One hand finds purchase on the side of my waist, fingertips touching the patch of skin peeking out between my white pleated skirt and baby blue crop top sweater. The other hand grabs the tote bag off my shoulder, slipping it onto his own.
“Hey.” I rest my palm on the soft fabric of his sweater, right where his ribs are.
“Are you…” He pauses, glances around the empty space of the café. No one is around but I suspect Kam is in the shadows spying on us. “Okay with me kissing you in public?”
The café is public by technicality, but the deserted tables and neat bench cushions are a reminder that it’s partially private. No one is here to see us if we kiss.
I’m disappointed he asked. Both because I don’t want him to ever doubt he can, and because no one will be around to see that somehow, Grant is mine.
Tugging him towards me, our lips meet in an answer. He grins into the kiss and grabs onto the other side of my waist. I don’t want him to ask me that question ever again.
I can control this part of Thursdays. Grant may have offered to take us somewhere new for the night, but besides that, Thursdays are for academics. I still have a grade to secure and I’m determined to stay focused.
But I can’t help myself from staring at Grant while he drives, one hand on the steering wheel and the other wrapped in mine. And I try to be normal when he tells me his passenger seat is better when I’m in it. And I can definitely look away when he parallel parks, his hand coming over to hold my headrest when his body twists.
As soon as we get into this new café, I swear to myself that I’ll be focused.
I’m baffled but not surprised at the matcha café he chooses, branded with different shades of green and a matcha mascot printed on their front window. I’m laughing at the ridiculousness of it when Grant opens the door, leaning over to whisper, “They have hazelnut drinks, too. I checked.”
He makes it so hard to stay focused.
This new spot is more colorful than Caramel & Latte, vibrant hues splattered on their branding and bright lights bouncing off the marble tables. The hazelnut latte Grant buys for me isn’t so bad, either.
I settle myself into the large chair cushion and grab my laptop out of my tote bag. Grant places his black leather sketchbook on the table beside it.
“You brought your sketchbook?”
“Yeah.” His grin is teasing. He knows what day my mind is stuck on. “I have to do my daily drawing. It’s a good exercise for creativity.”
I almost point out that it can’t be too good for creativity if he draws the same thing every day. I keep the joke to myself, because his countless lily illustrations are adorable and make me feel revered in a way only Grant has shown me.
But also, because he knows more about this art stuff than I do. I noticed it when I started getting positive feedback. After the mini golf breakthrough, I’m positive he’s my key to success. Writing six hundred words in one sitting would be unheard of three months ago.
The red ink in my margins have consisted solely of praise lately. I would get the comments tattooed on the inside of my eyelids, if I could. It’s the most accomplished I’ve felt in school since the beginning of the semester. And it’s only possible because of Grant.
Once we’ve settled into studying areas, I hurry to click open what I have of my story’s third act. Getting it started was easier when I stopped checking my outline every few minutes. There have been breaks of inspiration that slowed me down, but it’s more productive than I’ve been for any other act.
Turning my laptop so Grant can see, I say, “So I started my third act already.”
His eyes light up, dimples showing. I knew he would be proud of me, so I wanted to tell him in person. In the chaos of this weekend, I didn’t get the chance until now.
“Look at you. It’s like you’re obsessed with school or something.”
“Ha ha ha.” I throw the sarcasm back at him. “Because caring about education is such a crime. My parents are professors, you know. It’s in my blood.”
“Oh, so that’s your excuse.”
I’d pinch him right now if I didn’t have to reach over the table to do it.
We throw more joking jabs back and forth. Grant poking at me when he sees I’ve penciled “Text Grant” into my agenda every night, and me teasing him that his hair is going to turn green with the rate he drinks matcha.
When there’s a break in our banter, I point to the screen.
“I wanted to hear your opinions on my ideas for the confession scene.” He motions me to continue. “I was thinking of making my male main character leave little hints for his love interest. Like, small signs for her to figure out. Then it’ll eventually lead to them confessing their feelings.”
Grant nods, smiles slightly, then goes back to tracing ovals.
“I don’t hate that.”
