Page 18 of Back to Me

“But my feet hurt,” I whine. “I’ve been in heels all day.”

“So, put on your flats.” He passes me and heads toward the front door. Waiting for me at the entrance, he begins to unroll his sleeves.

“No, don’t,” I quickly say. I hold out my hand, just as he had to me. “Leave them rolled up.”

Smirking, he shakes his head, realizing I’m only doing the same thing he did to me. “You’re ridiculous.”

Meeting him near the front door, I bend down to slide my plain black flats onto my sore feet and mumble, “You were ridiculous first.”

The elevator ride down to the main floor of our building is quiet—to say the least—the walk down the street even quieter. Graham hasn’t said a word since we left our apartment, and I’m wondering why he wanted to go out to eat in the first place. Is it bad news? Is it good news? Is that why he said he could use a beer?

I’ve never seen Graham drunk. Not to say he doesn’t like his alcohol, but never, in the six years we’ve been friends, have I seen him drink more than one beer at a time.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I keep my steps in line with Graham’s, maintaining a considerable amount of distance between us.

He doesn’t speak until we’re sitting on the patio of the Jealous Abbot. A young woman, appearing to be in her early twenties, approaches our table, wearing cut-off jean shorts and a plaid button-up shirt.

“Hi, guys.” She smiles at both of us before keeping her eyes focused on Graham. I raise my eyebrows, unamused. “Welcome to the Jealous Abbot. I’m Jenna. What can I get you guys to drink?”

Leaning my elbows on the table, attempting to grab her attention, I interrupt. “I’d like a mojito.” Her smile fades as she turns her attention back to me. “Please,” I add.

I flash her my sweetest smile. Graham leans back in his chair, laughing as he taps his finger against the table. He knows what this smile means. It’s my fake smile.

“I’ll take the tallest glass you have of your house beer,” Graham says.

Avoiding eye contact, the waitress nods and walks away without another word.

I lean forward across the patio table and stare at Graham. “God, could she be any more obvious?”

“You’re exaggerating,” he shrugs, seemingly unaware of the attention he usually draws. “She was just doing her job.”

I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m still annoyed about today.

“You’re right, Graham. I’m being over-dramatic as always.” Steeling my eyes, I shoot him with daggers. He knows me too well and knows how to handle my crazy. Sometimes, I fear he’s so connected to my thoughts and my soul, one day he won’t want to deal with me anymore and leave.

A small bar sits in the corner of the patio behind Graham, and I watch as the bearded bartender picks up a glass and vigorously shakes his steel container before pouring the mixture into a martini glass. Next to the bar is a small, white canopy tent. Two men adjust the microphones situated in front of them, one with an acoustic guitar slung across his chest, the other has a tablet resting on a barstool perched in front of him. A few minutes pass before the man with the guitar begins strumming a slow folk song. Getting into their rhythm, both men start singing into their microphones, the music quiet despite the musicians only being a few feet away.

I take a deep breath, my impatience with Graham rising to the surface once again.

“So, are you finally going to tell me how today went?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

Our waitress reappears, setting our drinks down in front of us. “Are you ready to order?”

Graham smiles at her once again. “I think we’ll need some more time. I don’t think we know what we want yet.”

She grins back, the same one she had given him before. “No problem.”

I’m still waiting for Graham to explain, and I refuse to ask again. I’m beginning to sound like a broken record.

Clearing his throat, he leans forward on the table, twirling his beer glass back and forth between his fingers.

“When I walked into the museum, I was a nervous wreck. I was sweating profusely, remembering why I hate to wear suits and why I only own the one.”

Laughing under my breath, I sit up and allow Graham to finish his story, hoping it went as well as I had hoped. He deserves it.

“Mr. Price was nice. He’s very young to be a curator of a museum. Actually, I think he’s somewhere around our age. At first, he asked me where I earned my college degree.”

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