Page 78 of Back to Me

EPILOGUE

GRAHAM

Six weeks later

I press my knees against the side of the box, holding the two top flaps closed and stretch the tape across, closing them together. When I’m done, I tear off the tape and grab the permanent marker from the shelf, scribbling in large bold letters KITCHEN across the top and all four sides.

“You don’t have to write it so many times, you know,” Sara says. Looking up, I catch her as she’s walking across the living room, her arms wrapped around a bundle of throw blankets. She drops them into the open box sitting in the middle of the floor and pushes them down. Standing up, she rests her hands on her hips and looks around the room.

“I know, I don’t,” I shrug. “But it makes it easier.” I slide the box across the floor and add it to the growing stack in the corner.

Using her fingers, Sara checks off what’s left to pack. “Okay, so we still need to pack my bathroom, your bathroom, and the loft.” Now standing in the kitchen, she rests her elbows on the center island, smiling across from me. “I hate moving,” she pouts.

“Me too,” I sigh.

It’s been six weeks since Julian’s attack. And five weeks since Sara and I decided we couldn’t live here anymore. We didn’t sleep much the first night, mostly because we were down at the police station making our formal statements, explaining every detail to the police. Afterward, we were checked by doctors before we were medically cleared to go home.

Julian was arrested and charged with a multitude of crimes, including assault and kidnapping. I was relieved, but I knew I wouldn’t truly feel at peace until the day of the trial. Until then, I never wanted Sara to leave my side.

The week after Julian’s attack and before we ultimately decided to move, Sara slept in my bed with me. But it wasn’t the same as it was before. She stayed close but far enough away, I knew we weren’t the same. Even after finding out how Julian had manipulated so many pieces of our lives, especially the night of the exhibit, it still didn’t erase the words we had spoken—the hurt and pain we had inflicted on one another.

Several times throughout the night, one of us would wake up in a panting sweat, the nightmares of that night creeping their way into our dreams. If it was Sara, I would hold her head against my chest until she had fallen back to sleep. If it was me, she would drape her limbs around me, wrapping me up like a warm blanket. We would just lay there, only allowing ourselves to go as far as holding one another. We haven’t kissed since. We haven’t made love. The pain was a wound that had burrowed itself so far deep, I wasn’t sure we’d be able to stitch it closed.

After a week of a consistent string of nightmares and sleepless nights, Sara and I decided to move. I called Richard, the Realtor Theresa had introduced me to at the exhibit and asked him if he had any studio spaces available. Delighted to have heard from me so soon, he had offered us a great deal on a studio/office space in Fort Worth.

Five weeks of packing and the day is finally here.

I swipe my hand across the film of sweat on my forehead, already exhausted. “The movers should be here soon.” I point to the couch. “We should remove the cushions and separate the sectional before they get here. It’ll make it easier for them to carry it down.”

Nodding, Sara joins me in the living room. Both of us start removing the cushions, one by one, tossing them into a pile off to the side. When I get to the middle of the couch, I pick up the second to last cushion as Sara grabs the one beside it. There, resting between the two cushions is a small, folded piece of cream-colored paper. I can see the ink bleeding into the back of the paper. My heart swells, and my stomach dips.

Bending down, I carefully pick it up, afraid to open it. When I turn to Sara, she’s staring at my hands, at the paper pinched between my fingers. A tear slides down her cheek, and she breathes in a sad sigh.

“I, um,” I say, clearing my throat. “I forgot this was here.”

“Yeah.”

We stand there silently for a few minutes, simply staring at the paper in my hands. I try to remember what I had said to her, the words I wrote on the lined piece of paper. Then I think about her painting, now packed away safely.

“Did you mean it?” she whispers.

Looking up, I gaze into her eyes, confused as to what she’s asking.

“Did I mean what?”

She points to the letter between my fingers, then her eyes find mine.

“What you wrote.”

My heartbeat picks up and thrashes against my chest. I take a deep breath and hold it.

“Every word.”

Sara

Four months later

I wake up to his warm hand sliding against my stomach, tracing a circle around my belly button, and I smile. I close my eyes, soaking in the warm, sun-saturated blanket on our bed.

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