Chapter 15 #2
An hour after being here, and I can officially say I was right.
Since setting up camp on his plush couch, me on one end pretending to type something tangible and him drawing on the other, Grant hasn’t said a word to me.
My doubts and confusion manifest themselves again. Without the occasional glance he throws, I would think he’s forgotten I’m here. He’s been paying all his attention to his sketchbook and pencils.
I huff and rearrange the laptop on my thighs. I must have paraphrased the answer to this discussion question a million times. Nothing comes out accurate or sincere when my mind is so confused.
I’m about to breathe out my annoyance again, in a sad attempt to vie for his attention, when Grant gets on his feet.
“Be right back. Bathroom.”
It’s the most he’s said to me in half an hour.
Alone, I throw my hands up and toss my laptop to the side. After the moment we shared in his bedroom, I was convinced his feelings for me are romantic. Some things are too deep and heartfelt to simply be friendly.
Or so I thought. Then he goes and ignores me, like the pages of his sketchbook are infinitely more interesting.
I didn’t come here with many expectations. But at the very least, I’d like to go home with an understanding of what this is. Is it platonic? Romantic? Is the girl from comms class going to be so convinced of one thing, only to be left hanging again?
I glare at his leather-bound sketchbook. Pieces of paper have managed to get the best of me, even here.
I can’t help myself. Groaning, I push off the couch and pick up the book. I throw a glance over my shoulder to make sure he’s not silently creeping behind me before I can snoop.
It’s not an invasion of privacy, I tell myself. I’ll put it back before he notices.
I just need to know what he could be so interested in right now.
The dark leather is rough on my fingertips when I flip open to the first page. With the few minutes I have, I try not to linger over every drawing.
But it’s hard not to take in every intricate pencil stroke.
Some pieces are more cared for than others, full of color and traces of eraser bits on the page, but all worth more attention than I can give.
It dawns on me that we spend so much time analyzing my assignments, I’ve barely seen anything Grant has drawn this semester.
His talents and passion are evident. Dates are scribbled into the corner next to his signature. Every day for what goes back to January, there’s some sort of sketch to document his progress. I’m jealous he’s this dedicated to something and this naturally gifted.
Most drawings are of animals. Dogs, the most common, but there’s an occasional household item or body part.
The first flowers to pop up are lavenders. Three of them, tied together with a baby blue ribbon. Dainty and lovely, I can envision it seamlessly blending with the art prints above my desk.
The next few drawings are skilled, a seagull here and a coffee cup there, but nothing catches my eye like those lavenders. Until another flower appears, and it instantly becomes my favorite.
A single lily. Pink and yellow petals half expanded, just beginning to bloom. In pastel shades I’m constantly attracted to. I rub my finger over the date to make sure I’m reading it correctly.
The drawing is beautiful. I love how elegant and simplistic it is. I want to keep admiring it, but time is of the essence and I’m not sure when Grant will be back. I can stare at the perfectly constructed lily another time.
I hurriedly flip the page, and rear back at the sight.
More lilies. Purple ones, on the left page, and green on the right.
I flip again. More lilies. They’re the same, but also not.
The same flower, but in changing colors and in different positions.
Some shorter and taller, some blooming and some in bunches.
But each improving, becoming more detailed.
On every page the lines become more precise and purposeful.
Like he spent an extra five minutes each day fostering his art.
The realization crashes into me, and I grip onto the book harder. Again and again and again, I flip.
More lilies.
I go back to the first and check the date. Reference it to my mental calendar. It doesn’t add up; he drew this one days before sidelining me at work. A singular drawing, I could wave off. A pure coincidence he illustrated the flower that represents his nickname for me.
But this many, enough to cover the coffee table in front of me, and for every single day, make it impossible to ignore.
My cheeks burn. The wind is knocked out of me and my nerves stand on end. I feel hot and weightless and lightheaded. A small laugh of relief escapes my chest.
His feelings for me are real, and they have been for a while.
The corners of my mouth painfully stretch into my cheeks.
Going further into the sketchbook, I categorize every lily. Commit them to memory so I can race home later to tell Rosie and get bombarded with “I told you so”. The drawings are never-ending, one after the other, until I get to today’s piece. The unfinished drawing isn’t of a lily.
It’s of me.
The side angle Grant would have seen from this end of the couch, a rough sketch of my hands placed over two rectangles that connect where a laptop would. There isn’t a face to the drawing, but the hair is wavy, and the sundress is sitting just the way mine would’ve.
“What are you doing?”
This time, I do drop the sketchbook, leather connecting with the hardwood floor.
Grant stands in front of me with his arms crossed, hints of a smirk spreading across his tilted head.
I can only gape at him. My entire body is on fire and my mind is fighting to process everything. I was so caught up in what I found, and the relief of it, I didn’t think of what would come next.
He doesn’t say anything either, bending down to grab the sketchbook and wipe at it. As if there was any dust on his floors to begin with.
“So, you looked at my drawings?”
It’s asked so casually. He must know what I’ve seen, but he doesn’t seem the slightest surprised or offended.
My forehead creases. Did he want me to know?
Before I can ask, he pushes the book back into my hands.
“The brown one is my favorite.”
“What?”
“The lily.” A cold wash runs through me, diffusing the heat that was running across my skin. “The brown one is my favorite.”
“Oh.”
He’s weirdly calm. This was an invasion of privacy. And if these were his secret, artistic documentations of his feelings, he isn’t doing a great job at the secret part.
So they were just lilies. If they weren’t, or if they meant something more, he wouldn’t be so casual about it.
But what about the drawing of me, at the end of the couch?
“You’re overthinking again.”
His voice is closer, Grant having eliminated the space between us. No more than a forearm’s length away from me, he reaches out to tap the book.
“It means what you think it does. I drew the brown lily after mini golf.” He wraps a strand of hair framing my face around his finger, twirling it slowly.
I can hear my heart pounding in my ear drums. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.
” Grant whispers, “Can I tell you how much I’ve thought about you? ”
The heat comes rushing back, with endorphins that cause my brain to go hazy.
Breathing out in a daze, I answer, “Yes.”
“On the first day of class,” he says, green eyes holding a softness unlike any other I’ve seen.
“You wore a pink cable knit dress. With a white coat that had fur cuffs and pink bows. Fall was just beginning, and everyone else showed up in browns and blacks, but you were spring. Vibrant and bright. Colors against a plain canvas. You were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.
“Then, when our professor would call on you, you spoke like it was what you were meant to do.
Putting words together to make something easier to understand or to create an answer out of nothing.
You were brilliant. The day we got partnered felt like the first time, in a long time, life wanted to do something good for me.
I was lucky enough to be around you, even if it was for class.
“I can’t forgive myself for happened. But us going to the same school again, then seeing each other at Caramel & Latte, showed me I’m too lucky to waste another shot.
I won’t. I’ve thought about you constantly since we’ve met.
I see you in every piece of art I’ve created this semester.
I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t want to. ”
The confession is beyond flowers drawn in a sketchbook. It’s the time we’ve spent together, from the day we met to now, decorated with our friendship. It’s a carefully woven description of how Grant’s come to care about me in ways I struggle to do myself.
He said he felt lucky enough to be around me. But I feel lucky enough to be seen by him.
I’m too lightheaded to get caught up in what I should or shouldn’t say. All I know is Grant, the way he makes me feel, and how disappointed I was on Thursday.
“You didn’t kiss me.”
His fingers stop playing with my hair. Calloused hands move to cup my face instead. A touch so feather light, I wouldn’t feel it if I wasn’t desperately searching.
“I know. I’m sorry.” He pushes his hand more confidently, skin on skin and fingers lacing through my hair. “Do you want me to make it up to you?”
There’s nothing left to be confused about. I gently toss his sketchbook back onto the couch, hands gripping the cotton sides of his shirt so it’s clear I know exactly what he means.
“Yes.”
Grant takes what feels like forever before he tilts my head to the angle he wants me, head dipping to meet mine in a kiss. My body relaxes when his lips press softly, working in a caress that makes me feel beautiful.
Careful, intentional, slow. I trail my right hand up his body and along the expanse of his neck, lips parting in a sigh when he pushes into me. Arm wrapping around my waist and pulling me onto my toes so our bodies can press impossibly closer together.
My body hums in every spot of contact. Slow turns to passionate. Grant tugs me harder against his body like he’s never wanted anything more than this. I feel him everywhere, thigh against thigh and tongue to tongue.
I thought he’d taste like matcha, earthy and soothing, but he doesn’t. His kiss tastes inexplicitly minty. Fresh and cooling, like he just popped an altoid. Like he planned for today to go in this direction.
When I pull away, his lips follow.
“Did you plan for me to find your sketchbook?”
His gemstone eyes are droopy, vision focused purely on my lips.
I snap my fingers in front of him. “Grant.”
“Huh?” He blinks and pauses before answering, “Oh, yeah. I left it there on purpose.”
“What? Why?”
He smiles and my knees suddenly forget how to work. His arm tightens around my waist, dipping my body back when he goes for another kiss.
His lips linger on mine briefly. Two quick pecks with his hands in my hair before we separate.
“I was hoping you’d go through it, and then I would be able to do that.”
I’ve never been this close to Grant before. His dimples look so much more pronounced when they’re close enough to touch, and there’s traces of my glitter lip gloss spread across his mouth. I reach my thumb up to wipe it away.
“And what were you going to do if I didn’t peek at your drawings?”
“Please.” He rolls his eyes cynically. “I knew you were going to look at them.”
“Hey!” The push off his body is minimal and I stay held in his arms, smacking my hand against his chest. “What does that mean?!”
“It means that you’ve been staring daggers into my sketchbook since we sat on the damn couch.”
“Well, sorry.” Embarrassment sinks in. “You were so focused on your art, and I thought I was coming here to spend time with you so…” He laughs and I smack his vibrating chest again.
“You’re so cute, Liliana.”
“Lily.”
Grant moves away this time, but I don’t take it as him creating space. His eyes widen, glossing over with want. The drawings and the kiss changed something, but both were initiated by him. This is my move.
“What?”
“Lily. You can call me that.” I shake my head and correct myself. “I mean, I want you to call me that.”
“But before-”
My hand hovers to stop him, and I release a breath. “Before, I only said it to spite you. It’s a cute name and I like it. And I like you.”
My heart is thrumming in my ears. Grant planned for me to see those drawings, and that’s as much of a confession that I need. It’s me who speaks the words into the air around us, and in a situation where I should be shy, scared, and embarrassed, I’m not.
Just like he said, no one else felt what I did when the thoughtful art student with stunning green eyes wrapped his sweater around me. I’m the one that remembers feeling secure and safe under the fabric of his cardigan, because he said he’d take care of me.
And it’s me who knows I can’t let this man fall out of my life again. This Grant is who I trust, and his actions paint me a picture of his feelings that words could never say.
“Lily.” The name falls off his tongue smoothly, sweeter than any other name I’ve been called before.
Liliana to everyone, Lil to my friends, sweetie to my parents. But in my entire life Grant has been the only person to ever call me Lily. That nickname is the first part of me that belonged to him and no one else.
“My Lily.”
Want fills every part of me, hanging on the way he groans out those two words.
One hand holding the back of my head and the other gripping my waist, Grant’s mouth presses hungrily onto mine, hot and passion driven as he pushes me backwards. My knees hit the edge of the couch and we fall together, his arms caging my body against the cushions beneath us.