Page 61 of Back to Me

“What I mean is, they were the right words to hear at the right time. Everything in my life was so monumentally fucked up and hearing you say those words changed it all. If it wasn’t for you, I never would have had the courage to talk to Em and found her the way I did.” Sighing, he turns back to face me. “I just thought you might need to hear it.”

My shoulders fall, and my back falls against my seat. Tears stream down my face and I lift my hand, wiping my fingers across my wet skin. “Thank you,” I say, breathless.

I give Cam a quick hug before reaching for the door handle. This time he doesn’t stop me. He remains parked out front of my building until I walk through the lobby and enter the elevator, his car disappearing from view once the doors slide closed.

I’m thankful Cam was there to watch me walk into the elevator even if I had turned down his offer to walk me up. Still, even as I make it to my floor, I look over my shoulder, hoping Julian isn’t somehow lurking around the corner. With a shaky hand, I quickly insert my key into the door, entering my dark and empty apartment.

The light above the center island is set to dim, allowing just enough light to see the main living area. Sliding off my heels, my eyes immediately land on the spiral staircase leading to the loft. Following the swirl of steel and metal, my eyes dance all the way to the top.

Just as it had in Cam’s car, my stomach dips and I bite back the urge to run to the bathroom and throw up. Drops of tears pool onto the hardwood beneath my feet. Sobbing, I clutch my stomach, hunching over in pain.

I fall to my knees, folding my body in and press my forehead against the cool wood floor. Heavy breaths escape me, and I look around the dark apartment, knowing I’m alone. Knowing I’m alone and I’m the reason why.

No. No, Graham did this too. Somehow, someway he caused me to feel this way. To feel this feeling of hopelessness. I’m left with nothing but this gaping hole in my heart and empty lies and promises.

My head rests against the hardwood floor, and it doesn’t take long before my mind throbs against it. Again, my eyes find the staircase to the loft, dancing their way to the top. Something draws me toward the loft, like an invisible thread connecting us. Slowly, I climb to my feet and stumble through the living room and kitchen, catching the staircase railing just before I fall to the floor.

Gathering my dress, I look down and plant each of my bare feet against the cold metal steps. It’s funny. I don’t remember a time when it has been more difficult walking up these stairs. My toes hurt, my feet hurt, my legs. Every inch of my body aches with a pulsating pain, and when I reach the top of the stairs, I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

Centered in the middle of the room is Graham’s easel. I let go of my dress, feeling it pool around my feet. I don’t immediately walk over to the easel. Instead, I stare at the painting sitting against it, my eyes brimming with tears for the millionth time tonight. My eyes ache, my cheeks stained with the constant string of tears gliding across my skin. I’m a mess, and I don’t even care. Swiping the tears from my cheeks, I look down at my hand. Black and gold splotches cover my palm, and I choke on the sob erupting from my chest.

Everything about tonight feels wrong. It’s wrong to stare at the smudged make-up covering the palm of my hand when only a few hours ago Graham said how beautiful I was. It’s wrong to be standing here, alone in the middle of our loft, looking at a painting he had done for me. It’s wrong for me to have left Graham the way I had.

Even when I know I’m the main reason I’m feeling this way now, I can’t help feeling torn. How is it possible to be so angry, yet so sad at the same time?

The lights to the loft are off, so the only light shining on the painting are the orange and yellow city lights filtering through the large glass windows.

I force myself to take a step and walk over to the painting, my breath catching somewhere between my heart and my throat. When my eyes meet the painting propped against the tall, wooden easel, my soul cracks.

My portrait is painted across the large canvas. Purples, reds, and blues cover every inch of rectangle board. Thin black lines stretch across the myriad of colors, making up the outline of my face. Light and dark yellows make up my blonde hair which is painted up into a high ballerina bun. Small strands of hair hang loose, framing the side of my face splattered across the canvas. It’s as if I’m looking in a mirror. Lifting my hand, I trace the lines creating my jaw, my neck, and my hair with my fingertip.

I trace the line of my neck, following it along to the bottom of my chin. The painting is of my profile. I’m looking up, but my eyes are closed, my eyelids painted in the deepest shade of blue. My finger dances across the canvas until I stop on my lips. A teardrop falls from my cheek, and I bite my bottom lip, having seen this shade before. It’s the same shade I’m wearing tonight. It’s the same shade I know to be Graham’s favorite.

Hanging above my painting, pinched to the top of the easel, is a plain white envelope, my name scribbled along the front in Graham’s handwriting. With shaky hands, I release the envelope and hold it between my fingers, the paper crisp and stiff beneath my skin. Although the envelope and the contents inside are thin, it feels heavy, heavier than any piece of paper I’ve held before.

Falling to my knees, I break, the pain coming in waves. First, it crashes into me with a force so strong, I’m struggling to breathe. Then it pulls back, just enough to leave me wounded, my body echoing the pain inflicted on my heart.

I turn the envelope over and wedge my finger underneath the seal, tearing it open in one motion. Unsure whether I’m ready to face what’s written inside, I slide out the thin sheet of paper and unfold it.

Sara,

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