Chapter 18 #2
Once we’ve settled into studying areas, I hurry to click open what I have of my story’s third act.
Getting it started was easier when I stopped checking my outline every few minutes.
There have been breaks of inspiration that slowed me down, but it’s more productive than I’ve been for any other act.
Turning my laptop so Grant can see, I say, “So I started my third act already.”
His eyes light up, dimples showing. I knew he would be proud of me, so I wanted to tell him in person. In the chaos of this weekend, I didn’t get the chance until now.
“Look at you. It’s like you’re obsessed with school or something.”
“Ha ha ha.” I throw the sarcasm back at him. “Because caring about education is such a crime. My parents are professors, you know. It’s in my blood.”
“Oh, so that’s your excuse.”
I’d pinch him right now if I didn’t have to reach over the table to do it.
We throw more joking jabs back and forth. Grant poking at me when he sees I’ve penciled “Text Grant” into my agenda every night, and me teasing him that his hair is going to turn green with the rate he drinks matcha.
When there’s a break in our banter, I point to the screen.
“I wanted to hear your opinions on my ideas for the confession scene.” He motions me to continue. “I was thinking of making my male main character leave little hints for his love interest. Like, small signs for her to figure out. Then it’ll eventually lead to them confessing their feelings.”
Grant nods, smiles slightly, then goes back to tracing ovals.
“I don’t hate that.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. The quick-paced heartbeat that’s becoming a constant when I’m around Grant begins to slow. That’s not anywhere close to the reaction I was hoping to get.
Scratching the back of my neck awkwardly, I ask, “But you don’t like it?”
“It’s cute.” He points his pencil to himself then to me, grinning. “It worked for me, didn’t it?”
I know Grant’s tone well enough to know there’s more.
“But?”
“But I’m not sure it feels super… What’s the main guy’s name?”
“Noah.”
“Noah.” He glances at the screen. “From what you’ve set up, Noah seems super confident. In my mind I’ve painted him as this straight-forward kinda guy who is always sure of himself and goes for what he wants.”
I nod. A tiny amount of relief fills me, because that’s exactly the kind of character I intended for Noah to be.
Before I can bask in that success, Grant continues.
“With that in mind, it just feels a bit off. Is Noah really the type to leave little clues, or would he be more direct with—what’s the main girl’s name?”
“Stacey.”
“Yeah, Stacey. The idea itself is cute, and I don’t think it’s bad. But I don’t know if it fits with the characters you have.”
Instinctively, I want to push back. I love the idea of something thoughtful and subtle as a love confession. It’s the reason why Grant’s meant so much to me. He came up with that confession, and I want to defend mine.
The red inked smiley face catches my eye and resets my priorities.
Of course I’m sensitive about the characters I’ve created. But those characters wouldn’t have existed without Grant’s guidance, and they wouldn’t have gotten this far if it weren’t for the grades he helped me earn.
When it comes to art, I have evidence that Grant is always right. If I want to get a passing grade, I shouldn’t question him.
I turn the laptop back towards myself and ready my fingers on the keyboard. “What do you think I should write, then?”
His attention is half on me, legs trapping mine under the table, and hands flicking faint lines onto his drawing.
“I’m not sure.” He shrugs and my shoulders slump. That’s not helpful. “Do you have any other ideas?”
“No.” The stark white of my laptop screen is mocking me. I strayed too far from my outline to use my original scene, and I was so excited for this one, I didn’t brainstorm any others.
“Go with the hints, then. It’s cute.”
“But you hate it.”
He laughs. I’m not able to find humor in this situation. “I didn’t say I hate it. And even if I did, that doesn’t mean you have to do what I say.”
What else am I supposed to do?
Grant has proven to be the formula that works. Either he approves my ideas, tweaks them to perfection, or helps guide me to new ones. He has the solutions to my problems. But if I’m not able to lean on him for this, then what are my options?
The thought of having to figure out an alternative has my stomach in knots. What answers do I have without him?
“Tell me what your plans are for May.”
“What?”
I blink as the world starts to come back into focus. Grant is still creating shapes on his page.
“Your foot is shaking. You’re overthinking again.” He’s looking down, but I can see the corners of his upturned smile. Suddenly aware of it, I halt my foot and cross my legs. “Let your mind rest from the story for a bit. Tell me what you have planned for the next few weeks.”
I shouldn’t entertain this. There’s too much to cover and too little time with my next due date incoming. On one hand, it feels like I’m surrendering part of my control by answering him. I want to figure out this part of the story and not sit around playing footsie.
On the other hand, listening to his advice hasn’t steered me wrong yet.
At the very least, this isn’t a hard question to answer.
“I have an author branding project due in two weeks. And after the third act, I need to start prepping the full short story-”
“Lily.” He cuts me off, lightly knocking my foot under the table. “Something not school related, maybe.”
“Oh.” I blush in embarrassment. It wasn’t purposeful. I search my mind for the other things going on in my life. “My parents are coming back to Boston.”
“Are they not already in Boston?”
“They’re in O’ahu right now visiting family.”
Grant nods, eyes moving between me and his sketchbook. “You didn’t want to go with them?”
It’s always the follow-up question. Then, I struggle to articulate it’s not that I didn’t want to go or don’t want to see my family. There’s just too much to do here, in Boston, to justify leaving for so long. Even if it makes me feel like a horrible daughter for choosing myself again.
But that explanation doesn’t seem as daunting when I’m sitting in front of Grant. Knowing that he centers himself on the life his mother built for him and becoming the son he wants to be for her, makes me think that he’ll understand me.
“It’s not that I didn’t want to go.” I start mindlessly chewing on my nail. “I’d love to go. I love Hawai’i. But they left in March and I have classes.”
“Since March? Damn. That’s a long vacation.”
“I wouldn’t consider it a vacation. It’s their home.
” His brows raise, and the pressure of my parents’ love for Hawai’i presses on my conscious.
“Imagine this. You move away from Boston, not because you want to, but because your circumstances don’t make it a viable place for you to raise a family.
You sacrifice what you consider home because of things out of your control.
When you’re able to go back, even for a just a little while, would you consider that a vacation? ”
Grant stops drawing. Twists his pencil in his hand, staring to the side of the café for a handful of seconds before shaking his head. “No, I guess not. A place that I call home kinda defeats what a vacation is supposed to be.”
“Exactly.” I sip the half-empty hazelnut latte to swallow down the weight of my words.
“My parents didn’t leave Hawai’i because they wanted to.
They were a young couple who got priced out of the islands like so many others.
” My teeth press against each other, gritting out the last sentences. “They ended up here. With me.”
For me.
He takes a sip of his drink, too, before asking, “Why do you say it like it’s a bad thing?”
“Locals getting priced out of their homes is always a bad thing.”
“Oh, of course.” Grant shakes his head. “Raising a family shouldn’t come at the cost of someone’s home.”
“Especially those living on indigenous land.”
For a moment, I’m afraid I got carried away with my passion for Hawai.i. I’ve had this discussion too many times—where I have to explain that just because Hawai’i is a state, it doesn’t belittle how awful it is for Native Hawaiians to be pushed out of their sacred land.
Some of those conversations shift into a teaching moment.
Like my parents did with me when I was young, I take the time to explain how important the islands are to the Hawaiian people, and how heartbreaking it is to see them forced out.
Others go south. I end up defending my parents’ anger, my extended family’s worries, and reciting the history of our ancestors who cultivated paradise.
Quick as I am to jump into defense mode, though, it’s not needed. Every part of me has faith that if someone would be empathetic towards my culture and my family, it’d be the man sitting in front of me.
Grant nods quickly, expression stern. “I wish they taught us more about that stuff in school. I’d love to learn about Hawaii beyond TV shows and movies.”
A smile breaks across my face immediately. Learning about Hawai’i was one of my favorite things growing up. Sharing that joy with other people has proven to be even more rewarding.
“You couldn’t have picked a better person to have around, then.”
His smile matches mine, wide and glowing.
“I know.”
Grant takes a break from his daily lily drawing to listen.
He’s almost better at it than art. His inked forearm cradles his tilted head, stare intensely focused while I recall my favorite parts of O’ahu.
From the beautiful sandy beaches that are unlike anywhere else in the world, to the fresh Foodland poké.
He asks questions about the local Hawaiian reggae music I rave about, saving my playlist filled with Kolohe Kai and The Mana’o Company.