Page 17 of Back to Me

CHAPTER FIVE

SARA

“Oh God, that feels good.” I moan, kneading my fingers into the bottom of my left foot with my knuckles.

It was a long day and felt even longer as I counted the minutes and hours that passed, waiting for Graham to call me back. But he never did.

Now I’m sitting on the couch in our living room, still wearing my black mini skirt and blazer from work, massaging my poor aching feet.

The apartment is empty, and when I check the time on my phone, I wonder where Graham could be, considering his interview must have ended hours ago.

Lying back on the couch, I keep one leg outstretched, the other hanging off the side, my toes barely touching the hardwood floor. Covering my face with my arm, I hear the front door open.

I don’t move my arm, refusing to face Graham after today. I want to know how his interview went, but I refuse to be the first one to bring up the subject. Frustration builds in the pit of my stomach like a growing fire. First, it’s dull. As his footsteps grow louder, stopping in the living room, I assume he’s waiting for me to acknowledge him. When I don’t, his footsteps continue on into the kitchen, and that fire grows into a fierce burn.

I won’t. I won’t be the one to speak first. He owes me more than that.

Minutes pass without a single word. I can hear the crinkling of paper and the clanking of dishes when it dawns on me he’s putting away the clean dishes from this morning. Anger rises in my throat like a hot iron, the pressure building in me to where I can longer lie still. Furious, I stand up and stomp my way into the kitchen.

Apparently, I will be the first to speak.

“What the fuck, Graham?” I yell. I’m standing against the edge of the island, my balled fist resting on the countertop.

Unaffected by my words and sudden presence in the kitchen, he gracefully places the last plate into the cabinet and slowly turns around. He’s dressed in a white button-up shirt, the sleeves casually rolled up on his arms, his black tie hanging loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt left undone. I swallow at the sight of him dressed in what’s left of his suit after a full day of wear.

His lips slowly spread out into a small grin, the dimple appearing in his left cheek. “Hey, Sara.”

I take two steps forward. “Hey? That’s all I get, is a ‘hey’?” At this point, I’m not sure what I’m angrier about—the fact he hung up on me earlier after his strange remark or how he hasn’t once mentioned his interview.

Shrugging, he turns back around and grabs a fistful of clean silverware. “I thought you were taking a nap on the couch. I didn’t want to wake you.”

My shoulders relax, but my chest remains stiff. I can’t understand why he’s acting this way and why he isn’t more willing to talk.

“Well, I wasn’t.”

“Oh, okay,” he mumbles, sorting the silverware into the drawer.

Gritting my teeth, I unclench my fist and press my palm against the cool granite.

“Okay, well if you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask.” I pause, allowing him to engage in this conversation with me, but he remains turned around, still sorting the silverware. “How did the interview go?”

With as much patience as I can muster, I wait until he places the last few pieces of silverware into the drawer and closes the now empty dishwasher. Finally, he turns around and leans against the counter, crossing his arms. Closing my mouth, I swallow, watching his muscles flex against the fabric of his shirt. His tense muscles cause my stomach to flutter and my thighs to tense with want.

The blues of his eyes shine under the dim lights as the corner of his mouth curls into a smirk. “Let’s get something to eat.”

“What?” I breathe out.

“Come on.” Unraveling his arms, he grips the edge of the counter behind him, using it to push himself upright. “Let’s go to the Jealous Abbot. I could use a beer.”

I close my eyes, confused why he would want to go out to eat. Opening them, I focus on Graham, feeling defeat. I can’t argue with him, not when he’s looking at me the way he is now.

“Fine,” I groan. “Let me go change first.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for me to stay in the kitchen. “No, don’t, stay like that.”

Cocking one eyebrow, I ask, “Why?” I drag out the word as I continue to watch him. He lowers his arm and clears his throat. I’m wondering if his reaction might have to do with our phone conversation earlier.

Dodging the topic once again, he raises one shoulder. “I’m hungry. I don’t want to have to wait for you to change.”

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