He came here to see me and bought me a drink, too. Only for me to immediately fall into self-pity and cry overhomework.
“I’m pathetic.”
“Don’t say stuff like that.”
His words emerge just as quickly as my self-deprecating thoughts do. Grant’s hand moves towards mine, hesitating before touching my skin. “There’s still time. I know you can do it. You need to be easier on yourself.”
“Thisisme being easier on myself.” The first teardrop rolls down my cheeks and onto my dress. This moment is more than an unfinished assignment. “I spent weeks at a soul-sucking internship for my bachelor’s degree. I spent hours on my psychology thesis, defended it to a bunch of criticizing men in their 70s, and for what?”
Everything I’ve never had the gull to say aloud starts rushing out. I’m too beaten by what’s piled up to stop myself.
Droplets continue to descend my cheeks. I sniffle and use my free hand to wipe away what I can. “I did all of that, while finishing essay after essay for my English minor. I don’t even like psychology. I hate it. And it was for nothing if I can’t even pass this class.”
A napkin materializes in my blurred vision, and I glance over at Grant. His green eyes, still unmissable, are soft. The calloused fingers holding my hand start gently stroking my skin. I wait for him to ask for an explanation. If he did, I’d tell him, because he afforded me one even when I denied it.
The request doesn’t come. Grant just sits there, soothing me and providing more napkins to absorb my tears, and he listens. Even when I don’t speak, or I’m not making any sense, he listens.
“Assignments in undergrad were straight forward. If I studied hard enough, I aced everything. I passed my classes and earned a practical degree.” The tears are beginning to subside, but my shoulders stay slumped in defeat. “Then I got greedy. I tried to do something selfish and unplanned. I’m so stupid.”
“Liliana.” Grant’s tone cuts through the tense air. Somehow, he sounds stern but still gentle. “Do not call yourself stupid.”
“But-”
“No.” The roughness contrasts the laidback and carefree persona that follows him. This Grant holds my gaze, the outline of his jaw flexing beneath the skin of his cheek. “Stop insulting yourself. I’m serious. I hate it when you put yourself down. Please stop.”
It gets harder to breathe. He’s somehow defending me... from me? It’s confusing, both because of his demanding voice and the light, comforting strokes of his thumb.
Rosie has lectured me about my self-criticism before, but never like this. With uncompromising yet affectionate eyes, in close enough proximity that scents of sage and cedarwood invade my senses.
“I-” I say, but Grant’s closeness causes me to take a breath. I can see the barely-there wrinkles where his dimples usually are. It’s too close. Too charged. “I won't put myself down in front of you anymore, then.”
It’s a sarcastic joke, to diffuse whatever is hanging between us. But the corner of his mouth turns up, and he doesn’t create any distance.
“Not in front of me, not away from me. Not ever.” His hold disappears for a second before pressing our palms together, linking our hands. “Nobody as brilliant, as wonderful, or as remarkable as you, should feel less than. I’ll remind you as many times as you ask me, and then another ten times after that. However long it takes for you to believe it.”
My lips part in an attempt to reply, but nothing comes out.
It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted to hear. The praise, and how he says it, calms me. It relieves some of the pressure that’s been weighing me down, and the cloud of anxiety is just the tiniest bit less daunting.
In the chaotic, messy space of my brain, I can admit I don’t believe in myself. I’m not sure if I ever have, really. But Grant’s eyes are so sincere, I can’t help but believe him.
“Got it?”
His grip loosens. My bearings start gradually rolling in, the sounds of Caramel & Latte’s espresso machines fading back into the surroundings.
“Yeah.” I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what else to think. When he releases my hand, I retract it onto my lap under the table. “I got it. No more insulting myself.”
“Perfect.” Plush lips break into a wide smile, and his gaze returns to the relaxed state I’m familiar with. “Take a breath. We can look at your outline together, like I would an illustration or something.”
I breathe in and out like he asks. It doesn’t erase my anxiety, but it sedates it enough for me to straighten myself. I pause before flipping my papers face-up, and Grant looks satisfied.
“You don’t have to follow your outline so strictly,” he says, grabbing my favorite purple pen and tapping it on the page. “Imean, at least not word for word. It’s art. The concept is the only thing that really matters. People draw and paint and color out of order all the time. Do what works.”
I groan half-heartedly. I’m still frustrated, but at least he’s refocusing me to what we can change and not what we can’t. “I don’t know what works, that’s the issue.”
“That’s not what I mean.” His seat, which was appropriately spaced at least a foot away from me, has somehow become flush against mine. “You’re thinking too... formula-like.”
“Formulaically.”
