Page 23 of Back to Me

“Yeah.”

Then she’s gone, leaving me staring at the front door.

I quickly finish my coffee and pour myself another cup, bringing it with me as I make my way up to the loft. I haven’t been up here since the night of the graffiti park, the same night I had destroyed the room after the conversation with my dad.

I wonder how much of a mess I had left and how long it will take me to clean up. Standing in the middle of the room, I’m stunned to find everything back in its place. Every brush, every paint tube, and every canvas are neatly stacked and organized. Breathless, I turn to my easel, finding an empty canvas set against it. Pinched against the top edge with a clothespin is a small piece of paper. In Sara’s handwriting, it reads, I’m so proud of you. Find your inspiration because I know I found mine. -S

Slowly, I set my coffee mug down on the small end table and press open the clothespin with one finger, releasing the paper from the canvas. Taking a deep breath, I feel every nerve in my body shoot straight to my chest. I run my fingers across the words she’s inked onto the paper. My heart jumps and my breath hitches, feeling something in her words. They strike me with more emotion than I’ve ever felt in my thirty years.

I place the piece of paper next to my coffee and walk across the room, selecting what colors I’ll use for my first piece. Remembering how Julian had loved my watercolor pieces, I fill a mason jar with water and grab a fresh palette. I sit down on the barstool, bending my legs. My eyes constantly dance between the blank canvas and Sara’s note beside me on the table.

Find your inspiration because I know I found mine.

Dipping my brush into the water, I squeeze the excess liquid with my fingers and stare at the endless choices of colors. I think back to this morning when I walked out of my bedroom, finding Sara standing in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for me with two cups of coffee. And I think about the way her purple-red lips spread out into a smile, just at the sight of me. It’s a vision I want engraved into my brain, want to trap into my memory until I’m old and grey. I imagine her lips, painted in that tantalizing color I couldn’t quite figure out, and how it would feel to have them touch mine.

I dip my brush into the deepest crimson red on my palette before finding a shade of purple I have yet to use, blending both colors. Once I place the tip of my brush against the white background, the paint spreading out, my breath escapes my body in one rush. That’s it. Sara’s lips. I continue working for the next few hours, getting lost in my painting and listening to my Spotify playlist on blast. I think about Sara and my insatiable love for her. I don’t want to give up on the possibility of us. I don’t want to live in a world where I could never be hers. But I’m not quite sure where I would even begin. How can you tell someone you’re in love with them when your relationship started out as a friendship?

When I’ve finished, my eyes fixate on the painting. Sometimes, I’m amazed at myself. It’s not I think I’m the next Van Gogh or anything, but I’m amazed, at one point in time, my mind took me somewhere else, to a place where I was able to just create. Staring at the reds, purples, and light blues splashed across the canvas, my chest tightens with a different kind of pain. This painting is Sara.

There’s no way I would be able to show this to Julian, and there’s no way in hell I can bring myself to display this in the museum. This one is only meant for her.

When I’ve washed the residual paint from my hands, I pick up my phone and look at the time. “Shit.” I forgot to text Sara.

I rush, searching for a finished painting I don’t think she would have seen yet. She cleaned the loft earlier, so of course, she had seen every piece I have in this room. I run down the winding staircase, sprinting down the hallway to my room. Hidden deep in the corner of my closet under a white sheet, I find a painting I had done in high school. I don’t think Sara has seen this one, quickly mentally scanning my memories, trying to find a time when I would have shown her. Nope, this one should be good.

Running back upstairs with the painting, I swap out the one I’ve just done, carefully propping it against the end table, and set the old one in its place.

The painting is of a soldier, his arm stretched straight up, pointing his rifle to the deep blue sky. I was only seventeen when I painted it, and it takes me a moment to realize how far I’ve come since then. Not only in my talent but in my personal life as well. I used to carry the resentment toward my father and the emptiness from the loss of my mother—maybe I still do—that’s what this painting is.

I get lost in the silhouette of the soldier and decide to add stars to the night sky above him. Still rushing, I jump up and jog across the room, finding a white acrylic paint tube and a thin brush on the supply table. After dotting some stars and blending them in to make it appear as if all the colors were painted at the same time, I pick up my phone and snap a picture.

I breathe out a sigh of relief when I finally send the picture to Sara, hoping she won’t be upset with me for taking so long. Guilt settles in the pit of my stomach. It may not be a major lie, but I feel guilty sending her a painting I had done over thirteen years ago.

I startle at the sound of an incoming text message. My fingers shake with nerves as I pick up my phone.

Sara: Isn’t that the same painting you did your junior year of high school? I don’t remember the stars though.

My pulse races, feeling my heart thrash beneath my chest. Like I said, I’m becoming increasingly more stupid. How could I think Sara had never seen this painting? She’s seen every light and shadow of who I am. Of course, she’s seen it.

Unable to keep my hands still, I try to come up with a reasonable explanation.

Graham: You caught me. I just wanted to be the reason your day grew a little brighter.

Sara: Don’t worry. It made me smile. It was kind of funny, actually.

My body warms knowing how, despite my lie, I had still found a way to make her smile.

Staring at my new painting propped against the end table, I break my eyes away when another text comes in.

Sara: Having trouble finding your inspiration?

Graham: No, I definitely found it. But this painting has always bothered me. I feel like it was left unfinished.

Her reply is slower than the others, and I can’t seem to calm my nerves. With Sara, I feel like I’m always on edge, but in the best possible way. Walking down to the main living area, I open the fridge and search for something to eat while waiting for her response. I assume a potential buyer walked into the gallery, and she had to step away from her desk. I patiently wait for her response while placing a piece of leftover pizza in the microwave. Once the microwave dings, I quickly drop it on a plate, carrying it up to the loft with me.

Folding the sides of the pizza, I take a bite from the end. Quickly, I pull the pizza away from my mouth, feeling the scorching hot sauce sear my tongue. “Fuck that’s hot.” The pizza lands with a loud flop against my plate.

Setting the plate down on the table beside me, I glance at my shirt, feeling hot liquid soak into the fabric and onto my skin. A drop of sauce has dripped onto my chest, leaving a dark red trail down to the top of my stomach. Cursing under my breath, I remove my shirt, scrunching it into a ball before tossing it into the corner of the room. Was I that distracted by Sara to not even realize how long I had nuked the small piece of pizza?

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