Page 26 of Back to Me

CHAPTER SEVEN

SARA

“What do you think of this so far?” I sit up and straighten my back, keeping my knees pressed to the hardwood floor, resting my black powder covered hands on my knees. I turn my head, looking up at Graham as he stands next to me, his hands resting on his hips. A slow grin spreads across his face, revealing his small dimple. Pushing his hair back, he examines the canvas lying on the floor.

Most artists create their work on easels, including Graham, but I find working on the floor to be more freeing. Somehow, it allows me to see what I’m working on with a whole different perspective and opens up my mind.

Admiring the piece, Graham bends down, to get a closer view.

“I love it, exactly what I had pictured in my head.” Propping his arm onto his bent knee, he reaches out with his free hand and waves it across the canvas. “I love the outline of the petals you’ve done here. I could use various shades to give them depth. What colors do you think we should use for them?”

Glancing at my drawing, I turn my attention back to Graham and stare into his salacious blue eyes. For the past week, I’ve felt a shift in the way Graham and I interact. I noticed the change the day he had spun me around the loft. I don’t know what had sparked the change in him. I know part of it had to do with how I had reacted when I decided to come home early from work. I still don’t quite understand what caused me to lash out at Graham, full well knowing my behavior was unnecessary. Maybe it had to do with the fact I’ve been afraid of Graham using the little slip of paper laid in front of him the night we went to the Jealous Abbot.

On top of those feelings of insecurity, I just couldn’t stand to be at work that day. I couldn’t take sitting in the same sterile white gallery, listening to Allison go on and on about her schedule and how she expected me to fine-tune every single little detail of every event. My patience had worn thin. It made me sick, and to be honest, even as her mouth continued to spout out her utter nonsense, I couldn’t keep Graham off my mind. I couldn’t think about anything other than the anticipation of going home with him and hiding in the loft, working on our collaborative pieces. So, I went to the bathroom and fake vomited before walking into Allison’s office, begging her to let me go home. I ignored how her face had contorted into disgust, telling me she thought I had looked like I had stumbled out of an episode of The Walking Dead. With that comment, I rolled my eyes and shamelessly begged her to go home. Needless to say, she pretty much ordered me to leave.

Combined with my confusing feelings for Graham and my never-ending frustration with my boss, I was a little on edge when he had asked me why I came home so early. As if it was so strange I would want to be at home with him. As soon as he walked up behind me as I was sharpening my charcoal and I felt his fingers gliding across my skin, I felt completely different. His energy poured into me, and I sensed an enormous shift in our relationship. My feelings were reaffirmed when he had spun me around and pulled me against his chest. My mind fogged over as I breathed in the scent of his body wash and the essence of paint on his skin. The way he had stared into my eyes, showing me his deepest secret. He didn’t have to say it for me to hear him. He managed to speak more in four minutes without uttering a single word than he had in the past six years. But throughout his ridiculous attempt at cheering me up, which I hate to admit had worked, when the song had stopped, and our bodies no longer moved along in unison, I remembered the annoying little scrap of paper. I wanted to find it, burn it, curse it, and swear off paper for the rest of my life. I’ve never hated anything as much as I hated that three-inch piece of paper.

It took everything in me to pull away from him at that moment, realizing how my feelings weren’t invalid and were, in fact, reciprocated. The farther he leaned in, I knew he wanted to kiss me, but I stopped it before it had even started. For the past week, I’ve realized the main reason I had pulled away so quickly was I couldn’t face the reality of what stood behind me. My fear had overridden the idea and possibility of Graham ever loving me back. And every day since then, I decided I needed to hear him say the words. I need to hear him tell me exactly how in love with me he really is because with how long we’ve avoided it, no amount of light brushes and half-hearted attempts will change anything. Until then, we’ll continue to play the game we both know we’re playing—the one where we dance around our feelings, waiting for the other to make the first move.

“Sara?”

His voice brings me back to the loft, my knees growing sore from pressing into the hardwood floor.

I shake my head. “Oh, yeah, sorry,” I mutter. I look back down at the black flower and think about Graham’s eyes. “I think you should paint the petals blue. A deep, dark blue.”

“I agree.” Leaving me in the middle of the floor, Graham turns and walks toward the supply table, deciding on which palette of blues to use.

Standing up, I stretch out my legs and lift my hand, swiping away the strands hairs that have fallen in front of my face.

Deciding on the right palette, Graham makes his way back over to me. He sets the paint down onto the end table before bending over and picking up the canvas, resting it against his easel. Standing in front of me, he’s within inches of my body. It’s not too close, but close enough to be considered unusual, given the amount of space in our loft.

Raising his hand, he cups my cheek and brushes his thumb along my cheekbone. I don’t move, knowing this is the moment in our day where he finds a way to touch me. Yesterday, it was our shoulders. He sat on his barstool, staring at a different painting, leaning over just enough to nudge me with his shoulder. I’m getting used to his not-so-subtle movements. Even if my heart warms with his gestures, I never say a word about them and remember the game we’re playing.

“You have a bit of charcoal right here.” His voice is low but quiet, close to a whisper. But somehow it has enough power to shoot straight from his chest, through his hand, and into my heart. A smirk appears on his mouth, and I’m reminded of when we had almost kissed last week at the end of our dance. I wanted to kiss him, to feel his lips melt against mine. Staring at them now, as he wipes away the black charcoal from under my eye, I wish I had. My mouth feels the absence of his. How is it possible to miss something you’ve never felt?

Finally breaking our touch, he grins once more and swiftly moves around me to sit on his barstool, dipping his paintbrush into a clean cup of water.

Walking across the room, I pick up my phone from the supply table. My battery is at five percent, and I have a message from Allison, requesting I call her back. Shit, I left my phone charger at work.

“Graham?” I ask, seeing I have two missed calls from Allison.

“Hmm?” he hums.

“Do you have an extra charger? I left mine at work, and my phone’s about to die.”

“Yeah, I have one in my nightstand. Do you mind grabbing it? My hands are covered in paint.”

“Okay.” I leave him in the loft and jog down the spiral staircase. When I make it to Graham’s room, I stop just inside the doorway. My toes settle on a plush dark grey rug, and the way the threads feel against the skin of my feet cause me to realize this is the first time I’ve ever been to this side of the apartment since we moved in. I’ve never been inside Graham’s room. Everything from floor to ceiling is covered in various shades of grey. Considering he’s an artist, I’m surprised by the lack of color in his room. It’s dark and cold, a stark contrast to the Graham I see every day. His bed is made, not a single object or piece of clothing out of place or on display. What surprises me the most is the single pillow resting in the middle of his king size bed. One pillow for one giant bed. It looks odd and out of place. The only light casting a subtle glow in the room is the large sliding glass door, leading to the small balcony. Sitting beside his bed on a small table is a picture of Graham’s mom. The picture is faded, but her dark brown eyes stand out against her porcelain skin. My heart swells, wishing there was some way I could have met her.

Walking over to Graham’s nightstand, I slide the drawer open and pick up the phone charger, the cord neatly wrapped around the plug. Just as I start to close the drawer, I see a small, white, three-inch scrap of paper. My fingers shake, and my breathing stops as I reach down and pick it up. The paper is thin and scribbled across the middle is Jenna’s name, the same way it was when she had given it to Graham. My stomach twists, and I want to vomit. I want to cry. Why does Graham still have her number? Was he saving it for a rainy day? I shouldn’t be upset, I have no reason to be. What did I think? He would throw it in the trash after so blatantly accepting it?

Disgusted with the situation, I turn the paper over in my fingers and place it gently back into the drawer, making sure it looks the same way as when I found it.

Gripping the charger in my hand, I leave Graham’s room and that stupid piece of paper.

***

I’m at work, staring at my computer screen. Lately, I feel like my mind is off somewhere else—not necessarily with Graham, but not with work either. I’m starting to question what I want out of my life. I was convinced Graham was in love with me, I was sure of it, but finding Jenna’s number still in Graham’s nightstand caused me to question everything—every touch, every look, every word.

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