Page 66 of Back to Me

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SARA

Sara,

If you’re reading this letter, that means we just got home from our opening night at the museum. It also means you’re standing in front of your portrait. I hope you love it just as much as I do. But I’ll dive into more on that in a minute. I promise.

The first thing I want to tell you is how proud I am of you. I’m sure I’ve told you about a thousand times by now, repeating over and over in your ear as we stood in front of our paintings. I’m sure we stood there, my hand wrapped around yours, in awe of what we had created. And I’m sure we stood there wondering how in the hell a collection of our artwork could be hanging in such an iconic place as The Dallas Museum of Art. If I’m honest, none of it would have been possible without you.

For years, long before I met you, I was shrouded by a dark veil of self-deprecation and guilt. After what happened with my mother and the guilt I have for what caused my Nana’s death, I was left with a burning, empty hole inside me. I did everything I could to take care of Em, protecting her from the world around us. I tried to protect her from a father we didn’t know. I tried to keep her safe. But even the greatest intentions don’t always win out in the end.

I remember the first day I met you. I know we always say we’ve known each other for six years, but you and I both know that isn’t true. It may have been six years since we’ve been best friends, but Sara, I knew you even before then.

I remember meeting you the night of that football game. I didn’t want to go. I hated football, hated sports, hated everything they represented. But Em wanted me there. She wanted me to go so I could watch her march on the field during halftime.

When I got to the stadium, I remember walking up the stands and sitting several rows beneath the band. I looked up and found Em sitting in the front row, her chin resting in her hands. She was quiet, distracted. She didn’t even know I was there yet.

That’s when I saw you, Sara. You had this bright red knitted beanie pulled down over your golden blonde hair. Your lips were painted a pale pink, mirroring your just as equally pale pink cheeks. Peeking out from the edge of your beanie were two white wires, hanging down and disappearing underneath the jacket of your band uniform. I saw you, sitting beside my sister, smiling and laughing at whatever it was you were listening to under that beanie. You scooted closer to Em, nudging her shoulder with yours. Then I watched as you reached up, removing one earbud from your ear. Handing it to my sister, you said, “Here, we can listen together.”

I wanted to speak to you that night. I wanted to hear your voice and what it would sound like up close. I wanted to know what it would feel like to hear my name pass your beautiful, full lips. I wanted to press my lips to yours, tasting that pink lip gloss painted across your mouth. But I didn’t. That night, I left the game, wondering if I would ever see your stunningly beautiful face ever again.

Then the accident happened, and all of our lives changed. The guilt consumed me once again. I couldn’t protect my sister, just like I couldn’t protect my grandmother years before. I nearly lost Em that night, and I felt absolutely helpless in a world I was convinced was set out to destroy me. Another year passed where I continued to allow the guilt to eat away at me. Most of those years were spent drinking with my friends and hooking up with any girl who would offer me attention. I found myself lost in a never-ending spiral of self-destruction.

Then, suddenly, there you were. You came back into my sister’s life. And you crashed into mine. I was able to hear your voice up close. I was able to hear my name spill from your lips. I wanted to kiss them, just like I had wanted to all those years ago. But even still, I didn’t.

I didn’t because I never believed you could ever love someone like me. You were everything I wasn’t. Despite everything telling me you were too good for me, I did whatever I could to keep you close. For years, I spent every waking minute trying to figure out another way to see you, to build a friendship with you until I realized you had wanted my friendship as well. Then, it became effortless.

You see, Sara, my love for you has always been effortless.

Even now, looking back on those years we spent of being strictly friends, I believe it was effortless loving you. I won’t deny how difficult it was to hold myself back, especially when we moved here to Dallas. I didn’t want you to have your own bedroom. I wanted you in mine. I didn’t want you walking out that front door another day without having known what it was like to kiss you. But I did, fearing you could never love me the way I loved you.

Now, I promised I would explain the painting, so here it is. I painted this portrait of you the day after we went to the Jealous Abbot, and I told you about our offer to do a collaboration. I was so nervous to tell you, hoping and praying you would agree to do this with me. Not only would this have opened so many more doors for us in our careers, but I was excited because I knew how beautiful our art could be when we create together. But somehow, as with most things in my life, I found a way to screw it up. I had stupidly taken that waitress’ number without having the intention of ever using it. I knew it made you angry, watching me as I slipped the small scrap of paper into my jeans, but I did it anyway. I don’t know why I took it. Maybe it’s because I knew if you were angry, you were at least feeling something for me. The morning after the Jealous Abbot, I walked into the kitchen, and you were standing in front of the center island, dressed for work, playing on your phone. You looked up at me, and my heart melted. Your mouth was painted this rich purple-red color, and it took all the strength I had to break my eyes away from them.

After you left for work and I had gone upstairs to the loft, I found your note. I felt your words, Sara. I felt your words down to my very soul. Your words were telling me to find my inspiration, but as I thought about you and that insatiable, maddening shade of lipstick, I knew I had already found it. So, that’s what this painting is.

I lose myself in you, Sara Andrews. You say I’m strong when I believe I’m weak. You give me the courage when I can’t find the courage for myself. You say I’m yours when the truth is, you’ve always been mine.

And I promise, for the rest of my life, I will never turn my back to you. You will forever and always be the better part of me. The part I never want to let go.

Love,

Graham

P.S. Will you marry me?

I wake up the next morning in my own bed. The light filters through the curtains, and when I roll over, turning my back to the sun, I cry out. Every part of my body and every inch of me hurts. The fabric of my barely slept in sheets scrape against my skin. It’s a strange feeling to find myself in my room. I haven’t slept in here for months, and when I find the strength to pry my eyes open, taking a look around, the room feels foreign. Pieces of me are strewn throughout, my clothes and shoes littering the floor in scattered piles, but still, the room remains foreign.

The sunlight beats against my back, and I sit up, pressing my hand against my throbbing head. My numb legs hang off the edge of the bed, and for a moment, I don’t move, feeling the echo of every ache in my bones. My eyes land on the floor beside my bed. There, gathered on the floor, I find my long yellow gown. It rests in a perfect circle, still the shape I left it in when I unzipped it and stepped out of it, crawling to the bed, an emotional wreck.

Tears spring to my eyes when I find Graham’s letter next to my dress. The creased paper sits there on top of my rug, mocking me. Wrinkled dots line the surface of the paper, smudging the ink that makes up Graham’s words. I force myself to look away, to forget about Graham’s letter long enough to take a breath. Slowly, I slide off the edge of the bed, feeling my toes touch the cold, hard wood. Only wearing my strapless bra and underwear, I stalk out into the hallway toward my bathroom.

When I look in the mirror, I watch as more tears slide down my cheeks. My face is tired, and red splotches cover my exhausted face. I don’t even recognize the woman staring back at me. My makeup has been washed away with the constant stream of tears.

I press the palm of my hand to my chest. I breathe in, listening to the oxygen squeeze through my windpipe, forcing its way into my lungs. My throat makes an awful sound, and when I exhale, I bend over, scrambling to turn the handle to the faucet on the sink. Water rushes out of the tap, and feeling the oxygen leave my lungs, I rush to take another breath, craving the taste of a new breath. But it doesn’t come, and I panic.

Cupping my hands underneath the steady stream of flowing water, I realize I’m hyperventilating. I splash the cold water against my face, hoping it will somehow alleviate the pain, but no relief comes. My chest falls and rises with every struggling breath. What little oxygen I’m able to take in sears the back of my throat.

Reaching around my back, my shaking fingers scramble to undo the hooks to my bra. Dropping it to the floor, I quickly slide off my underwear, panic beginning to overtake me. I throw open the shower curtain and turn on the water, not bothering to wait for it to heat up before stepping in. At first, the water is ice cold. I scream, my skin rising with goosebumps from the shock of the water beating against me. But gradually, it begins to heat, and I sigh, feeling its warm embrace. I stand beneath the stream of water, feeling it turn from warm to hot. Soon, it burns against my skin, leaving my skin a subtle tone of red where the goosebumps were only seconds before. I make no attempt to turn it off. I don’t even attempt to turn the heat down. Instead, I slide myself against the shower wall until I feel myself hit the tile floor. Curling my legs in, I wrap my arms around my knees and allow the water to sting and burn against my skin until I can no longer feel the pain.

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