“You’re keeping track?”
A grunting sound comes from the back of my throat. He’s cheekier today than normal. With my mind still struggling to get ahold of who Grant is to me, and the stress of how badly my second act has been going, his attitude is too much.
“Grant, please tell me why you’re here on a Tuesday instead of a Thursday.”
The gentleness of my voice quickly melts his demeanor. Less playful, more sincere, he replies, “I wanted to see you.”
For a moment, the background of my workplace fades. It’s just me, the boy who stole my heart in undergrad, and the itching need to return to sneaking side glances and blushing behind textbooks.
It’stoo much.
I know I can’t and won’t treat Grant the same way I did before finding out the truth. After imagining myself in his position during that finals week, I can find it in me to forgive him, at least. But I refuse to revert to the girl who swooned helplessly over the cute artist from class.
Even if he’s leaning over the counter holding a black credit card, insisting to buy her favorite coffee.
“One iced matcha cloud latte and one iced hazelnut.”
“I can buy my own latte.”
“I know.” He pushes the card closer to my hand.
“Grant.”
“Liliana.”
He doesn’t budge. There’s a small glance between my eyes and his card, before he adds, “I’ll get our drinks, and when you get off your shift we’ll go hang out somewhere. You choose.”
Warning sirens. Alarms of blaring volumes go off in my head. Because drinks and hanging out and Tuesday are completely out of norm for the agreement we made. The alarms get louder when I realize I don’t hate the idea of being with him outside this café.
I could be overthinking it. Things like that could be friendly, and maybe I can see myself being friends with Grant again. Maybe that’s why hanging out with him doesn’t seem so bad. Sometimes, when we joke, it feels like we’re heading towards that.
Still, I can’t ignore how my skin prickles and my heart rate increases at the concept of us doing something out-of-the-ordinary. I’ve barely gotten used to seeing him regularly again.
“No,” I answer hurriedly. His face falls. “I really need to work on my second draft tonight.”
“Oh.” It should be enough to deter him. Despite that, he motions to the card in his hand. “Let’s do it together. If you’re more comfortable here, we can do that, too.”
His genuine, warm smile reappears, and I’m being bombarded with my weaknesses. Grant’s kindness and promises of academic assistance.
I should say no. My head is jumbled enough.
If I’m honest, once I realized my second act was falling apart, my first thought was to reach out to Grant. I almost did. But I thought I could mold myself into independent success if I pushed hard enough. And if I can’t manage this assignment without his help, who’s to say that I can do any of my storywithout Grant lending a hand? Falling into a state where Ineedhis guidance is a fate I want to avoid.
But Kam walks through the door, someone who I’m sure has finished his draft already, shocked look on his face. It’s a signal I can finally clock out. And enjoy a free drink. And maybe figure out this draft without crying myself to sleep tonight.
I sigh in defeat.
“Can I have a large iced hazelnut instead?”
“So.” I gulp down another sip of my drink. “Any ideas for act two?”
Grant’s pencil strokes pause, his face scrunching. “How far have you gotten?”
“About four hundred words.”
“Out of?”
I stare to the side, away from him. I tried to do this on my own. Since the day I got my first act back, I’ve spent multiple hours sitting in front of my desk. If I felt productive during those times, I would’ve written ten short stories.
