” Liliana stops writing and stares at me. “I know you said you didn’t want to hear it. And I don’t want to push it on you. But I’d really like to tell you why I didn’t show up for our presentation.”
I wait for her to brush me off. I can’t blame her for wanting to be done with the topic. What kind of guy stands a girl like her up, on a day she needs me, then doesn’t explain himself afterwards?
“It already happened.” Her teeth pull her pink tinted bottom lip. “Whatever you’re going to tell me, it’s not going to reverse it.”
“I know. But I really want to tell you.”
“Grant.” She sighs. “You helped me get a good grade on my draft. If you have any more insight to share, you might be able to get me to the end of the semester.” She sounds like she’s fighting with herself, gazing between me and the work on the table. “I really don’t want you to say something that takes me back to that day, and hurts me so much, I go back to doing this on my own.”
Hurt.
She could’ve said angry, or upset, or confused, but hurt is what she chose to describe what I did. My chest aches.
“That only makes me want to tell you even more.” When she continues to hesitate, I throw in. “I’ll tell you who that blonde guy is, too.”
I’d prefer to keep the conversation far away from my father and his family, but if I have to use them as a bargaining chip, then I will.
After a few silent moments of shuffling in her seat and avoiding eye contact, Liliana nods.
I reach into my brain and find the dialogue I’ve rehearsed over the past week. Everything I’ve wanted to say to her and what I consider to be the best way to explain myself.
“First, I’m so sorry. I know I’ve already apologized, but I want you to know that Iamsorry, and I’ve been sorry. For leaving you hanging that day, and for not apologizing sooner. I’ve had more than enough chances to apologize and instead of doing it, I’ve just been thinking about how much I missed talking to you. Ididn’t even consider why we stopped talking to begin with. That was selfish of me.”
The pink hue I adore spreads on her cheeks again. I don’t intend to tell her everything I feel towards her, not today, but I think it’s important for Liliana to know she’s never really left my mind.
“That entire week was bad for me. It’s not an excuse, but I need you to know I didn’t forget about you. It was more than our class I skipped out on. I missed every final that week.”
“What?” A new expression spreads across her face. Worry. “How did you pass your classes?”
“I didn’t,” I confess. Her mouth parts an inch. “I failed all of them. I retook everything in winter session.”
I leave out that Keller coughed up my tuition, and the part where I seriously considered taking a year off after three straight semesters of school. Despite being burnt out during the first weeks of my graduate program, I’m thankful I took the leap. When I walked into this café and saw Liliana on the other side of the counter, it felt like fate.
“But why…” Her quiet voice trails off.
I tug the hem of my vest and straighten it out, like that’ll do anything to prepare me to talk about my mom. People say it gets easier, but it never really does.
I drop my voice and speak so only she can hear. “That week was my mom’s one year death anniversary. I wasn’t taking it well. It just sort of hit me all at once that…” I force myself to swallow the lump in my throat. “That she wouldn’t be there for my graduation. Or anything else. I laid in bed for most of the time. School was the last thing I was thinking about.”
The last sentence is strained. I fight to keep the tears at bay, nails digging into my thigh under the table. I don’t want to get emotional. We’re in public, for one, and I don’t want Liliana to mistake my confession as a pity ploy for her forgiveness.
