“There’s a word for that? Nice.” I don’t know if he says it on purpose to get a laugh out of me, but it works. The anxiety shrinks a smidge more, closer to being manageable. “If what you originally wrote for this outline isn’t working, don’t do it. If what your professor instructs you to do doesn’t feel right, don’t do it.”
“That’s the whole point of class.”
“Class is for a grade, for a piece of paper, for a job.” He’s right, technically, but I still need to pass. My mouth opens to argue, but he stops me, pointing my pen towards my face. “You, though, can do whatever you want with this story. Your professor can give you whatever grade they think it’s worth, but even after that, it’s still yours.Yours.”
When he emphasizes the word, he stares at me, gemstone green eyes tinged with an emotion that overwhelms me again. It’s too similar to how he used to stare at me from his drivers seat or leaned over whispering inside jokes during class. Too familiar.
“So, second act. This is where they should be falling in love, right?” Slowly, I nod. Grant grins, my senses heighten, and my worries seem further away. “What are your thoughts?”
My thoughts?
I scour my brain. The anxiety is still there. I don’t think it’ll go away—not until I’ve written something I’m happy with andit’s in my professor’s hands. But I can say it’s dull enough that staring at the papers in front of me doesn’t feel suffocating.
Under the mess of my impending deadline, there’s Grant. Caring for me, offering me patience I once didn’t give him. Traces of those conflicting memories linger, too, but there’s an undeniable connection between the Grant I see now and the one who stole my younger heart.
I take a deep breath. His grin widens, as if he knows what the inhale meant. Like he’s listening to my thoughts, somehow.
I search for anything that could continue the love story I’m writing. Ideas begin to slowly unfold, of developing trust and strengthening friendship. And when defined fingers carefully slip my favorite pen into my hand, there’s a thought that’s louder than the others.
Grant McCarthy is both not what I thought he was, and is exactly the person I imagined him to be.
thirteen
GRANT
Showingup on Tuesday unannounced was a risk. I had no doubts that Liliana would push back somewhat. If not about seeing me outside of our normal Thursday meetings, then at least about leaving the safe space of Caramel & Latte.
I anticipated Tuesday going in that direction. Had I been aware that today would also stray from our routine, I would’ve bought her flowers, balloons—something.
Something to show her this is more than working on an assignment or fooling Locke. I want to be near her. I want to be with her. The way I admired Liliana in undergrad was innocent enough. Looking because there was a masterpiece in front of me that deserved my attention.
She’s always glowed, but it’s different now. Beyond comprehension. There’s a more vulnerable side to her and a different kind of drive behind her eyes. It’s been a gift to get to know new, raw sides of her. Expectedly, my feelings for her developed further.
So has my approach towards her. I want to earn her forgiveness, but also her affection. I want to keep knocking down her walls, exposing the fun and joking Liliana that sends my heart racing. I can’t stop fantasizing over what it would be like if we left our work alone for a day. What she would look like leaning over to whisper in my ear, how she would sound in between kisses, laid delirious and hazy across the gray hue of my bedsheets.
Today was supposed to be about easing the thought of us hanging out together, as friends, outside of Caramel & Latte, into her mind. Planting little seeds and hoping they’ll blossom.
That plan has been derailed, but I’ll adjust. This day has to be perfect.
When I texted Liliana that I’d be half an hour late, she added a smiley face at the end of her reply, saying that it’s okay. Good sign.
I’m another fifteen minutes late after the initial half an hour, so that’s a concern.
I considered telling her over text that we won’t be studying today but decided against it. When we’re in front of her, it’ll be easier to gauge what she thinks.
“Uncle Grant.” The tiny fingers encased in my hand tug to get my attention. “Where are we going?”
Maybe Liliana will be more open to changing our plans when the most adorable four-year-old is with me while I’m pitching them.
“We’re going to hang out with one of my friends, Clem.”
We turn a corner, and our destination comes into vision. I think of all the great things to hype up Liliana to my niece. She has lots of pink bows and glittery pens. She loves Taylor Swift. She has long, gorgeous hair, and she’s really, really pretty.
But before I can tell her these things, Clementine’s attention is caught by the large neon sign shining through Caramel & Latte’s floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Look at the pretty sign!” Clem pulls on my arm and runs towards the coffee shop. I let her believe it’s her idea to run into the café and pretend it’s her beloved sign that catches my attention.
Liliana whips her head as soon as we enter. The annoyance on her face is unmissable. Her lips are tugged into a tight line, arms crossing while she turns towards us. She’s so annoyed, I think she totally misses the small human cheering about the smell of vanilla.
