Chapter 6 #2
I’m going to ask him what it is they could possibly be teaching him about “romanticism” and see if I can apply it to my own work. Then I’ll walk out with my findings and go back to life without Grant McCarthy.
Two birds, one stone.
The study room door is a lot lighter than the building’s, but when it shuts behind me the air grows heavy.
White walls feel like they’re moving in on the room’s small wooden table.
Aside from the large dry-erase board that barely fits along the front wall, there isn’t much to look at—except Grant’s covered in a half-zip sweater, sleeves rolled up, and green eyes staring at me.
His sketchbook is laid out in front of him, flipped to a page with shapes lightly traced onto the paper, and midnight-colored headphones resting over his ears. I’ve seen this before. His daily drawing session coupled with whatever playlist he’s decided is his favorite of the week.
I wonder if he still listens to The Band CAMINO.
“Hey.” He tugs the headphones off, the old desk chair’s legs squeaking when he sits up straighter. “Glad you came.”
“Yeah.” It was my idea, after all. Did he think I was going to stand him up after last night?
I considered it. It would have been an attempt at creating my own karma, but when I brought it up to Rosie, she pointed out if I wasn’t desperate enough to show, I wouldn’t have suggested it.
The uninteresting formalities of “How are you?” and “Did you have class today?” are exchanged while I set up my own area across the table.
My clear click pen embellished with purple printed bows is meticulously placed on my planner, and I fidget with it a few times before I force myself into a real conversation.
“So. About the deal.” My shoulders straighten, bracing myself to awkwardly explain this to him. “I have to write a romance short story, and right now, I’m closer to dropping out than I am to writing anything tangible.”
The chair squeaks from under him again. Grant places his elbows on the table and frowns.
“What?”
“That’s the background information. I need to write a short story for my romance writing class.” I take a deep breath. “And it turns out, I suck at writing, so...”
It hurts to say it aloud, but the last few months have been a slap by reality. Every piece of negative feedback this semester has knocked me down a peg of confidence, repeatedly.
Grant leans back, and his hands going into the pockets of his cream-colored pants.
“You don’t suck at writing.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.” He insists. My chest tightens.
“You did all the writing for our project in undergrad. It was good.” It’s hard to savor the compliment when everything about him, and about writing, has been soured, but he continues.
“I couldn’t have written anything even half as good.
Like that one word you added in.” Grant starts snapping his fingers. “Evanescence?”
I blink. “What- The band?”
“No, no.” He waves his hand for a few seconds, then pauses. “Well, yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about. It was a word like evanescence.”
The conversation is turning lighthearted and fun and totally unrelated.
This is the exact opposite of what should happen today, but a part of me wants to figure out this memory of his.
This random word—that Grant is so sure is beyond his comprehension—is the closest thing I’ve gotten to any praise in weeks.
Our assignment was about human emotions, and since he was the one who was supposed to present most of it, I chose words that were easy to pronounce. It couldn’t have been complicated.
Something comes to mind, but I hope he’s not this easily impressed.
“Adolescence?”
“No...” His eyes are traveling across the landscape of the room, as if the answer will be hiding in the out-of-date wallpaper. “It definitely started with an E.”
“Erubescent?”
Green eyes snap back to mine. “What the fuck is that?”
The grudge in me can’t stop the tiny laugh his outburst. I allow myself ten seconds of humor before quickly composing myself and guessing again.
“Effervescent?”
“Yes!” He exclaims, pointing in my direction. “See, you’re a good writer. I don’t know words like that.”
My palm lands onto my forehead. I hide my smile behind my hand and stop a laugh from creeping into my throat.
“Having a wide range of vocabulary doesn’t make me a good writer.”
“To me, it does. That has to count for something.” Grant shrugs before settling back in the rickety chair. “You said it was a writing course?” I nod. “You’re in the writing program. That’s not easy. You have to be good to get in.”
I bite onto the skin of my bottom lip and twist my pen in my hands. “It was just because of my English minor.”
“Which isn’t easy.” A corner of his mouth lifts, and my teeth clamp down harder. “People don’t go for art programs unless they’re passionate. They don’t get in unless they’re talented. Give yourself some credit.”
The walls feel like they’re closing in again, the room falling in on itself.
He’s handing me sentiments I usually grasp for.
Being told I’m good at something is the best feeling in the world.
The high of being admired and successful.
It’s my driving force more often than I’d like to admit.
Sometimes, I think it’s all I exist for.
As of recent, compliments feel like a lost friend, only around occasionally but gone before they feel affixed again. Grant’s compliments get filed away with my doubts. That’s where they’re most familiar now.
“Those facts are irrelevant. Trivialities.”
“What?”
“Nevermind.” I pretend not to see his head tilting and flip my planner open to next week’s page. The pink ink highlighting, circling, and underlining the words “FIRST ACT DRAFT DUE!!!” realigns my thoughts.
“Back to the assignment.” Grant’s gaze sweeps over the rubric I push in front of him. “It’s a short story. The draft of my first act is due next Friday.”
“Okay. And for your part of the deal, you want me to…?”
I press my feet hard into the carpet. This is the last thing I thought I’d ever say to Grant. “Help me with my assignment.”
I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Maybe I’m not expecting anything at all. I learned better. But still, I’m surprised when Grant simply nods.
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Oh,” is the only thing I can think to say. “That’s good.”
“Before that, though.” His chest meets the edge of the table, leaning in towards the middle. “Could we talk about the other assignment? The one we actually did together?”
I suck in a breath.
When Rosie and I debriefed last night, we came back to this too. What am I going to do, or say, when the topic of the final comes back around?
There are a lot of things to say if I let the anger get the better of me. There’s a notebook somewhere in the depths of my desk, with a few pages covered in not-so-nice words I dedicated to him.
Indulging in those frustrations will take me back to square one. I don’t want to risk this going awry, and I don’t need to rehash things that already take too much of my mind.
I wave my hand at him. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I pull my laptop out of my tote bag and place it amongst my organized notebooks and papers. “The assignment is too important. I can’t waste time talking about what happened to us in the past.”
“Waste time?” He repeats, his tone raising on the last syllable. “I want us to talk it out. I want to tell you my side of the story.”
My fingers twitch in annoyance. I needed to hear his side in the past, but now I can’t concern myself with anything but getting a passing grade.
I groan. I’m begging for mediocrity when I used to be a star student. I’ve fallen further than I ever thought I would.
“Please, Grant. I need to focus on getting past this assignment and this class.” I swallow my pride, leaving a sinking feeling in my stomach. “It’s bad. I’m about to fail.”
“Fail?” His eyes widen. I find interest in the wood of the table and avoid looking at him.
“Yeah.”
“But you’re a good student. You aced everything in our comms class. You never missed a lecture.”
My hand shoots up to stop him. “Please, I’m mortified enough. I’m more than aware of how much of a disappointment I’ve become.”
“You’re not a disappointment.”
I stay focused on the table’s surface. They’re pity words. Rosie affords them to me on a bi-daily basis. They’re hard to believe when my results show differently.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Previous failures won’t matter as long as I pass in the end, anyways. Let’s focus on that.”
For a moment, Grant stays still-faced, his mouth downturned in confusion. When the silence starts to stretch further between us, he talks.
“Of course. Whatever you need from me.”
It’s the best thing he’s said to me in a long time.
“Perfect.”
“What do you need from me, though?”
“Oh.” I probably should have mentioned this part to him at the café. There’s a chance he didn’t bring his textbooks with him today. Then I’d have to see him again and I’m not sure if I can do this twice. “Your textbooks. Do you have them?”
The large gray backpack he’s had for as long as I’ve known him appears from under his seat, dropping onto the table with a thud. “Most of them. Why?”
“Uh.” It’s going to sound like I’ve watched what he’s been reading at his window table. Because that’s what Kam’s been doing, and truthfully, I’m just copying the weird suggestions he comes up with while staring at Grant with heart eyes.
That’s too much to explain. Too embarrassing to admit that my coworker and I talk about him behind the counter.
I try to sound skeptical and not like I’ve been flipping this idea in my head for days.
“Do you think one of those would help?”
“My art textbooks?”
Grant reaches into his backpack and yanks out the books that are too spotless for halfway through the semester. Not a pen mark or bent spine in sight.
They’re tossed onto the table, the one that really matters flopping onto the pile loudly. I tug my bottom lip between my teeth. Grant’s hands open and motion towards them.
“This is all I’ve got.”
“I see.” Twirling my pen in my hand, I attempt subtleness and nod at the one I want. “What about that one?”
“My romanticism textbook?” His lips morph into a smile. “I mean, sure. If your story is about early 18th century art trends in Europe?”
He chuckles, and my blood runs cold.
I blame Kameron.
It’s like Grant is speaking in another language, but I know the underlying message.
Whatever romanticism is, it has absolutely nothing to do with couples being cute in art and translating into an academic sense.
It holds no information on how artists view lovers, and how to portray lust and affection in a condensed piece.
Nothing like the theories Kam indoctrinated me with.
Mortification is finding me so often lately, I’m starting to become numb to it.
Before I can talk my way out of this and start to consider Rosie’s twisted solution ala dating app, Grant snaps his fingers.
“Wait. Do you mean, like, you want to learn about how visual artists explore creativity? So you can apply it into how you brainstorm for your assignment?”
No. I don’t know what he means or what he’s referring to. Is this how he felt when he was getting rock bands and random adjectives jumbled up?
I’m not sure if my expression shows how lost I am, but Grant’s jaw is dropped, eyes wide. Like he’s in shock, or in awe. Like I’ve done something revolutionary. It fills a sort of satisfaction in me I’ve been hooked on all my life. Validation.
Before I can think about it, I nod. “Yes. Exactly.”
Grant breaks out into a wide smile, eyes sparkling. “That’s brilliant. If you’re at a writer’s block, I can see it helping a lot. Putting yourself into a different art medium could change your perspective.”
His words blur. All I catch onto is “brilliant” and “helping a lot.” Everything else is irrelevant.
A grin splits across my face. I can’t remember the last time I smiled at Grant like this.
“You can help me, then?”
“With figuring out how to apply this stuff,” he says, pointing to the books. “To writing a story? Definitely. Exploring creativity is the thing I’m most confident in.”
This isn’t where I intended for the conversation to go, nor is it what I thought that textbook was about, but it’s something. The closest thing I’ve got to progress.
Hope inflates in me. Maybe this wasn’t the most horrible idea I’ve had.
Leaning over the table, I extend my hand to Grant, open to whatever his ideas are. “So, you’re going to help me figure out a way out of this and pass my class. Deal?”
The corner of his mouth turns, fingers twitching twice. “There’s one more thing, actually.”
“What?”
“I thought of it last night. I think there might be a chance that blonde guy comes by the café every Thursday, now that he saw me there. And I really can’t be seen there alone, or have him see you there without me.”
The table makes a thud sound when my arm drops. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s trying to say.
“So, let me help you with your assignment. I already have some ideas.” Grant sounds hopeful and infectious. “I just need you to be seen with me at the café for a few more Thursdays. If he doesn’t show up, then I won’t bother you at work, and we can pretend this didn’t happen.”
Grant’s arm extends this time, protruding hand veins and defined muscles visible under the fluorescent light.
“Deal?”
His voice is pointed, like this agreement holds the weight of the world, and not just two college students working their way out of their issues.
When I close my eyes, I see red ink on white paper. As harmless as Grant might think failing a class may be, to me, it is the weight of the world.
I slip my hand into his, soft skin against his calloused palm.
“Deal.”