Page 13 of Back to Me

CHAPTER FOUR

GRAHAM

I’m standing still, frozen like one of the statues outside of the museum’s courtyard. How could I be so stupid? I don’t even know how I allowed myself to let the words spill from my mouth.

My chest contracts, knowing this is the closest I’ve ever come to revealing my truth to Sara. It was a close call, and the more I stare out into the courtyard at the many statues scattered across the lawn, the more I realize how for one fleeting moment, it felt good. It felt right. But my stomach turns, replaying her voice in my head.

What do you mean, Graham?

I want to tell her how I feel. I want to tell her how I’ve been in love with her for as long as I can remember. But no matter how much I want to, I just can’t. My life is one big ball of fucked up, and Sara deserves more than someone like me. She deserves a man who can give her the world, not a struggling artist with a dad who causes him to destroy a single room just by making a single phone call. Not a man who carries the guilt of his grandmother’s death around like a heavy iron ball chained to his ankle.

Despite thinking my life is one giant mistake, there’s still one question that always overrides my insecurities. How could a woman as beautiful as Sara ever love a man like me?

Checking the time, I still have ten minutes before I have to walk into the museum and sit down for the biggest interview of my life. I lied to Sara. I’m nowhere near being late, but I couldn’t stand another second of that phone call, awaiting her words of rejection. I ended it before my words could even register with her.

I adjust my tie, pulling it as tight as it will go without choking and think back to this morning.

I don’t know what came over me, but the first thing I thought of was chocolate chip cookies. Maybe it’s because when I was younger, Em and I would wake up every Sunday morning to find my mother in the kitchen of our house back in North Carolina, baking an endless amount of her special chocolate chip cookies.

The way her apron would be covered in flour and sugar somehow comforted me then. And even now, when I’m thirty, the memories of her methodically scooping the dough before placing them onto the baking sheet still comforts me.

I was a mess this morning, but when Sara stepped out of her bathroom, dressed in only a white towel, it was enough to cause my head to spin. It was unexpected, to say the least. Not once, in the years we’ve lived together, have I ever seen her that way. She always emerges from her bathroom fully clothed, I assume bringing fresh clothes in with her.

Droplets of fresh water had dotted her skin, and when I stepped in front of her, offering her one of my cookies, I wanted nothing more than to remove her towel and lick the wetness from her lightly tanned skin. Taking her right there on the counter, next to the spilled flour and brown sugar.

But I couldn’t, and the only thing I could offer her at that moment was a damn cookie.

I tensed then, holding back the tight pressure building beneath my waist, refusing to allow it to show beneath the thin, loose fabric of my sweatpants. But no matter how much I fought it, it all went to hell when she wrapped her arms around me, pressing her barely clothed body against mine. Resting my head against her wet hair, I breathed her fresh scent of lemons and laundry. I wanted to keep her there, remembering how her warm skin felt pressed against me. Then as she pulled away, her towel unraveled from her chest, exposing her body. I quickly bit my tongue and turned around, battling the urge to stare at her any longer. I knew she was embarrassed and didn’t intend for it to happen, but I needed to distract myself with any task that would take my mind off Sara’s toned, smooth skin and the hardness that had reached its peak. The first thing I thought was to load the dishwasher. So, yeah, I’m a real winner.

Two minutes. I break my eyes away from the statue and head toward the tall double doors leading into the museum, pushing aside any thoughts of Sara and try to focus on the reason I’m here. Nerves settle in, and I swallow back the lump in my throat, hoping I don’t greet the receptionist with regurgitated cookies. Approaching the front desk, I tighten my grip around the black leather handle of my portfolio and rest my other hand on the cool, smooth granite top.

“Hello, sir. How may I help you?” she asks cheerfully.

Her voice travels down the quiet hallway. The corner of my mouth curls into a nervous smile before I glance at my free hand resting on her desk. Clenching my fist to stop the shaking, I look back over to her.

“Hello, I’m Graham Ward. I have an appointment with Mr. Price.”

She grins, turning to check her computer. “Of course, I’ll let him know you’re here.” Picking up the receiver, she presses a button, pausing a few moments. “Yes, I have a Graham Ward here to see you.”

I swallow the nerves once again, cursing myself for eating nearly a dozen cookies for breakfast. Gripping the edge of my blazer, I quickly fan myself, feeling my crisp button-up and the fabric of my suit slowly constricting me. The room suddenly becomes stifling hot, and I grow impatient, thinking this might be a mistake, but before I can make the decision to back out, the receptionist stands.

“Mr. Price will be right with you.”

As soon as she finishes her sentence, a young man, dressed in a similar suit as mine, rounds the corner of the hallway, buttoning the single button of his blazer. He looks nearly the same as he had the other night when I met him.

“Graham, it’s good to see you again,” he grins.

I hold out my hand as he approaches. “You too, sir. Thank you so much for this opportunity.”

My hand is covered in a thin layer of sweat, and as soon as his hand meets mine, I wish I had wiped them. Withdrawing my hand, I’m still aware this man doesn’t appear to be much older than I am and definitely more successful than I ever could be.

“Come on.” He nods his head back down the hallway where he had just emerged. “Let’s talk about it in my office.”

Picking up my portfolio, I quietly follow him toward the back of the hallway.

Once we're in the quiet of his office, he shuts the door behind us and takes a seat behind the largest desk I’ve ever seen. He leans back in his chair and studies me. His lingering stare unnerves me, so I turn my attention to the art and frames lining the four walls of his office. Above his head are two degrees from Brown University. Following my gaze, he turns halfway in his chair and eyes the frames hanging above him.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” he asks. I can hear the egotistical pride and arrogance in his voice, but considering the situation I’m in, I ignore his comment and go with a much more respectable answer.

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