Chapter 12 #2
His words emerge just as quickly as my self-deprecating thoughts do. Grant’s hand moves towards mine, hesitating before touching my skin. “There’s still time. I know you can do it. You need to be easier on yourself.”
“This is me being easier on myself.” The first teardrop rolls down my cheeks and onto my dress.
This moment is more than an unfinished assignment.
“I spent weeks at a soul-sucking internship for my bachelor’s degree.
I spent hours on my psychology thesis, defended it to a bunch of criticizing men in their 70s, and for what? ”
Everything I’ve never had the gull to say aloud starts rushing out. I’m too beaten by what’s piled up to stop myself.
Droplets continue to descend my cheeks. I sniffle and use my free hand to wipe away what I can. “I did all of that, while finishing essay after essay for my English minor. I don’t even like psychology. I hate it. And it was for nothing if I can’t even pass this class.”
A napkin materializes in my blurred vision, and I glance over at Grant.
His green eyes, still unmissable, are soft.
The calloused fingers holding my hand start gently stroking my skin.
I wait for him to ask for an explanation.
If he did, I’d tell him, because he afforded me one even when I denied it.
The request doesn’t come. Grant just sits there, soothing me and providing more napkins to absorb my tears, and he listens. Even when I don’t speak, or I’m not making any sense, he listens.
“Assignments in undergrad were straight forward. If I studied hard enough, I aced everything. I passed my classes and earned a practical degree.” The tears are beginning to subside, but my shoulders stay slumped in defeat.
“Then I got greedy. I tried to do something selfish and unplanned. I’m so stupid. ”
“Liliana.” Grant’s tone cuts through the tense air. Somehow, he sounds stern but still gentle. “Do not call yourself stupid.”
“But-”
“No.” The roughness contrasts the laidback and carefree persona that follows him. This Grant holds my gaze, the outline of his jaw flexing beneath the skin of his cheek. “Stop insulting yourself. I’m serious. I hate it when you put yourself down. Please stop.”
It gets harder to breathe. He’s somehow defending me... from me? It’s confusing, both because of his demanding voice and the light, comforting strokes of his thumb.
Rosie has lectured me about my self-criticism before, but never like this. With uncompromising yet affectionate eyes, in close enough proximity that scents of sage and cedarwood invade my senses.
“I-” I say, but Grant’s closeness causes me to take a breath. I can see the barely-there wrinkles where his dimples usually are. It’s too close. Too charged. “I won't put myself down in front of you anymore, then.”
It’s a sarcastic joke, to diffuse whatever is hanging between us. But the corner of his mouth turns up, and he doesn’t create any distance.
“Not in front of me, not away from me. Not ever.” His hold disappears for a second before pressing our palms together, linking our hands.
“Nobody as brilliant, as wonderful, or as remarkable as you, should feel less than. I’ll remind you as many times as you ask me, and then another ten times after that.
However long it takes for you to believe it. ”
My lips part in an attempt to reply, but nothing comes out.
It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted to hear. The praise, and how he says it, calms me. It relieves some of the pressure that’s been weighing me down, and the cloud of anxiety is just the tiniest bit less daunting.
In the chaotic, messy space of my brain, I can admit I don’t believe in myself. I’m not sure if I ever have, really. But Grant’s eyes are so sincere, I can’t help but believe him.
“Got it?”
His grip loosens. My bearings start gradually rolling in, the sounds of Caramel & Latte’s espresso machines fading back into the surroundings.
“Yeah.” I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what else to think. When he releases my hand, I retract it onto my lap under the table. “I got it. No more insulting myself.”
“Perfect.” Plush lips break into a wide smile, and his gaze returns to the relaxed state I’m familiar with. “Take a breath. We can look at your outline together, like I would an illustration or something.”
I breathe in and out like he asks. It doesn’t erase my anxiety, but it sedates it enough for me to straighten myself. I pause before flipping my papers face-up, and Grant looks satisfied.
“You don’t have to follow your outline so strictly,” he says, grabbing my favorite purple pen and tapping it on the page. “I mean, at least not word for word. It’s art. The concept is the only thing that really matters. People draw and paint and color out of order all the time. Do what works.”
I groan half-heartedly. I’m still frustrated, but at least he’s refocusing me to what we can change and not what we can’t. “I don’t know what works, that’s the issue.”
“That’s not what I mean.” His seat, which was appropriately spaced at least a foot away from me, has somehow become flush against mine. “You’re thinking too... formula-like.”
“Formulaically.”
“There’s a word for that? Nice.” I don’t know if he says it on purpose to get a laugh out of me, but it works.
The anxiety shrinks a smidge more, closer to being manageable.
“If what you originally wrote for this outline isn’t working, don’t do it.
If what your professor instructs you to do doesn’t feel right, don’t do it. ”
“That’s the whole point of class.”
“Class is for a grade, for a piece of paper, for a job.” He’s right, technically, but I still need to pass.
My mouth opens to argue, but he stops me, pointing my pen towards my face.
“You, though, can do whatever you want with this story. Your professor can give you whatever grade they think it’s worth, but even after that, it’s still yours. Yours.”
When he emphasizes the word, he stares at me, gemstone green eyes tinged with an emotion that overwhelms me again. It’s too similar to how he used to stare at me from his drivers seat or leaned over whispering inside jokes during class. Too familiar.
“So, second act. This is where they should be falling in love, right?” Slowly, I nod. Grant grins, my senses heighten, and my worries seem further away. “What are your thoughts?”
My thoughts?
I scour my brain. The anxiety is still there. I don’t think it’ll go away—not until I’ve written something I’m happy with and it’s in my professor’s hands. But I can say it’s dull enough that staring at the papers in front of me doesn’t feel suffocating.
Under the mess of my impending deadline, there’s Grant. Caring for me, offering me patience I once didn’t give him. Traces of those conflicting memories linger, too, but there’s an undeniable connection between the Grant I see now and the one who stole my younger heart.
I take a deep breath. His grin widens, as if he knows what the inhale meant. Like he’s listening to my thoughts, somehow.
I search for anything that could continue the love story I’m writing. Ideas begin to slowly unfold, of developing trust and strengthening friendship. And when defined fingers carefully slip my favorite pen into my hand, there’s a thought that’s louder than the others.
Grant McCarthy is both not what I thought he was, and is exactly the person I imagined him to be.