Page 15 of Back to Me

Taking a few breaths, nerves shoot through my veins, unsure what he’s offering me.

When I don’t respond, he adds, “Of course, I will still need you to do the majority of the work. But I think with a few of these mixed in, it would add another layer to the exhibit.” He hands me the photo, and with it resting in my lap, I examine it as if I’m looking at it for the first time. I stare at the painting and think about Sara and how beautiful she is. I mean, how beautiful her art is. Stay focused, Graham.

Glancing up at Mr. Price, he’s now standing between me and his desk, leaning against it with his legs crossed at the ankles, his arms crossed over his chest. Awaiting my answer, he raises his eyebrows.

“So, what do you think?”

“Well, I would want to talk to her about it, of course.” Thinking back to my last conversation with Sara, before I had said I shouldn’t have turned away from her naked body, I think about the disappointment in her voice. She had been turned down once again by Allison, and just remembering the sadness hidden beneath her voice, my heart cracks for her once again.

“Would she be recognized for her pieces in the exhibit?”

“Of course. We’ll have several banners made with you as the featured artist and her listed as the guest artist. Typically, below every piece, we have the title of each piece and the artist’s name. So, for each one, there will either be just your name or both of your names, respectively.”

“I don’t see why she wouldn’t be interested,” I say, shrugging.

“Excellent. Now let’s go over a few more details about what this will entail.”

I clear my throat as he stands up and walks around his obscenely large desk, returning to his chair. His desk is bare except for a few pens and pieces of paper neatly placed in their respective areas. Centered near the front of the desk, closest to me, sits a silver nameplate, ‘Julian Price - Curator’ engraved into its shiny metal.

Patiently waiting, I watch as Mr. Price logs onto his computer, the sound of the clicking of his keyboard echoing through the room, his gaze focused on the screen.

“Typically, I give you three months to create about fifteen or so pieces to show. I would like at least four or five of them to be the collaborative pieces. And of course, all of them will be screened by me before I agree to have them included in the exhibit. I would like to stay with the theme of this painting.” Breaking his eyes away from his computer, he points to the picture still resting in my lap.

I look down before focusing back on him.

“Would that theme be okay with you?”

Imagining the endless amount of time I will be able to spend with Sara if she agrees to work on this with me causes my heart to thrash against my rib cage. Images of her dressed in her tank tops and skinny jeans, bent down on the floor, her hands covered in black powder as she drags the charcoal across the canvas—I can’t seem to keep her out of my mind even when I’m attempting to keep my focus on Mr. Price.

“Graham?”

“Yes?” My head shoots up, finding him staring at me deadpan. I shake my head. “Oh, yes. Sounds great.”

Eyeing me curiously, he slowly turns back to his computer. “Okay. There are a few more details I need before we’re done. What is your roommate’s name?”

I sit up in my chair, smoothing out the wrinkles on my shirt. “Sara. Sara Andrews.”

It takes a moment for me to realize the sound of his tapping on the keys has stopped, and the room has fallen silent. It’s as if there’s a sudden shift in the atmosphere in his pristine office. Looking from my lap to see why he’s stopped, I find him still sitting at his desk, his gaze trained on his computer, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Slowly, he lifts his hand, raking it through his medium length blonde hair. His eyebrows bend as three lines crease the skin separating his now darkened emerald eyes.

“I’m sorry. Could you say her name again?”

I hesitate, unsure of what changed his demeanor. He’s stiff, no longer the cool, confident man from earlier.

“Sara,” I drag out. “Sara Andrews.”

Without looking down at the keys, he continues typing as if he had never stopped.

“Sara without an ‘H,’” I add.

He only acknowledges me with a nod, ignoring my comment. I sit in silence, unsure whether I should speak up.

While he finishes typing, I silently gather the drawings and photos still scattered across his desk. Finally, when I have every piece back together and packed safely into my portfolio, the typing stops, and Mr. Price stands up.

He sighs, closing the jacket of his suit with one button, walking around his desk to stand in front of me.

I stand up from my chair, feeling the sweat beneath my suit beginning to dry.

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