Every time I think I’ve unraveled my confused feelings about him, something happens, and it becomes ten times worse. I was already trying to navigate the fact that I don’t loathe him. I can’t, because this isn’t the Grant I despised in my head.
Then, I forgave him. It was said without thought, but it was freeing. I held on to this contempt for him for so long, and gotten so comfortable in the skin of it, that I questioned if it was naïve to let it go.
But Grant still casted his head down and said he didn’t forgive himself. I realized he worked for my forgiveness, earned it, and still wanted to give me more. It’d be cruel to him and myself to space between us because I’m scared of how closely we’ll be pulled together.
I have every right to be scared. No man has ever made me feel the way Grant did when he placed his cardigan over my shoulders, or looked at me with pride when I solved his riddle.The feelings I held at a distance pulverized the walls I built around my heart.
Appreciated. Listened to. Understood. Key elements of a friendship, one that was cultivated in comms class and reborn through my failing assignments. It’s hard for me to be positive about my writing when it causes so much stress and anxiety, but in the middle of it, there’s Grant opening my mind. Pulling me out of my self-doubt. Being calm in my chaos.
Struggling with my grades lead me back to Grant. For that, I’m grateful.
After Thursday, the girl who drew black doodles of doves and hearts in the margins of her notes came back to life. And she was just as confused as before, because she went to bed wanting Grant and wondering why he didn’t kiss her.
His sweater is meticulously folded, draping my left forearm as I walk the last block to his apartment. The cotton strap of my tote bag digs into my right shoulder.
A chic gray building with glass windows displaying a luxurious first-floor lobby comes into sight. Through the transparent panes there are multiple front desk employees in tuxedos answering phones and tending to people who probably buy cars in a walkable city because they can.
And of course, the building is across the street from the Boston Public Library. I nearly gag at how perfect it is.
Wind gusts as I approach, and the smell of sage is too familiar.
Grant is in my line of vision seconds later, large hand waving side-to-side. My hands are too occupied to wave back, but I smile, and hope it covers my nerves.
I try to stop the thoughts forcing themselves into my mind, but I can’t. The white t-shirt and gray sweatpants covering his frame cause them. The damp sheen of his wavy brown hairignites desire in me. My imagination runs wild in the time it takes me to reach him.
Grant, in the shower ten minutes ago, water droplets cascading along the tattoo of his forearm. One hand pressed against the gray titled wall, his other elsewhere.
“Hey.” His cheery voice is a deep contrast to the position my mind has him in. “I hope the subway wasn’t too bad. You should’ve let me pick you up.”
“It was fine,” is all I can say while trying to calm the beating of my heart.
Grant leads the way, casually walking past the burly security guard. I walk behind him as his extremely underdressed guest.
“I would’ve felt bad if you drove to my place, then all the way back.”
“It’s no trouble. Besides, I like having you in my car.”
I want to tell him I like being in it, but I second guess myself. I think he’s flirting with me. Before this, I convinced myself hewasn’tflirting with me to protect the agreement we made. Now it’s changed, and I’m perceiving everything in the opposite way.
God, I’m so confused.
While we walk through the lobby, he throws small details about where to go for certain things and how to navigate the elevator. Like he expects me to need this information. Like I’ll be back often.
Eventually, we reach his apartment on the twenty-seventh floor. The heavy black door unlocks with his fingerprint, revealing a large living room and open concept kitchen outlooking Boston. His apartment is surprisingly clean and unsurprisingly white and gray.
The colors of his home aren’t encapsulated by furniture, but in décor. Pictures of people in different shaped and hued frames line the walls next to concert posters. His silver fridge is litteredin color too, crayon scribbles and marker swirls covering every inch.
My heart warms. There are pieces of people he loves everywhere.
I kick my chunky white sneakers off and place them next to his low-tops. He motions for me to follow him around for a tour.
“This is the bathroom. If you need toilet paper it’s under the sink, and…” Grant moves into the space, pointing at the bottom drawer. “If you need hygiene items, they’re in here. Let me know if I run out.”
“Hygiene items?”
He shrugs. “You know.”
He doesn’t say anything else about the bathroom, and I melt inside.
