Page 50 of Back to Me

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SARA

The mid-afternoon sun beams through the floor to ceiling windows of our loft as it always does. The lingering warmth from the beating of its rays presses against my back as I hunch forward, adding the last bit of shading to the Dallas skyline I’ve created. Admiring each line, fading from a thick, dark black to a dull grey, I begin imagining the colors Graham will add to it, the life he will bring to this piece. His hands, strong and firm, gripped around the wooden stem of the paintbrush, dragging it across the canvas, filling in the negative space I’ve created. Soon it will be more than just shadows and rough, jagged lines.

Once I’m finished with my drawing, I stand up and move the canvas to Graham’s easel. Resting my hands on my hips, I stare at the piece I’ve created, content it’s turned out just as I had imagined it in my head. Feeling the sun’s warmth now beat across the left side of my face, I smile, a sense of calm washing over me.

It’s been six weeks since I quit my job and walked out of Allison’s gallery. At first, processing what Allison had done to me was a tough pill to swallow. Every morning, I would wake up with a knot in my stomach and a tightness in my chest, pressing the snooze button on my phone for the tenth time, refusing to wake up and face the choice I made. As much as I wanted to be angry with Allison for deceiving me and treating me the way she had, I was more upset with myself.

I felt like a failure. My heart was shattered into a million little pieces, knowing I had given up on the one thing I knew I wanted to do with my life. Several weeks had passed where I didn’t have the energy or courage to pick up a piece of charcoal, much less take one step onto the stairs leading to our loft. The first few days, Graham let me bask in my guilt. He would quietly climb out of our bed without a word and retreat to the loft to work on the last few paintings he needed to finish for his deadline with Mr. Price. Knowing we had only one more collaborative piece to finish, I would lay in bed, hidden beneath the safety of Graham’s sheets until I could no longer stand the isolation and mind-numbing silence.

After a week of padding around in my pajamas and successfully binge-watching the entire series of The Office on Netflix, I mustered up the mental strength and stepped foot into our loft. When I had reached the top of the stairs, dressed seductively in a dingy, oversized t-shirt, striped cotton shorts, and my pink fuzzy slippers, I found Graham standing in front of the supply table. His head was bent low, the muscles of his back stretched beneath his smooth skin as his finger glided across the bright screen of his phone. With an earbud placed in each of his ears, I knew he wouldn’t be able to hear me over the playlist he plays religiously whenever his mind is elsewhere, conjuring up his creativity. His foot continued tapping against the hardwood floor, and with his head slightly bobbing up and down, I slowly walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. He didn’t startle at my touch, almost as if he had expected me all along. As if he knew I would come back to him at some point, he was only waiting for the moment I would. Slowly turning around in my arms, he placed one earbud gently in my ear, sharing his music with me. The music quickly filled my eardrum, drowning out my thoughts and the feelings of self-deprecation dissolving with every pulsating beat. Resting my cheek against his chest, he wrapped his arms around me as we danced until the tears spilling from my eyes had completely dried, and I could no longer remember why I had shed them in the first place.

Still staring at the canvas resting on the easel, my phone rings in my back pocket. Graham’s name flashes across the screen before I slide the green button to answer and press the phone to my ear.

“Hey, you.”

“Hey,” he sighs.

“What’s wrong?”

“Where do I begin?” he scoffs. “I guess I’ll start with the part where I showed up at the wrong place.”

“You went to the wrong place? Are you sure?” I ask. I walk down the spiral staircase and sit down on the couch in the living room, crossing my legs underneath me.

“I’m pretty sure. I typed in the address Mr. Price sent me, but the person who answered the door had no idea who I was. They didn’t even know anyone who worked for the museum.”

“That’s strange. Did you text Mr. Price and ask him if he sent you the right address?” I ask, my stomach turning into a bundle of nerves. Something doesn’t feel right, but I can’t quite figure out why. This morning Mr. Price called Graham telling him he had a client who was interested in purchasing one of his pieces. Offering nearly double what he had originally asked for it, Graham immediately agreed.

Sighing into the phone, I hear the sound of Graham’s engine starting. “Yeah,” he says. “He hasn’t responded yet. I don’t know what to do, Sara. The only thing I know about this guy is his name is David. I guess I’ll just head home.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” Picking at the frayed ends of my jean shorts, I press the phone closer to my cheek. “Hopefully, Mr. Price will send you the right address and you can reschedule for tomorrow.”

“I guess.” His voice is laced with disappointment. Graham relies on selling his largest pieces to bring in the majority of his income. With this David person offering nearly double, I know Graham is crushed to have potentially missed out on this sale.

“Hey, how about I make my infamous chimichurri tacos for dinner, and we spend the rest of the night cuddled up on the couch?”

“That sounds amazing,” he coos.

“While you’re on your way home, I’ll run down to the store on the corner and grab what I need to make them.”

“Shit,” Graham breathes out, nearly cutting me off.

“What?” I ask, worry resting in the back of my throat.

“There’s near-standstill traffic on thirty-five. It’s going to take me twice as long to get home.”

I pout, twirling the loose thread on my shorts between my fingers. “That’s okay. I’ll have everything made and waiting when you get here.”

“Thank you. I’ll let you know when the traffic starts moving a bit faster.”

“I love you, Graham.”

“I love you, too. Hey, before you go. Can you make extra chimichurri sauce? Yours is the best, and we always run out before we run out of everything else.”

“Okay,” I giggle. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

Hanging up, I slide my phone back into the pocket of my jean shorts. I jog across the living room and into the kitchen, grabbing the magnetic notepad on the refrigerator and a pen. After jotting down all the ingredients I’ll need to make a double batch of my chimichurri tacos, I tuck the folded paper into my back pocket, along with my phone.

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