Grant leads me to the table where his things are and pulls out my chair like he’s a southern gentleman and it’s courting season.
I stand there like an imbecile, frozen, praying the caffeine will hit my veins soon and breathe some life into me.
Why is this man being so nice to me? I curse him in my head for messing with all the douchebag frat stereotypes I’ve built up over the years. He’s so good-looking, he could treat girls like crap and they’d still be lining up at his door, no doubt. Hell, having seen him naked, it wouldn’t surprise me if girls signed up just to…
“Uh, Maya? Would you like to have a seat? If you have to study or something and you don’t want to talk, that’s okay, too. You won’t offend me. I just saw you yesterday in sculpture class and I was thinking about how we used to have those great drunken conversations fall term. I miss those.”
I blink a few times. First of all, he saw me in that class? There’s a reason I was hiding out in the back.
Second of all...he was thinking about me?
“Uh, yeah, I have a few minutes,” I say, sitting down in the chair. He pushes my chair in. “I’m curious, what are you writing about in that red notebook?” I repeat.
“I write whatever I want. Which, right now, is notes on exploring the nature of love versus sex. Can you have one without the other? Or do they always interact?”
“Wow,” I reply, and something tingles deep down about what he’s saying. Grant and I used to always have conversations like this fall term, and I miss them. “What do you think?”
He pauses for a moment, his eyes flitting out the window before he brings them back to me. “I wonder what happened to love.”
“What do you think happened to it?”
“Our generation lost its way to real love. We’re obsessed with sex for starters, and we want everything to be perfect and easy, and if it’s not, see ya later. We’ve got easy access to porn whenever we want it. Pretty girls and handsome guys I know have booty calls that are just a text away at all times. We’re all about indulging in instant gratification. But are we happy? No. We’re always just on the lookout for the next best thing. Never fulfilled, always hungry. What happened to fighting for a love you believe in, even when it’s not easy?”
My heart seems to freeze, then pound. A wave of heat starts in my core and flows to my limbs.
Nope. Not your stereotypical frat guy here.
My eyes dart to the still-open notebook. In a swift motion, he closes it.
“Sorry,” I say. “I wasn’t trying to read. Those are your private thoughts.”
He smirks. “Yes, you were. It’s okay, Maya, you can admit it. I’m super mysterious and you want to know what I’m thinking about.”
“Fine. I admit it.”
“Well, I’m fine with discussing the nature of sex versus love with you. What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart. But I don’t let anyone read the red notebook. It’s top secret, and it’s more for raw thought exploration.”
“Right,” I smirk, and a fun thought crosses my mind. “Is that because you’ve got all the fantasies written about me in there?”
“Totally, Maya,” he winks. “I want to blindfold and tie you to my bed and have my way with you. Guilty as charged.”
The wave of heat returns to my body. “Y-You do?”
“I’m kidding.” He takes another sip of his coffee. “Sorry, I thought that was obvious. I guess it’s a little early for these kinds of jokes.”
“Oh, right! Me too. I was totally joking.” I feel a pang near my heart. “Were you joking entirely about the red notebook? Do you really use it for writing down thoughts about love?”
“I wasn’t joking about that. I write down ideas there. I got the idea from my friend Luke—it’s a great way to figure out your own thoughts. And it’s absolutely top secret. No one sees it but me.” He slides the notebook off the table and puts it in his backpack. “You know the West Wing from Beauty and the Beast?”
“Of course.”
“The red notebook is my own personal West Wing. No one is allowed in there.”
“Top secret,” I repeat back, softly. “That’s too bad. That’s where the fun is. So, what’s a girl gotta do to read through that thing?”
As soon as the words come out of my mouth, they sound awkward and prying.
Damn.
“You’re funny,” Grant continues, “By the way, you never answered my question about where you’ve been.”
I really need to lose my ADHD for at least this interaction. “Oh, right. Where have I been? I, uh, just got up.”
I push my glasses up on my nose, feeling like a total out-of-place nerd. What am I even saying?
Thankfully, Grant laughs heartily and then slaps his huge hand on the table, making me jump.
“Aw, damn, you crack me up, Maya. I don’t mean now. Where were you winter term? This is the first time I’ve seen you in a couple months. Were you in hibernation?”
Oh. He means in general.
“I just decided to take the term off.”
“Oh.” He holds his eyes on me. “I think I heard that somewhere, but I wanted to ask you to make sure.”
It’s not lost on me that if he heard something, it means he was asking about me.
I realize I’m still tongue-tied when he keeps talking. “Not really sure what you wanted to major in, or…?”
Normally, I hate when people ask me questions about my major because it brings out the indecision in me.
And I don’t quite feel like explaining that my well-off parents got a divorce and suddenly, out of the blue, the Maya college tuition gravy train came to an abrupt end due to their circumstances.
Grant and I became friends during fall term, but to be honest, those first ten weeks of school seem like worlds ago.
Still, I shrug, not wanting to get into it at this early hour. “It’s a long story.”
“Oh, yeah? When’s your first class?”
“It’s at one.”
“Oh, really? Why did you come so early to campus, then? Do you have a lot of homework already, in the first week of spring term?”
The caffeine is starting to hit me, and I’m finally becoming myself again. “Because once it’s past nine on the east side, the guys start selling rocks on the corners by my apartment. And it’s just a little awkward walking past them.”
He laughs and slaps his knee. “Good one.”
Oh boy. He thinks I’m joking.
“What about you? What are you doing up so early?” I ask.
“Had to get my throws in this morning for baseball practice. We have six a.m.’s a couple of times a week in the morning.”
“Throws?”
“Yeah, I usually throw about thirty pitches. Sometimes more. And now that I’m up,” he shrugs, “might as well start my day, you know?”
I smile, and a warm feeling fills me.
Something about this man puts me at ease. Ever since I’d met Grant, he has this nonchalant way about him, as if you couldn’t tell him a secret about yourself that was worse than something he had done. If ever there was a guy who wouldn’t judge me for my predicament, it’s him.