Chapter 3
three
LILIANA
“I actually hate him.”
Grant’s back is facing me, but I mumble insults under my breath and throw a sneer at him anyways. Every time I think my busy Saturday shift can’t get any more annoying, he comes in and orders the hardest drink to make. And to top it off, he never gets my name right.
He called me Lily in undergrad too, but I used to think it was cute. Before he ruined all the good opinions I had of him.
It’s finally dwindling down at Caramel I can’t deny.
When we were assigned as project partners, I stumbled over my words trying to talk to him.
He seemed like someone you’re only supposed to admire from afar.
But he was friendly, kind, and easy to get along with.
It didn't take much before we developed a partnership.
We split everything evenly, and he was responsive about our assignment.
He was a dream project partner at first.
I realize now that na?ve, younger me fell victim to Grant’s charm. His persona made it easy for him to slip through the cracks of my overthinking. He still has it going for him, so I can understand why Kameron is blinded by it. To an extent.
“Didn’t you say he was rich too?” Kameron asks.
I roll my eyes. It was an off-handed comment made when I was listing things about Grant to prove he’s pretentious.
He never outwardly told me he’s rich. I didn’t really have to ask. Being around him those weeks, including the occasional ride in his BMW, and his expensive watch glittering while he drove one-handed… It’s not hard to guess.
His actions line up, too. A rich guy like him wouldn’t need to worry about carefully curated ten-year plans or heavily graded final assignments.
I grab the broom against the wall and pretend I’m being productive.
“I guessed, for the record.”
Kam doesn’t seem to care whether it’s truth or hypothesis. He shrugs. “I think rich men are hot.”
“Rich men are hot, when they’re not screwing you over and risking your entire grade.”
“True.” Even if Kameron pretends to understand my emotions, I know what he really thinks.
He leans over the counter to stare longingly at Grant again.
“But I mean, look at him. He’s an artist, on top of it.
You should’ve seen the flower he’s sketching right now.
And he has a textbook called Studying Romanticism.
” Kam raises an eyebrow and drops his voice.
“I can show him something he can romanticize.”
“Oh my gosh.” I push his shoulder but laugh. “You’re crazy.”
“I’m just saying!” His hands go up in defense. “I don’t know what art romanticism is, but whatever it is, I want it with him.”
I try to ignore him and focus on something else, like the milk cartons left on the counter during the rush. Kam continues his monologue, not caring that I’ve told him multiple times why I despise the man he lusts over.
“Do you think if I went over there and told him about our romance story assignment, he’d agree to help teach me something?” He wiggles his shoulders jokingly, but by the way he glances back over at the window, I know he’s actually considering it.
“I don’t think that’s what a romanticism textbook is about.”
“What is it, then?”
I want to retort but can’t. This degree and my English minor are the closest I’ve gotten to studying anything of the arts. And none of it related to the visual kind.
“See, you don’t know either.” Kam looks at me pointedly. It’s meant to be lighthearted, and I want to take it as such, but jealousy leaves a sour taste on my tongue.
Kameron hasn’t struggled in the romance writing class, or any of the ones we shared, all year. In fact, I would go as far as to say he’s the top student in our cohort. It’s the place I once thought was so inevitably mine, I never imagined what it’d look like from the bottom.
I dig my nails into my palm and steer the conversation away. “I have half a mind to go over there and tell him about your crush.”
“Oh, please do.” Another pang of jealousy hits me—not for his intelligence, but because Kam is so confident and sure of himself. “It’s not a crush, per se. I just like looking at him. And would enjoy doing so in any angle, if that makes sense.”
“Ew.” I make a show of gagging and Kam waves me off.
“Just because you have a grudge, doesn’t mean he’s not hot.”
“Says you. I mean, what am I supposed to do, not hold a grudge?” If Kameron didn’t want to hear this story again, he shouldn’t have brought it up. “You would be pretty pissed too if your project partner ghosted you the day of your final. He didn’t even text me back! Who does that?!”
“Volume.” The pat on my shoulder is a warning to keep my voice down. I appreciate him for making sure I don’t embarrass myself mid-shift.
My chest deflates. “Kam, if you almost failed an entire class because one guy left you hanging, you’d be upset, right?”
Like the first, third, fifth, and tenth time I’ve told him this story, Kameron validates my feelings and nods.
“Yeah, even if I'd like twenty minutes alone in a room with him, what he did to you was messed up.”
I pretend not to hear the middle of his sentence and start refilling the machines. From my spot behind the counter, I have a clear view of Grant McCarthy, and a clear reminder of the failure I almost faced because of him.
Besides the crash-and-burn conclusion, what I remember the most about our weeks in undergrad is how good we worked together.
So good, we finished our presentation in half the allotted time.
The weeks of free time were less about class and more about sharing funny videos in a library study room and making excuses to get ice cream off campus.
I was accustomed to pulling most of the weight in a group assignment.
I liked having things organized and ready, back-up plans set up in case something goes wrong.
It was a lapse of judgement when I told myself Grant was more than a classmate.
I trusted him leading up to our presentation. I thought he was my friend.
Until the day came along and Grant never showed.
I called and texted him non-stop. I lied to our professor that he had car troubles and if we could go last, he would be there. With how much faith I had in him, I didn’t want to believe Grant would let me down.
But once our classmates finished and my texts were unanswered, I was forced to present alone. The result of trusting Grant was humiliating myself in front of everyone, stumbling over my words, and watching my professor shake his head in disappointment.
If it wasn’t for an embarrassing sobbing session during our professor’s office hours the next day, I don’t think I would have passed. I don’t know if Grant got a pity grade from my begging, and I don’t want to know.
I waited for him to prove me wrong. Still foolishly charmed by him, I expected him to explain himself and walk back into my life. A few days of silence went by before I blocked his number and every social account I knew of.
It doesn’t matter it’s been over a year since Grant screwed me over. The memory still stings. That same pit of humiliation resurfaces when I’m sitting around my writing workshop classes listening to constant criticism. Those are the feelings I associate with Grant now.
He hums from his window seat, brown hair bobbing to a beat only he can hear, and his calm demeanor sends animosity through me. If the cups I’m restocking weren’t plastic, I’m sure they would have shattered by now.
Out of all the times he’s come into this café, recognized me, and called me Lily, not once has he ever said “I’m sorry.”
My Saturday mornings are unpleasant, but my Monday nights? Sent straight from hell.
I used to like Mondays. It’s my most packed school day schedule wise, and when I was excited to take back-to-back writing classes, I considered Mondays to be fun.
How blissful it was to not know any better.
“You did so well with your outlines.” I swear my professor makes eye contact with everyone in class except me.
“I’m looking forward to your first act drafts next week.
Don’t forget, as some of you have for the past few assignments, I only accept submissions via your physical USBs. There are no exceptions to this…”