Kissing in the Rain ☔ ✔

☔ part 8

Hey, hey what can I say?
I can just lie and say it's all okay.

Oh, oh what can I do?
Been going through hell getting over you.

But it don't hurt, it don't hurt like it used to.

No, it don't hurt, it don't hurt like it used to.

BILLY CURRINGTON- "IT DON'T HURT LIKE IT USED TO"
♪

EVEN IN DECEMBER it rarely snowed in Vancouver. Which was why I wasn't at all surprised when I awoke to find rain washing away the thin blanket of snow that had fallen overnight.

Shaking my head at the foolish idea of a white West Coast Christmas, I turned away from the window to make myself breakfast. Filling a glass with water and collecting the hot bowl of instant oatmeal from the beeping microwave, I sat down at my desk with my breakfast, my study questions and notes already laid out in a neat arrangement in front of me.

I was halfway through solving for x when Taylor Swift's voice pierced through the silence, and I hurried to reach the phone on my bedside table. I almost swiped left to answer the call, but instinct stopped me when I saw my mother's name on the screen. Swiping right instead, I was returned to my home screen, where I found a new message from Clara asking if I was going to the review session for our plant biology class. It was starting in half an hour.

Aside from not feeling caught up enough for a group review to be helpful, I didn't want to risk running into Grant after my recent revelation. I didn't feel like telling him what I knew but I didn't want to hide it from him either. I just didn't want to deal with it. Instead, I texted Clara to tell her I wasn't planning on attending, then tucked my phone in my desk drawer and set to work.

Two hours into studying, I felt myself losing focus, my eyes glossing over the words without sending a meaningful message to my brain. Eager for an excuse to take a break from the books, I jumped at the opportunity to clean my room instead.

After quickly dusting and vacuuming, I dragged my plastic bucket out from beneath the bathroom sink, adding to it a capful of floor cleaner and filling it with hot water. Completely engrossed in singing my heart out to a modern rendition of Elvis Presley's "Blue Christmas" playing on the radio as I scrubbed the wood planks, I was startled when a loud knock sounded on my door. Feeling the blood drain from my face, I hastily hid my wash bucket in the bathroom before tucking a couple loose strands of frizzy hair behind my ears and leaping up to check the peephole. I quickly pulled out my hair elastic, running my fingers through my hair a couple times, when I saw who was on the other side. The door made a creaking noise as I wedged it open.

"Hey Grant!" I said, forcing a smile.

"Hello," he greeted. Then, holding out a plastic container, he said, "You weren't at the review session today, so I came to bring you some cookies. I made them myself," he stated, smiling proudly.

"Oh! Thank you," I said, my smile coming naturally now as I accepted the container. "But how did you know my unit number?"

"Clara," he admitted, smiling sheepishly. "She, um, encouraged me to deliver some. I wasn't sure if I should."

"Oh no— that's fine." Stepping back, I pulled open the door to its widest. "Would you like to come in? Some tea would be perfect with these cookies."