Page 24 of Back to Me

Barefoot, dressed only in my paint-stained jeans, I jog down the spiral staircase to the kitchen. My tongue stings and I need to find some relief. Halfway down the staircase, I look up as I hear a key in the front door.

Sara steps into the living room, dropping her purse onto the end table and removing her heels before she finally looks up and finds me frozen on the staircase. She looks different from this morning. Her white button-up shirt is now untucked from her waist, and her hair is no longer tied up into a bun, her golden waves draped across her shoulders, the ends stopping just below her breasts.

“What are you doing?” she yells. Arching my eyebrows, I stare at her, confused why she’s yelling. Hearing her voice travel across the room, the music suddenly fills my ears, almost as if I had muted it in my mind. I’m still standing in the middle of the staircase when she crosses the living room. I hadn’t even realized I was still playing my playlist in the loft. Forcing myself to move, I meet her at the bottom of the stairs. I don’t stare at her for long when the stinging sensation returns to my tongue, and I’m reminded of why I had come down here in the first place.

She’s within feet of me now when I walk past her, headed for the cabinet containing our glasses. I stick my tongue out, pinching the tip between my teeth. “I burned my tongue.”

“What?” she asks from behind me. Her voice is still raised but not as loud.

I fill my glass with water and drink the entire contents before leaving it in the sink and turning around to face her. “I burned my tongue,” I repeat.

Resting her hand onto the counter, confusion spreads across her beautifully sculpted face. “How?”

“On a piece of pizza.” My words come out with a small lisp as I try not to use the injured part of my tongue.

A giggle erupts from Sara as she takes a few steps toward me. “Is it also the reason why you’re shirtless?” Her eyes dance across my body in amusement.

I nod, not wanting to say another word in fear it will only increase the pain.

I arch my eyebrows in surprise when she steps toward me, closing the gap between us. The smile has disappeared from her face and is slowly replaced with concern. She reaches out and places her hands on my bare shoulders. Her fingers are warm and damp as they lightly press into my flesh.

“Here,” she says, “let me look at how bad it is.” Her voice is quiet and soothing, a stark contrast to the way she was speaking only a few seconds ago.

With my mouth still closed, I breathe out a sigh. Why does she have to touch me this way? And why does she smell so goddamn good?

Briefly closing my eyes, I slowly stick my tongue out. Her green eyes narrow as she inspects the ridiculous wound I’ve inflicted on myself.

“I can definitely tell you’ve burned it, but it doesn’t look too bad.”

Looking down at her, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off her since the minute she placed her body in front of mine. I can’t ignore the way her toes are touching mine or the way her body is within centimeters of mine. Another minute passes before I realize she has no other reason to be standing this close to me anymore. There are only so many ways you can look at a burned tongue. I’m wondering why she hasn’t brought herself to move away. Is she feeling the same way I am with my body so close to hers?

Her eyes dance across my face, and the only thing I can seem to focus on is the small bouts of breath escaping her purple-red lips. Her chest nearly moves against mine, and I feel its invisible pull, fighting the urge to reach out and press my palm against her chest so I can feel her heart beat in rhythm with mine.

Her eyes match mine, and when I’m finally able to catch my breath, I ask, “Why aren’t you at work? Why did you come home?”

Immediately, her shoulders fall, and she backs away from me. The light has left her eyes, and she turns away, moving to stand on the opposite side of the kitchen. The same feeling of stupidity flashes across my skin, regretting the words I’ve just spoken. The absence of her suffocates me, and I can’t understand why I keep making these mistakes. It feels like I’m only pushing her away when all I want is for her to be closer.

“I pretended to be sick. I figured we could get a head start on our pieces.” Her voice is small, and I tilt my head, attempting to understand her over the loud music.

“Why?”

“Because,”she sighs. Suddenly, her eyes shift from sadness to anger. “Is it so bad I would rather be at home with you than stuck in that miserable place?”

She’s angry with me and everything about her body shifts. It’s not hard to tell when Sara is mad at me. She steels her eyes and her arms turn rigid, her hand balling into a fist as it rests on the granite counter.

My shoulders sag, and I take several steps toward her. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Waving me off, she begins walking down the hallway toward her room. “Whatever, Graham,” she mumbles. “I’m going to go change.”

I watch her back as she stalks toward her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Frustrated with myself, I rake my fingers through my brown, disheveled hair, tugging on the ends before releasing them. How can I possibly be fucking up this much with a girl who isn’t even mine?

Defeated and confused, I slowly walk back up the stairs to the loft. Staring at the painting I had done earlier, I pick it up from the floor and hold it between my hands. The paint has dried, and my chest tightens, knowing I had painted this for her. I had planned to show it to Sara tonight, but considering how mad she is with me for reasons I still have yet to understand, I decide not to. Instead, I carry it back to my room and into my closet, using the same sheet from the soldier painting to cover it. Leaving the painting in the cold dark corner of my closet, I head back to the loft and wait for Sara.

Twenty minutes go by before she finally emerges from her room. She still appears to be upset with me, but her rigid body has now relaxed. I follow her with my eyes as she makes her way up the stairs and joins me. She’s now dressed in a black tank top and cut-off jean shorts, the frayed ends brushing against the tops of her thighs as she silently walks across the room to the supply table without even glancing in my direction.

She continues to ignore me as she hunches over the supply table, opening her charcoal set, picking up a piece to sharpen it. Her quick working of the knife against the charcoal causes her arms to jerk with every move. She’s still frustrated with me, and I still have no idea why.

---