The side angle Grant would have seen from this end of the couch, a rough sketch of my hands placed over two rectangles that connect where a laptop would. There isn’t a face to the drawing, but the hair is wavy, and the sundress is sitting just the way mine would’ve.
“What are you doing?”
This time, I do drop the sketchbook, leather connecting with the hardwood floor.
Grant stands in front of me with his arms crossed, hints of a smirk spreading across his tilted head.
I can only gape at him. My entire body is on fire and my mind is fighting to process everything. I was so caught up in what I found, and the relief of it, I didn’t think of what would come next.
He doesn’t say anything either, bending down to grab the sketchbook and wipe at it. As if there was any dust on his floors to begin with.
“So, you looked at my drawings?”
It’s asked so casually. He must know what I’ve seen, but he doesn’t seem the slightest surprised or offended.
My forehead creases. Did he want me to know?
Before I can ask, he pushes the book back into my hands.
“The brown one is my favorite.”
“What?”
“The lily.” A cold wash runs through me, diffusing the heat that was running across my skin. “The brown one is my favorite.”
“Oh.”
He’s weirdly calm. This was an invasion of privacy. And if these were his secret, artistic documentations of his feelings, he isn’t doing a great job at the secret part.
So they were just lilies. If they weren’t, or if they meant something more, he wouldn’t be so casual about it.
But what about the drawing of me, at the end of the couch?
“You’re overthinking again.”
His voice is closer, Grant having eliminated the space between us. No more than a forearm’s length away from me, he reaches out to tap the book.
“It means what you think it does. I drew the brown lily after mini golf.” He wraps a strand of hair framing my face around his finger, twirling it slowly. I can hear my heart pounding in my ear drums. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Grant whispers, “Can I tell you how much I’ve thought about you?”
The heat comes rushing back, with endorphins that cause my brain to go hazy.
Breathing out in a daze, I answer, “Yes.”
“On the first day of class,” he says, green eyes holding a softness unlike any other I’ve seen. “You wore a pink cable knit dress. With a white coat that had fur cuffs and pink bows. Fall was just beginning, and everyone else showed up in browns andblacks, but you were spring. Vibrant and bright. Colors against a plain canvas. You were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.
“Then, when our professor would call on you, you spoke like it was what you were meant to do. Putting words together to make something easier to understand or to create an answer out of nothing. You were brilliant. The day we got partnered felt like the first time, in a long time, life wanted to do something good for me.Iwas lucky enough to be around you, even if it was for class.
“I can’t forgive myself for happened. But us going to the same school again, then seeing each other at Caramel & Latte, showed me I’m too lucky to waste another shot. I won’t. I’ve thought about you constantly since we’ve met. I see you in every piece of art I’ve created this semester. I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t want to.”
The confession is beyond flowers drawn in a sketchbook. It’s the time we’ve spent together, from the day we met to now, decorated with our friendship. It’s a carefully woven description of how Grant’s come to care about me in ways I struggle to do myself.
He said he felt lucky enough to be around me. But I feel lucky enough to be seen by him.
I’m too lightheaded to get caught up in what I should or shouldn’t say. All I know isGrant, the way he makes me feel, and how disappointed I was on Thursday.
“You didn’t kiss me.”
His fingers stop playing with my hair. Calloused hands move to cup my face instead. A touch so feather light, I wouldn’t feel it if I wasn’t desperately searching.
