Chapter 3: Secrets, Sketchbooks, and Scandal

On Casey’s birthday, Grant drove to pick me up from the dorm.

He texted me when he arrived, and I hurried down, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves.

The closer we got to his place, the more I realized something was off.

We passed rows of fancy houses, each bigger than the last. I tried not to gawk, but it was impossible.

We were in the city’s most exclusive gated neighborhood—the kind of place where everything screamed money.

I’d only seen places like this on TV. I wondered what his family was like.

He finally parked in front of one of the houses.

It looked like something out of a magazine—perfect lawn, big porch, even a swing set in the backyard.

I looked around and asked, “Going downstairs to buy cigarettes? Where’s the building?”

I couldn’t help but tease him. He grinned, catching the reference.

He paused, then played along, “I could jump from this roof too.”

I rolled my eyes.

He explained, “It’s just a meme—my way of showing how devastated I was after being rejected.”

He tried to sound casual, but I could tell he was a little embarrassed.

Once burned, twice shy. I eyed him suspiciously. “Do you really have appearance anxiety?”

He answered seriously, “I do. I’m always worried I’m not handsome enough in your eyes.”

I snorted, shaking my head. He was impossible.

“…Forget it.”

Once inside, I realized this birthday party wasn’t what I’d expected.

The house was quiet, almost too quiet. I glanced around, feeling out of place.

I thought there’d be lots of guests, but it was just me and his family—a private gathering, with me as the only outsider.

His parents smiled politely, but I could feel their curiosity. I tried to blend into the wallpaper.

All those curious stares made me uncomfortable.

Grant must have sensed it. He leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry about them. Let’s go see Casey.”

He led me to a small private backyard, knocked on the door, and called, “Casey, look who’s here!”

The quiet little girl didn’t react.

She sat at a small table, lost in her drawings. I knelt beside her, hoping for a spark of recognition.

“Casey, do you remember me?”

She kept drawing, only glancing up at me briefly before returning to her work.

It was a tiny gesture, but it meant a lot. I smiled, touched.

Many autistic kids stay in their own world. That single glance was already precious.

I handed her a new sketchbook as a birthday present and sat with her, drawing together.

We drew in silence, the only sounds the scratch of pencils and the distant laughter from the kitchen.

Surprisingly, Grant stayed with us.

He didn’t say much, just sat nearby, occasionally glancing at our drawings.

The three of us drew in easy silence.

It was peaceful, almost meditative. I felt myself relaxing for the first time all day.

I couldn’t help but ask, “Don’t you need to go entertain your guests?”

He answered, “I have social anxiety.”

I raised an eyebrow, but let it slide.

I muttered, “Never seen someone talk about their social anxiety this much.”

Grant: “Guess I’m weirdly proud of it.”

He grinned, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“….”

When we finished, we swapped drawings.

Casey drew me, Grant drew me, and I… drew myself too.

I commented, “Casey’s is the best.”

The little girl ran off and came back with an old sketchbook, handing it to me.

She pressed it into my hands, eyes shining. I flipped through, curious.

I flipped through it—she’d drawn scenes from when I interned at the center.

Each page was a memory, captured in black and white with splashes of color just for me.

I’d only heard about it from Grant before, but seeing it for myself felt different.

In her art, I was vivid and alive.

Maybe it’s narcissistic, but I could feel her affection through her lines.

Lost in the drawings, I noticed a few lines of neat handwriting in the bottom corner.

I squinted, trying to make out the words.

A diary.

But autistic kids don’t usually keep diaries—this had to be a parent captioning the drawings in a kid’s voice:

“Today I got my clothes dirty. Big sister changed me. She didn’t hurt me and even gave me candy. It was yummy.”

“I fell and got hurt. Big sister helped me and blew on my wound.”

“She did my hair and clipped in her cherry hairpin. She said I was the prettiest girl in the world. I was so happy.”

Each entry was simple, but full of warmth. I felt tears prick at my eyes.

Flipping a few more pages, Grant gently stopped me, ears red. “Don’t read anymore.”

He looked embarrassed, but also a little proud.

I got it. “You wrote these?”

He nodded, sheepish. “I just wanted to know what my sister was thinking.”

Sometimes even she couldn’t put her feelings into words.

He smiled, a little sad. “It helped me feel closer to her.”

Looking up at Grant, I saw in his words the love of a gentle older brother.

He was so much more than the campus heartthrob. I felt my heart soften.

I was surprised.

Before, I’d only thought of Grant as handsome, confident, privileged, out of reach.

But getting to know him, I saw he could also be vulnerable, sensitive, gentle, pure.

He was real, in a way I hadn’t expected.

Like a black-and-white sketch suddenly bursting with color, he became truly real to me.

He must’ve felt awkward under my gaze. “Why are you staring at me?”

I told the truth: “I think you’re really handsome.”

His face turned bright red.

He ducked his head, grinning. It was adorable.

After celebrating his sister’s birthday, Grant drove me back to campus.

We talked quietly the whole way, the city lights blurring past the window. I felt safe with him, even in silence.

On the way, I learned that someone had snapped a photo of him picking me up and posted it online.

My phone buzzed with notifications. I groaned, dreading the fallout.

The forum was buzzing.

It was like the whole campus was watching our every move.

“Case closed! The one who rejected Grant is Emma from the psych department, but it looks like they’re together now, haha (pic)”

The top comments were all gossip and speculation—until someone posted:

“But Emma was Grant’s support partner! How can they be together? Isn’t that totally unprofessional? (pics)”

My stomach dropped. I knew this would be trouble.

I clicked the images and saw the client notes I’d written for Grant.

My heart raced. How did those get out?

The support program required feedback, and the client notes were part of that. Since I’d stopped supporting Grant, I’d compiled my notes and emailed them to my professor as an assignment.

I never expected them to show up on the forum.

I’d protected his privacy by calling him ‘Student G,’ not using his real name. But the details—hosting events, top of the class, campus heartthrob—made it obvious who it was.

And at the bottom, my name—Emma Walker—was right there.

There was no hiding now. I felt exposed, vulnerable.

The forum’s mood shifted from gossip and congratulations to criticism and questioning.

The comments turned sharp, questioning my ethics, my professionalism. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

Grant, beside me, asked, “What’s wrong?”

He looked concerned, reaching for my hand.

I put my phone away. “Nothing, just a misunderstanding.”

I forced a smile, not wanting to ruin the night.

He smiled. “Misunderstandings can be cleared up.”

His confidence was reassuring. I tried to believe him.

“Yeah.”

I nodded, though my stomach was in knots.

Back at the dorm, it was quiet.

The tension was thick. My roommates pretended not to notice, but I could feel their curiosity.

All three roommates glanced at me, then turned back to their own things.

I tried to act casual, unpacking my bag as if nothing had happened.

On my desk, I found a pile of snacks from them—a silent gesture of comfort.

I smiled, touched by their kindness. Sometimes, words weren’t needed.

“I’m fine,” I announced.

I tried to sound confident. Only then did the room come back to life.

They relaxed, the tension melting away. We went back to our usual banter.

While showering, I heard a shout from outside.

My roommate rushed to the bathroom door, excited. “Campus heartthrob responded!”

She live-reported the forum updates:

“Question: Are you and Emma together?”

“Grant: Still chasing.”

“Question: Did you two get together because of support?”

“Grant: Not together yet, but I liked her before any of that.”

The other roommates chimed in, “Aww, so romantic!”

They giggled, teasing me through the door. I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help but smile.

I couldn’t even shower in peace.

I yelled back, “Save the drama for after I’m dressed!”

When I finally checked the forum, the original gossip and criticism thread was gone. Now, Grant had started his own Q&A thread at the top.

He’d taken control of the narrative, facing the rumors head-on. I admired his guts.

“Q&A: I’m Grant Collins. If you have something to say, say it here.”

I scrolled through, seeing the same responses my roommate had read to me.

He answered every question with honesty and humor, refusing to let the trolls get to him.

Grant answered every question, even admitting he’d been rejected.

He didn’t shy away from the truth, even when it made him look vulnerable.

Someone asked, “Was it her who rejected your confession?”

Grant: “Yes. She was always professional.”

His answer was simple, but it meant a lot.

Scrolling further, I saw more questions.

“Do you really have exam anxiety?”

Grant: “Yes.”

One of his roommates replied, “Like hell he does! He sleeps like a baby before every test. He’s the only one in our dorm who doesn’t cram.”

Another asked, “Even campus heartthrobs have appearance anxiety?”

Grant: “Yes.”

More people chimed in, “Anyone who believes that is an idiot.”

Same for social anxiety and camera shyness.

People who knew him well laughed, even doubting whether those client notes were really about him.

I was left confused myself.

I scrolled back through our old chats, trying to piece together the truth.

Just then, Grant messaged me.

His timing was uncanny.

He kept it short: “The misunderstanding’s cleared up.”

I sent him screenshots of the skeptical replies. “How do you explain these?”

I waited, watching the dots as he typed. But no reply came.

He didn’t answer.

Maybe he didn’t see it, or maybe he just didn’t know what to say.

I put my phone aside and tried to recall every session with him, but I still couldn’t tell what was real.

I replayed every conversation, every look, searching for clues.

If he was faking, his acting was incredible.

I almost wanted to give him an Oscar.

My phone lit up again. A new message from Grant.

Grant: “I’m outside your dorm.”

Grant: “If you’re willing to come down, I want to explain everything face-to-face.”

I hesitated, glancing at the clock. There was still half an hour before curfew.

After thinking it over, I threw on a jacket over my nightgown and went downstairs.

I didn’t even bother with makeup. I just wanted answers.

Grant stood by the flowerbeds in all black, tall and striking—he stood out among the stream of girls returning late. Nearly every girl passing by looked at him.

He looked like a model on a magazine cover, but his eyes were on me. Get a grip, Emma. I tried to look cool, but my heart was racing.

He was calm, even nodding at a few acquaintances.

He didn’t seem fazed by the attention, but I knew better.

I walked over.

He glanced at my bare legs, frowning. “Why are you dressed so light?”

I tugged my jacket tighter, suddenly self-conscious.

I tightened my jacket. “Say what you have to say.”

He led me to a sheltered spot and started explaining, “Remember when the school did that mental health survey for all students? I figured it was for your major, so I just filled it out randomly.”

I remembered the survey—pages of questions nobody wanted to answer. I nodded, curious.

“Randomly?”

He shrugged, looking a little awkward. “Those questionnaires,” he admitted, scratching his neck, “I made everything sound way worse than it really was.”

He looked away, sheepish but honest.

That’s how Grant ended up flagged as urgently needing support.

He said, “I never thought it would be you. I just hoped I’d run into you more often. But then…”

He trailed off, searching for the right words.

But then, the school really did assign us together.

It was fate, or maybe just dumb luck. Either way, it changed everything.

Grant said, “Once I saw it was you, I didn’t want to get better too fast.”

He looked at me, guilt and hope mingling in his eyes.

I went quiet.

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or annoyed.

“I know it was kind of underhanded, but I couldn’t think of any other way. You’re famous for being hard to win over—if I just confessed, you’d definitely turn me down.”

He smiled, a little sheepish.

“Though, even with all that, I still got rejected…”

He mumbled, “If I’d known we couldn’t date because of support, I never would’ve tried to get close that way.”

His confidence seemed to drain away as he spoke.

He looked so vulnerable that my heart softened a little.

I asked, “Why do you even like me?”

He looked surprised. “I didn’t think I needed a reason.”

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Under my gaze, he added, “If I have to give one, it’s just… you.”

He shrugged, almost shy.

“Because it’s you—that’s why I like you.”

He looked at me, waiting for a reaction.

I’d never heard that answer before. I was a little stunned.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just stared at him.

He asked nervously, “Are you disappointed in me?”

His voice was so soft, I almost missed it.

“Not really,” I said.

I just thought I knew Grant, but it turned out I only knew the version he showed the world. Ouch. That realization stung more than I expected.

It was a lot to process.

“So, can I still chase you?” he asked again.

He looked at me, hopeful but unsure.

I didn’t know how to answer.

I didn’t want him to chase me, but I didn’t want him not to, either.

I wanted to let things cool off, to figure out how I really felt.

I needed time, space, and maybe a little courage.

The dorm supervisor called out that the doors were closing. I glanced at Grant and said, “I have to go.”

He nodded, stepping back.

“Okay.”

He walked me all the way to the door, waited for me to go in, and even thanked the supervisor for holding the door.

I watched him through the glass as he walked away, his shoulders hunched. Something inside me twisted.

Watching him walk away, I realized it didn’t really matter whether he was pretending or not.

What mattered was how I felt. And I wasn’t sure yet.

Things between us cooled off on their own.

Days passed without texts, without accidental run-ins. It felt strange, like something was missing.

No more support sessions, no more singing competitions, no more classes together, no more walking me home… Turns out all those little moments were things Grant had orchestrated. The realization hit me like a punch. I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to rely on them. Oof.

Without them, I barely saw him at all.

He faded into the background, just another face in the crowd.

He went back to being the untouchable campus heartthrob—active in videos, forums, confession walls, but absent from my daily life.

It was like watching a movie in reverse. I missed him, but I didn’t know how to say it.

I guessed I probably had feelings for him, since I missed him.

I didn’t want to admit it, but it was true.

But I didn’t know how to break the ice.

I kept waiting for a sign, a text, anything. But nothing came.

He didn’t reach out, and I had no idea what he was thinking.