Page 6 of Taste of Addiction

It’s five o’clock when I am pulled away from my trash TV binge fest by a series of knocks. It is just a courtesy, really, since the media room is doorless. I hit pause and turn in my reclined theater seat to see Collins’s silhouette in the light filtering in from the hallway.

“Oh hey,” I say, sitting upright and making a bit of a mess with the popcorn I popped. I toss loose kernels into the bowl and set it on the seat beside me. I close the leg rest and climb the stairs to the top of the room.

“Here are your requested items, Miss McFee,” he says politely. “Want me to deliver them up to your room?”

My mouth gapes at the turnaround time for the delivery. I was expecting at least a day, if not two. Nope. Collins gets my list checked off within three hours.

“That’ll be great. Thank you.”

I go back to my seat and finish the episode ofLove Lockdown. It seems like a fitting show to engage myself in. Before heading back to my room, I make a snack plate for dinner instead of a real meal. In the kitchen, I find grapes, cheese, and artisan bread. I uncork a bottle of my favorite sparkling Moscato and carry everything back up to my nightstand.

I find the items that Collins picked up for me on the desk. He managed to get me a heat press, a huge selection of vinyl sheets, blank T-shirts, and the cutting machine. In a separate bag, he has my special requested item that could not be found in a store—Graham’s worn T-shirt.

I pull the plain black shirt out of the bag and hold it up to my nose. I breathe in his scent of citrus and woods. I can barely smell the rainforest and that is only because I am searching for it. I fold the shirt back up and place it on the corner of the desk.

I open up all of the boxes to find the directions. I’ve watched enough YouTube tutorials to have a solid grasp of how to go about making personalized clothes and glassware; however, having the equipment at my disposal is still a bit daunting.

It takes me a couple of hours to be up and running with my first project. I start by feeding the vinyl through the machine and watch as the laser accurately cuts out the letters and design I want to press first. I smooth out the white T-shirt onto the metal platform of the press and place the vinyl decals in reverse onto the shirt. I put the safety sheet on top and then close the heat press, while setting the timer. Once the timer goes off, I carefully remove the shirt and allow it to cool.

I peel off the backing and smile at the pink glitter letters that say, “Graham Handled: The act of Graham having his way with you.” The words are centered between handprint graphics, with them acting like parentheses. For a practice shirt, it turned out better than I ever expected. I am going to have way too much fun with this new hobby of mine.

Now that I understand the concept, I move to my next challenge of turning Graham’s black T-shirt into something that I can wear to bed tonight. I use my laptop to design the message, get the vinyl cut out, and then press it to the shirt. I pull my current shirt over my head and exchange it for my new one that says, “Property of Graham Hoffman.”

I walk over to the full-length mirror that is inside the closet and laugh at the image reflected back at me. I then work at making him one that says he is my property. When I am done, I make my way through the house in search of Collins. When I don’t see him, I call out a simple, “Collins? You here?”

“Can I help you with something, ma’am?” a voice asks behind me.

“Holy shit!” I yell, jumping out of my skin and dropping the shirt onto the floor. I turn around and see Austin standing in the shadows.

“Didn’t mean to scare you. Collins is not here at the moment. How can I help you?”

“I, um,” I say, bending to pick up the T-shirt. “I was just wondering if someone could get this to Graham for me? It doesn’t have to be done tonight. Was just—”

“Of course,” Austin says, taking it from my outstretched hands. “I’ll get it delivered, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything else I can help you with?”

“Um, no, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, have a good night.”

“Well, hold on,” I say hesitantly. “I really wanted to thank you for rescuing me at The Shack. I was really scared and you kept me safe. For that, I am truly grateful.”

Austin’s head gives a single nod. “No thanks necessary, ma’am. I was happy to help.”

I saunter back to the room and spend time making homemade Christmas gifts for everyone on my shopping list. I play holiday music and channel all my creative energy into my projects.

* * *

I love the moment where your brain hasn’t figured out if it is asleep or awake yet. Where you stumble through visions, some imaginary and some real, not being able to tell the difference. Where your heart is settled, your muscles are relaxed, and your breathing is calm. And then there’s the instant where your nose catches a scent—being the dominant sense of memory recall—completely catapulting you through the foggy haze to present time.

That’s what Graham’s T-shirt does to me.

It brings me back. Holds me close. And makes me want to open my eyes.

But when I do, the only thing I have of him is his memory that kisses my body and wraps me in the scent of him. I pull the collar up to my nose and breathe him in. I miss him. It is only Saturday—I think—and we have not been physically in each other’s presence since Thursday morning. Seems way longer though.

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