I’m about to breathe out my annoyance again, in a sad attempt to vie for his attention, when Grant gets on his feet.
“Be right back. Bathroom.”
It’s the most he’s said to me in half an hour.
Alone, I throw my hands up and toss my laptop to the side. After the moment we shared in his bedroom, I was convinced his feelings for me are romantic. Some things are too deep and heartfelt to simply be friendly.
Or so I thought. Then he goes and ignores me, like the pages of his sketchbook are infinitely more interesting.
I didn’t come here with many expectations. But at the very least, I’d like to go home with an understanding of what this is. Is it platonic? Romantic? Is the girl from comms class going to be so convinced of one thing, only to be left hanging again?
I glare at his leather-bound sketchbook. Pieces of paper have managed to get the best of me, even here.
I can’t help myself. Groaning, I push off the couch and pick up the book. I throw a glance over my shoulder to make sure he’s not silently creeping behind me before I can snoop.
It’s not an invasion of privacy, I tell myself.I’ll put it back before he notices.
I just need to know what he could be so interested in right now.
The dark leather is rough on my fingertips when I flip open to the first page. With the few minutes I have, I try not to linger over every drawing.
But it’s hard not to take in every intricate pencil stroke. Some pieces are more cared for than others, full of color and traces of eraser bits on the page, but all worth more attention than I can give. It dawns on me that we spend so much time analyzing my assignments, I’ve barely seen anything Grant has drawn this semester.
His talents and passion are evident. Dates are scribbled into the corner next to his signature. Every day for what goes back to January, there’s some sort of sketch to document his progress. I’m jealous he’s this dedicated to something and this naturally gifted.
Most drawings are of animals. Dogs, the most common, but there’s an occasional household item or body part.
The first flowers to pop up are lavenders. Three of them, tied together with a baby blue ribbon. Dainty and lovely, I can envision it seamlessly blending with the art prints above my desk.
The next few drawings are skilled, a seagull here and a coffee cup there, but nothing catches my eye like those lavenders. Until another flower appears, and it instantly becomes my favorite.
A single lily. Pink and yellow petals half expanded, just beginning to bloom. In pastel shades I’m constantly attracted to. I rub my finger over the date to make sure I’m reading it correctly.
The drawing is beautiful. I love how elegant and simplistic it is. I want to keep admiring it, but time is of the essence and I’m not sure when Grant will be back. I can stare at the perfectly constructed lily another time.
I hurriedly flip the page, and rear back at the sight.
More lilies. Purple ones, on the left page, and green on the right.
I flip again.Morelilies. They’re the same, but also not. The same flower, but in changing colors and in different positions. Some shorter and taller, some blooming and some in bunches. But each improving, becoming more detailed. On every page the lines become more precise and purposeful. Like he spent an extra five minutes each day fostering his art.
The realization crashes into me, and I grip onto the book harder. Again and again and again, I flip.
More lilies.
I go back to the first and check the date. Reference it to my mental calendar. It doesn’t add up; he drew this one days before sidelining me at work. A singular drawing, I could wave off. Apure coincidence he illustrated the flower that represents his nickname for me.
But this many, enough to cover the coffee table in front of me, and for every single day, make it impossible to ignore.
My cheeks burn. The wind is knocked out of me and my nerves stand on end. I feel hot and weightless and lightheaded. A small laugh of relief escapes my chest.
His feelings for me are real, and they have been for a while.
The corners of my mouth painfully stretch into my cheeks.
Going further into the sketchbook, I categorize every lily. Commit them to memory so I can race home later to tell Rosie and get bombarded with “I told you so”. The drawings are never-ending, one after the other, until I get to today’s piece. The unfinished drawing isn’t of a lily.
It’s of me.
