He doesn’t look at me when he says it. The quick-paced heartbeat that’s becoming a constant when I’m around Grant begins to slow. That’s not anywhere close to the reaction I was hoping to get.
Scratching the back of my neck awkwardly, I ask, “But you don’t like it?”
“It’s cute.” He points his pencil to himself then to me, grinning. “It worked for me, didn’t it?”
I know Grant’s tone well enough to know there’s more.
“But?”
“But I’m not sure it feels super… What’s the main guy’s name?”
“Noah.”
“Noah.” He glances at the screen. “From what you’ve set up, Noah seems super confident. In my mind I’ve painted him as this straight-forward kinda guy who is always sure of himself and goes for what he wants.”
I nod. A tiny amount of relief fills me, because that’s exactly the kind of character I intended for Noah to be.
Before I can bask in that success, Grant continues.
“With that in mind, it just feels a bit off. Is Noah really the type to leave little clues, or would he be more direct with—what’s the main girl’s name?”
“Stacey.”
“Yeah, Stacey. The idea itself is cute, and I don’t think it’s bad. But I don’t know if it fits with the characters you have.”
Instinctively, I want to push back. I love the idea of something thoughtful and subtle as a love confession. It’s the reason why Grant’s meant so much to me. He came up with that confession, and I want to defend mine.
The red inked smiley face catches my eye and resets my priorities.
Of course I’m sensitive about the characters I’ve created. But those characters wouldn’t have existed without Grant’s guidance, and they wouldn’t have gotten this far if it weren’t for the grades he helped me earn.
When it comes to art, I have evidence that Grant is always right. If I want to get a passing grade, I shouldn’t question him.
I turn the laptop back towards myself and ready my fingers on the keyboard. “What do you think I should write, then?”
His attention is half on me, legs trapping mine under the table, and hands flicking faint lines onto his drawing.
“I’m not sure.” He shrugs and my shoulders slump. That’s not helpful. “Do you have any other ideas?”
“No.” The stark white of my laptop screen is mocking me. I strayed too far from my outline to use my original scene, and I was so excited for this one, I didn’t brainstorm any others.
“Go with the hints, then. It’s cute.”
“But you hate it.”
He laughs. I’m not able to find humor in this situation. “I didn’t say I hate it. And even if I did, that doesn’t mean you have to do what I say.”
What else am I supposed to do?
Grant has proven to be the formula that works. Either he approves my ideas, tweaks them to perfection, or helps guide me to new ones. He has the solutions to my problems. But if I’m not able to lean on him for this, then what are my options?
The thought of having to figure out an alternative has my stomach in knots. What answers do I have without him?
“Tell me what your plans are for May.”
“What?”
I blink as the world starts to come back into focus. Grant is still creating shapes on his page.
