Grant McCarthy iswholeheartedly good.
He shows me his bedroom next, which is perfectly suited to the rest of the apartment. Neutral in canvas but detailed through its randomly placed trinkets and corkboard of ticket stubs and polaroids.
There’s a picture on his desk, of a woman with brown eyes and the same wave of his hair, hugging who can’t be anyone but younger Grant. In his hands are a painting with a 2ndplace ribbon tacked into the top corner.
I can’t stop myself from asking, “Is this your mom?”
His frame presses into mine, just slightly, his chest brushing against my back. An inked forearm reaches around and brings the picture closer to us.
“Yeah. That’s her.”
“She’s so pretty.”
“She was.” I glance over my shoulder and catch the smile growing into his expression. “This is probably a good time to tell you. You remember that thing I taught you at mini golf? The hop-over-the-building trick?”
“Of course.”
It’s what motivated me to start my third draft last night. By thinking outside of my outline’s constraints, I’m already at six hundred words.
His other arm comes around my body, trapping me against him. I bite at the inside of my cheek to keep whatever I can of my composure. I can feel the rumbling of his chest against my back.
“It wasn’t my trick. It was my mom’s. I watched her do it so many times growing up, and I used to think ‘How the hell did she come up with that?’”
The strings of my heart tighten. Thursday was special to me as it was. Somehow, he’s made it even more meaningful.
“I hope this isn’t too cringey.” He taps the glass before setting it down and retracting his arms. “But that was my way of connecting you guys. Kind of. I don’t know. It made sense in my head.”
His body starts to move away, and I turn quickly to grab onto his shoulder. “It makes sense in mine too. Thank you. For doing that.”
My heart won’t slow. I want to say I can’t believe he would do that, find a way to bring his mother to me, but it’d be a lie. I do believe it. Everything about Grant shows he’s the kind of man who creates one-of-a-kind experiences for the people he cares about.
I wish I could have met the woman who raised someone so thoughtful. What he did might seem small in theory, but it’s heavy to me. To share somewhere and something that must be special to him and think to include me.
So selfless. So Grant.
With my heart still doing jumps, he guides us to the last door at the end of the hallway, already swung open.
“And this, is my art studio.”
I creep inside, the smell of ink and pencil shavings invading my senses. The room has its own stunning view of the city, with different sized canvases turning their backs on the window. The other end is stacked with tools and art equipment that must serve purposes I’m ignorant of.
“Sorry it’s messy,” Grant says.
“Your apartment is amazing.” I snort. “You should see mine.”
There’s a pause while I drift around the office, gazing at the half-finished art works placed on the middle table. I’m so distracted by an elephant illustration, I almost miss his reply.
“I hope I get the chance to soon.”
Rosie guessed a handful of times that when I got to Grant’s apartment, he would violently clear everything off his kitchen counters and kiss me down into the marble. I told her that was absurd, and there wouldn’t be anything remotely close happening.
An hour after being here, and I can officially say I was right.
Since setting up camp on his plush couch, me on one end pretending to type something tangible and him drawing on the other, Grant hasn’t said a word to me.
My doubts and confusion manifest themselves again. Without the occasional glance he throws, I would think he’s forgotten I’m here. He’s been paying all his attention to his sketchbook and pencils.
I huff and rearrange the laptop on my thighs. I must have paraphrased the answer to this discussion question a million times. Nothing comes out accurate or sincere when my mind is so confused.
