LILIANA
“Are you guys fucking?”
Noodles get caught in my throat. “Rosalie!”
Normally I would amount Rosie nonsensical comments to her brash personality, but by her straight-faced stare, I think she’s being genuine.
Crazy, but genuine.
I roll my eyes, pushing the boiled egg I always save for last through my noodles and past my chashu. “Don’t you think I would tell you if we were?”
Her stare crinkles, smile widening. The last time I saw that glimmer in her eye, Rosie was video calling me while flirting her way into a sold-out concert. It’s a mischievous look that means she’s up to no good.
“You didn’t say it was gross or gag when I mentioned it.” She giggles, biting a fingernail between her teeth. “Does that mean you like the idea?”
"No.”
She’s insane. The thought is so ridiculous it almost has me wishing Ididchoke on my ramen.
It’s partially my fault she’s become so bold with her accusations. Encouraging me to talk to Grant because he’s good-looking is one thing, but since I recapped Thursday night’s events, she’s gotten worse.
I recited Grant’s explanation, and when Rosie asked how I felt, I told her the truth.
It aligns with the Grant I remember from undergrad, and changes so much of what I thought I knew. Learning that he didn’t have ill intentions, but instead was dealing with something so heart-breaking and personal, leaves me confused. Questions about my perception of him are resolved, but harder questions arise about what it entails going forward.
Was I wrong to be critical of him for so long? Is it cruel if the disappointment that’s dug itself so deep hasn’t completely vanished? Am I partially at fault for blocking his number and not giving him the chance to explain? Can I sympathize with him, while still validating my own feelings based on what I did—or didn’t know—until now?
These questions have flooded my mind since he opened up about that finals week. Days later, I have no solid answers. I’ve only established that the Grant who stole my heart wasn’t an illusion. I’m unable to process what that could mean.
Rosie is the sole person I trust with this information. And when I shared it with her, she squealed, claiming she knew this was going to happen.
For my sake, I brushed over that part of our conversation.
A voice in my head encourages me not to fall back into the mindset of fawning over Grant. Traces of my resentment linger, but there’s a part of me that lives in lecture hall corners and library study rooms. One that clings to the best parts of Grant and longs for that again, after thinking it was dead and gone.
Adoring him took almost no effort when we met. If I forgive him so quickly—despite the shaking reality of why he did what he did—I’m not sure I can undo those feelings again.
Both sides fight each other in my head, neither fully convincing me of their logic. I do my best to ignore both completely. Rosie refuses to make that easy for me.
I engross myself in my suddenly stunning $10 bowl of ramen and refuse any eye contact with my best friend still giggling under her breath.
“Lil. Does that mean you don’thatethe idea of it?”
“The idea of what?’
She smirks. “Sleeping with Grant McCarthy.”
Inadvertently, the sentence awakens my imagination.
Grant’s left forearm, inked with his long tattoo, tracing up the curves of my body through the thin silk of a nightgown. He pauses, taking two drawn out seconds to caress the side of my breast before reaching higher to cup my face. With low breaths, our eyes meet, but there’s barely a moment to appreciate his distinct shade of green. He leans towards the side of my ear, his hand shifting to the back of my head and tugging roughly.
My breath catches when imaginary Grant whispers,“I always knew you were going to be like this, so fucking good, so pretty...”
I cough to clear my throat, and heat rushes up the side of my neck. I haven’t had thoughts like these since that communications class. Back when Grant, those eyes, and his tattoo occupied my subconscious 24/7.
I shake my head and snap back to the hold-in-the-wall restaurant, only to see Rosie glimmering again.
Gulping down my nerves, I scoff. “Don’t be gross. I would never do... that with him.”
