Page 29 of Back to Me

CHAPTER EIGHT

GRAHAM

I’m fucking pissed. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this angry in my entire life. Not even with my dad.

The sound of metal hitting granite and wood echoes throughout my apartment. I slam a sauté pan against the stove as a spatula flies off the corner of the counter, landing with a loud smack onto the kitchen floor.

A date? Sara’s going on a date. What the fuck? I thought we were different. I thought things had finally changed. I guess I was wrong.

Maybe I’ve been taking things too slowly, but the reason I hadn’t made a move on Sara was I was worried she hadn’t felt the same way. What if I was somehow seeing her with rose-colored glasses? Is that what they call it? Either way, I’ve done my best the past two weeks to show her a different side of me—not only for her but for me too. I’d find a way to touch her, in the subtlest of ways. I thought of it as testing the waters like dipping your toes into a pool on a scorching hot summer day. I started with an inch, then two. I was working my way up, gauging her reactions, only to come up with the same amount of confusion as I had before the day we danced.

My body is on fire. I feel like someone’s poured a gallon of gasoline over my entire body and struck a match, starting from my feet to the top of my head. I can’t even think straight. My phone vibrates in my back pocket, but I ignore it, fearing it might be Sara. I wouldn’t be able to listen to her voice, explaining how she met this guy and the amazing date he’ll be taking her on. I knew it. I knew I wasn’t good enough for her.

When I was in my senior year of high school, Em, who was just a sophomore at the time, asked me why she had never seen me with a girl. I didn’t intend on answering her until she asked me if I was gay.

I laughed, wondering how she had even come up with the idea. It wasn’t that I was never interested in women or never had a girlfriend or was against being gay, I just wasn’t. But there were plenty of single, attractive girls in my class who I could have asked out. I just didn’t. After my laughter subsided and I looked into her caring brown eyes, mirroring our mother’s, I told her the real reason. I never felt I was good enough for any of them. I guess some things never change even when you’re thirty and in love with your best friend.

Despite this, I’m still just as furious as when I first read Sara’s text.

Leaving the kitchen a mess, I stomp up the spiral staircase, my black boots landing on each step with a heavy thud. When I reach the top, I immediately stop and search the room. It’s only been a few weeks since my meeting with Julian, and so far, I’ve only sent him the paintings I’d already done in the past. Sara and I have only finished two out of the five we’re supposed to design together. One is of a tree branch, the other the flower we finished last week. The various deep shades of blue creating the petals, glint against the setting sun. The blue flowers suddenly turn red, and I know I must be imagining it. My blood boils once again, and suddenly, I feel a heavy weight bearing down on my chest and shoulders.

Quickly, I grab a blank canvas and slap it onto my easel. Stomping over to the supply table, I snatch up as many tubes of paint as I can. Unloading them onto the table, some fall onto the floor, and I ignore them as I whip back around to the canvas. Without breaking my focus, I grab a tube from the table and squeeze a mound of paint onto my hand, smearing it across the blank surface. Perfect, it’s red. I get lost in my painting as I always do. I don’t know how much time has passed, but when my arms grow tired and my head begins to ache, I drop a tube of grey paint onto the floor. My chest rapidly rises and falls as I struggle to take in each breath. Painting hasn’t helped, neither has time.

It’s been two hours since Sara texted me, now seven o’clock. She should be meeting him now. My mind starts to wander, and curiosity gets the better of me. Other than knowing this guy manages the restaurant across from Sara’s work, I don’t know anything about him. I don’t even know his name. And I’m not even sure I want to know it.

I begin imagining them sitting across from each other, sharing a plate of brisket and cornbread. The thoughts consume me and eat away at any shred of sanity I have left. I can’t think about them anymore. Sara and this mysterious manager. I already don’t like him. It could be considered unfair. Under different circumstances, maybe I would like the guy.

Exhaustion hits me as hard as the anger. Retreating to the solitude of my room, I climb under the covers and bury myself beneath my cold sheets, falling asleep to the vision of Sara and a man who isn’t me.

***

I wake up two hours later. It doesn’t dawn on me until I wake up that Sara never came home after her shift ended before she was to meet her date at the restaurant. Despite the anger still lingering underneath my skin, I hope she’s okay. Crawling out of bed, I slide my boots back on and walk out into the kitchen to clean up the mess I made earlier. I wanted to make dinner for Sara before we started working. Well, I guess it would be an understatement to say my plan had gone to shit, right into the trash.

Sometimes, it worries me with how much I let my anger get the better of me. I could say the same for Sara. She’s flipped out on me more times than I can count, especially the day she left work early, pretending to be sick. Contemplating our reasons for our outbursts causes my head to pound once again, so I focus on the task at hand. I put all my ingredients for my intended dinner back in the refrigerator and make a bowl of cereal.

I don’t even get to take a spoonful before I hear the sound of Sara’s key turning in the lock on the front door.

Dressed in the same clothes she wore to work this morning, she stops in the entryway and removes her heels. I push away my bowl of cereal, suddenly losing my appetite. My stomach sinks, unsure where we stand. I’m sure she’s angry at me for not replying to her text, but her anger may be overridden by how well her date went. The further she steps into the dark living room, the more her face is highlighted by the dim lights in the kitchen. Shadows dance across her blank face. She’s flat and emotionless. I’ve never been so unsure of how she’s feeling than now.

Slowly, she takes a step into the kitchen, resting one hand on her hip. Her face changes right then. Suddenly, her green eyes light up with fire, like missiles aiming straight for me. She purses her purple lips and taps her finger against the counter.

As nonchalant as possible, I turn my body to face her.

“How was your date?” Bitterness sits at the tip of my tongue. I try to rein it in, but I fail.

Cocking one eyebrow, she stares at me, dumbfounded.

“How was my date?” she says the words slow and venomous. “How was my date?” she repeats.

I nod my head as if to pretend she didn’t understand my question. There it is again, the anger lingering underneath my skin, igniting my body into flames.

“Yeah, you know, your date with the barbecue manager.”

“Barbecue manager?” she scoffs. “Really?”

I shrug. “Well, you never told me his name. So, what else am I supposed to call him?”

She grits her teeth and tightens her jaw. “His name is Dylan.”

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