Page 6 of Back to Me

CHAPTER TWO

GRAHAM

A few years ago, before I moved to Dallas, I was hanging out at my old house watching TV when I stumbled upon a documentary about love. I’ve never found documentaries to be very entertaining, but I happened to find this one very interesting. In one of the studies, they had proven kissing helps determine compatibility with a partner.

Regardless of the proven science and research behind it, I remain unconvinced.

In the six years I’ve known Sara, I’ve never once kissed her. But despite having never felt her mouth on mine or her tongue caressing mine, I know I love her.

This same thought continuously runs through my mind when I dip my fingertips into a small pool of red paint and lazily smear it across a blank canvas. When nearly all the paint has left my fingers and seeped into the white board, I dip my fingers again and repeat the process. I don’t have a vision for this piece, I almost never do. But after leaving Sara standing in the graffiti park two hours ago, with my anger at an all-time high, I couldn’t think of anything better to do.

For the past two hours, I’ve been holed up in the loft section of our apartment. This is where I spend most of my time. It’s the one section of my apartment with Sara where I feel like it really is a shared space between us. Of course, that’s one of the many traits I love about Sara. She gets me as an artist because she is an artist. Flexing my arms, I rest my palms on my knees and hang my head low. My jeans soak up any lingering wet paint still collected on my fingertips when I take a deep breath and sigh.

I glance at the front door to our apartment, anxiously waiting for Sara to come home. My stomach turns thinking of how I had left her there alone. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I don’t know how else to push the guilt aside other than to drink my beer and paint. So, I continue the process. Take a sip of beer. Dip my fingers, this time deciding to switch to black. Stare at the front door. Take another sip of beer. Repeat.

My shoulders feel heavy. I should be happy right now. I should be celebrating. After taking my chances and painting a piece on the giant brick wall, I was taken aback when a businessman had approached me. He looked completely out of place, and I glanced around, making sure he was speaking to the right person. When he explained he was a curator for the Dallas Museum of Art and was interested in hiring me for an exhibit, it took several minutes for my mind to catch up with what he was offering me. It was the opportunity of a lifetime and certainly something I’ve never been offered before. After he handed me his business card, requesting I meet with him tomorrow, I immediately thought of Sara. But after he had walked away, and the crowds of onlookers had dispersed, my heart sank when I realized she wasn’t even there. She had missed the most important night of my life, and she was the one who had convinced me to do it in the first place.

But instead of feeling like my art is finally beginning to pay off, I’m sitting here alone in my downtown Dallas apartment, the city lights shining through the floor to ceiling windows of the loft, the only thing on my mind is Sara.

I can’t believe she missed it. She was the one who had convinced me to do it in the first place. I wanted her there. I needed her there.

Forcing myself to look away from the door, I turn my attention back to my canvas. Various shades of black and red of are splashed across what once used to be something so empty.

Sinking further into the silence descending on the room, I jump slightly when I hear my phone ring. My pulse races, hoping it’s Sara. But just as fast, my shoulders fall in disappointment when I read my dad’s name flashing on my screen. Reluctantly, I swipe the green button.

“Hey, Dad.” My voice sounds disappointed, and I don’t have the energy to try to put on a front with him.

“Graham, how’s it going?”

I roll my eyes, this is always how he begins our conversations. He pretends he cares because he feels like he has to. I’m his son.

“Good, I guess.” I contemplate telling him about what happened tonight, how I was offered to create pieces for one of the best Art Museums in our country, but decide against it, knowing it wouldn’t make a difference.

“How’s your sister? Have you talked to her recently?”

Sitting on the barstool, I bob my knee up and down, wanting this conversation to end. Balling my hand into a fist, I punch my knee. It’s quiet, and I’m sure my dad wouldn’t be able to hear, but I can’t ignore the growing fire beneath my skin.

He always does this. He only calls to ask how my sister is.

Six years ago, my sister, Em married her husband, Cam. He proposed to her at his Navy boot camp graduation, and they married shortly after. Since then, they’ve constantly moved. They visit every now and then, but for the past year, they’ve been stationed in Hawaii. It’s been a while since I’ve last seen her, the same goes for my dad. And it never fails, he only calls me to find out how she’s doing.

“She’s good, Dad. I spoke to her the other day.” I tighten my jaw and punch my knee again, silently cursing at the throbbing pain it causes in my fist and leg.

Em is my best friend, and I consider myself lucky to have her as my sister, knowing she’s possibly the best person in the world. We never go more than a few days without calling each other, and despite his asking, my dad knows this. So, his pretended ignorance angers me even more.

“That’s good, that’s good.” He pauses. I wait and listen to the sound of him chewing, then swallowing. The sound is enough to make me want to hang up, but I don’t, wanting to avoid any confrontation between us.

“Have you found a job, yet?” he asks. “I told you moving down there would be a bad move. It’s so expensive living in the metroplex. I don’t understand it.” I can hear the disapproval in his voice.

I press my lips into a flat line and breathe heavily through my nose. I force myself to remain still and think of all the times when Sara has had to calm me down after every conversation I’ve had with my father.

She would always place her hands on my shoulders and force me to count to ten, taking a deep breath between each count. But I glance once more at the front door, knowing she isn’t home yet. I try to contain my anger and frustration but know it won’t be long before I unleash that anger on my dad.

I grit my teeth. “Yes, dad, I found a job.” I stare at the painting before me, wishing my relationship with my father was different and missing my mother more than ever before. “I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.” I don’t even wait for his response before I swipe the red button on my phone, ending our call.

I could have easily told my dad about my upcoming exhibit, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. He would tell me the same thing he always tells me. My art is a waste of time, and it will get me nowhere in life. I should have just joined the Army like he wanted me to, just like he had. And now that I’m thirty, my window to join is growing smaller. But that’s the difference between my dad and me, we don’t want the same things out of life. He’s never understood me, not the way my mother did.

The sudden realization my father will probably never understand me pushes me over the edge. I quickly stand up from my barstool and eye my phone resting on the small wooden table beside my easel. With all my strength, I kick the table, watching as it falls over and slides across the hardwood floor before it crashes against the wall. The table remains in one piece, but I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, watching my phone shatter into pieces.

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