Chapter 15
fifteen
GRANT
There’s a question Rosie has been seemingly attached to over the last week.
When I told her I was going over to Grant’s apartment on a Saturday afternoon, she screamed loud enough for the pigeons to hear.
“Are you guys fucking?!”
In the safety of our apartment where no prying eyes were going to judge us over ramen noodles, I yelled back.
“For the last time, no!”
Expectedly, she replied, “Well, you will be.”
According to Rosie’s logic, two people can’t sit in an apartment alone, platonically, for a few hours. Just because one of them came home with the other’s cardigan wrapped around her shoulders.
And stayed up the entire night thinking about every moment, every touch, every word.
It’s crazy logic. Already so ridiculous that I didn’t tell her how the night ended.
There were a lot of details I described.
Grant driving his BMW, one confident hand on the steering wheel and the other with its defined veins resting on the center console, was a sight to see.
So was the look he gave me through the length of his lashes, under the fluorescent lights of mini golf, green eyes gentle and kind.
The most unforgettable sight, however, is permanently burned into my brain.
Parked outside my building’s front door.
His upper body leaning over the leather interior of his car.
Fingers twitching, like they’re longing to touch or hold something.
Gemstone eyes glancing up and down my face in a way that lit up every part of my body.
I thought Grant wanted to kiss me. But he didn’t.
I kept that detail to myself. Reciting it to Rosie would immortalize the fact that Grant could have leaned over and pressed his lips to mine, but he chose not to.
Every time I think I’ve unraveled my confused feelings about him, something happens, and it becomes ten times worse. I was already trying to navigate the fact that I don’t loathe him. I can’t, because this isn’t the Grant I despised in my head.
Then, I forgave him. It was said without thought, but it was freeing. I held on to this contempt for him for so long, and gotten so comfortable in the skin of it, that I questioned if it was na?ve to let it go.
But Grant still casted his head down and said he didn’t forgive himself. I realized he worked for my forgiveness, earned it, and still wanted to give me more. It’d be cruel to him and myself to space between us because I’m scared of how closely we’ll be pulled together.
I have every right to be scared. No man has ever made me feel the way Grant did when he placed his cardigan over my shoulders, or looked at me with pride when I solved his riddle. The feelings I held at a distance pulverized the walls I built around my heart.
Appreciated. Listened to. Understood. Key elements of a friendship, one that was cultivated in comms class and reborn through my failing assignments.
It’s hard for me to be positive about my writing when it causes so much stress and anxiety, but in the middle of it, there’s Grant opening my mind.
Pulling me out of my self-doubt. Being calm in my chaos.
Struggling with my grades lead me back to Grant. For that, I’m grateful.
After Thursday, the girl who drew black doodles of doves and hearts in the margins of her notes came back to life. And she was just as confused as before, because she went to bed wanting Grant and wondering why he didn’t kiss her.
His sweater is meticulously folded, draping my left forearm as I walk the last block to his apartment. The cotton strap of my tote bag digs into my right shoulder.
A chic gray building with glass windows displaying a luxurious first-floor lobby comes into sight. Through the transparent panes there are multiple front desk employees in tuxedos answering phones and tending to people who probably buy cars in a walkable city because they can.
And of course, the building is across the street from the Boston Public Library. I nearly gag at how perfect it is.
Wind gusts as I approach, and the smell of sage is too familiar.
Grant is in my line of vision seconds later, large hand waving side-to-side. My hands are too occupied to wave back, but I smile, and hope it covers my nerves.
I try to stop the thoughts forcing themselves into my mind, but I can’t. The white t-shirt and gray sweatpants covering his frame cause them. The damp sheen of his wavy brown hair ignites desire in me. My imagination runs wild in the time it takes me to reach him.
Grant, in the shower ten minutes ago, water droplets cascading along the tattoo of his forearm. One hand pressed against the gray titled wall, his other elsewhere.
“Hey.” His cheery voice is a deep contrast to the position my mind has him in. “I hope the subway wasn’t too bad. You should’ve let me pick you up.”
“It was fine,” is all I can say while trying to calm the beating of my heart.
Grant leads the way, casually walking past the burly security guard. I walk behind him as his extremely underdressed guest.
“I would’ve felt bad if you drove to my place, then all the way back.”
“It’s no trouble. Besides, I like having you in my car.”
I want to tell him I like being in it, but I second guess myself. I think he’s flirting with me. Before this, I convinced myself he wasn’t flirting with me to protect the agreement we made. Now it’s changed, and I’m perceiving everything in the opposite way.
God, I’m so confused.
While we walk through the lobby, he throws small details about where to go for certain things and how to navigate the elevator. Like he expects me to need this information. Like I’ll be back often.
Eventually, we reach his apartment on the twenty-seventh floor. The heavy black door unlocks with his fingerprint, revealing a large living room and open concept kitchen outlooking Boston. His apartment is surprisingly clean and unsurprisingly white and gray.
The colors of his home aren’t encapsulated by furniture, but in décor. Pictures of people in different shaped and hued frames line the walls next to concert posters. His silver fridge is littered in color too, crayon scribbles and marker swirls covering every inch.
My heart warms. There are pieces of people he loves everywhere.
I kick my chunky white sneakers off and place them next to his low-tops. He motions for me to follow him around for a tour.
“This is the bathroom. If you need toilet paper it’s under the sink, and…” Grant moves into the space, pointing at the bottom drawer. “If you need hygiene items, they’re in here. Let me know if I run out.”
“Hygiene items?”
He shrugs. “You know.”
He doesn’t say anything else about the bathroom, and I melt inside.
Grant McCarthy is wholeheartedly good.
He shows me his bedroom next, which is perfectly suited to the rest of the apartment. Neutral in canvas but detailed through its randomly placed trinkets and corkboard of ticket stubs and polaroids.
There’s a picture on his desk, of a woman with brown eyes and the same wave of his hair, hugging who can’t be anyone but younger Grant. In his hands are a painting with a 2nd place ribbon tacked into the top corner.
I can’t stop myself from asking, “Is this your mom?”
His frame presses into mine, just slightly, his chest brushing against my back. An inked forearm reaches around and brings the picture closer to us.
“Yeah. That’s her.”
“She’s so pretty.”
“She was.” I glance over my shoulder and catch the smile growing into his expression. “This is probably a good time to tell you. You remember that thing I taught you at mini golf? The hop-over-the-building trick?”
“Of course.”
It’s what motivated me to start my third draft last night. By thinking outside of my outline’s constraints, I’m already at six hundred words.
His other arm comes around my body, trapping me against him. I bite at the inside of my cheek to keep whatever I can of my composure. I can feel the rumbling of his chest against my back.
“It wasn’t my trick. It was my mom’s. I watched her do it so many times growing up, and I used to think ‘How the hell did she come up with that?’”
The strings of my heart tighten. Thursday was special to me as it was. Somehow, he’s made it even more meaningful.
“I hope this isn’t too cringey.” He taps the glass before setting it down and retracting his arms. “But that was my way of connecting you guys. Kind of. I don’t know. It made sense in my head.”
His body starts to move away, and I turn quickly to grab onto his shoulder. “It makes sense in mine too. Thank you. For doing that.”
My heart won’t slow. I want to say I can’t believe he would do that, find a way to bring his mother to me, but it’d be a lie. I do believe it. Everything about Grant shows he’s the kind of man who creates one-of-a-kind experiences for the people he cares about.
I wish I could have met the woman who raised someone so thoughtful. What he did might seem small in theory, but it’s heavy to me. To share somewhere and something that must be special to him and think to include me.
So selfless. So Grant.
With my heart still doing jumps, he guides us to the last door at the end of the hallway, already swung open.
“And this, is my art studio.”
I creep inside, the smell of ink and pencil shavings invading my senses. The room has its own stunning view of the city, with different sized canvases turning their backs on the window. The other end is stacked with tools and art equipment that must serve purposes I’m ignorant of.
“Sorry it’s messy,” Grant says.
“Your apartment is amazing.” I snort. “You should see mine.”
There’s a pause while I drift around the office, gazing at the half-finished art works placed on the middle table. I’m so distracted by an elephant illustration, I almost miss his reply.
“I hope I get the chance to soon.”
Rosie guessed a handful of times that when I got to Grant’s apartment, he would violently clear everything off his kitchen counters and kiss me down into the marble. I told her that was absurd, and there wouldn’t be anything remotely close happening.