Page 42 of Back to Me

“Tell you what?” he asks, confused.

“What you told me last night.”

Recognition crosses his face, and he releases a light laugh.

“You are an incredible artist with incredible talent. You were meant for more in this wonderful life we share.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. My skin tingles with electricity, feeling his words travel straight to my heart.

Placing both hands on his shoulders, I lean down, placing my mouth against his. Gripping the back of my head, he pulls me in closer. His lips are warm and wet, molding against my mouth as if they were meant to be pressed against mine my whole life. Parting my lips with his tongue, he caresses the inside of my mouth, and my body ignites into the all too familiar feeling of immense love and passion for this man. Gently pushing him away with my hands, I moan against his mouth.

“Graham, I really do have to go.”

His mouth turns up into a devilish grin against mine. “Okay.” Sighing, he pulls away.

Climbing off the bed, I straighten my skirt, making sure I look my best.

As if he can hear my thoughts, he says, “Don’t worry, you look beautiful.”

“I love you,” I sigh. Leaning down once more, I quickly give him a peck on the cheek and make my way out of the apartment, feeling like I’m finally taking charge of my own life.

The air in the elevator on the way down to the first floor of my apartment building is suffocating, to say the least. And every step it takes to get to my car feels like walking through wet cement. Half an hour later, I’m standing in front of the large, glass double doors leading into the gallery where I’ve worked the past four years.

Sadness washes over me, remembering the day I got this job. I was so deliriously happy, feeling like I was on top of the world. I had such hope, knowing this was just the place I needed to be for my life to go where I wanted it to go. I had done everything in my power to ensure I could turn my passion for art into a career.

And for a while, I had. Staring at my reflection in the pristine, clear glass, I wonder when the feeling of success had shifted into failure. Because to be honest, I feel like a failure—a failure to my family, a failure to Graham, and most of all, a failure to myself. No amount of reassurance and words from Graham will make me feel any different.

For so many years, I was considered the confident one. The one who, on the surface, appeared to have it all figured out. Staring at myself now, I don’t see the same woman I was all those years ago. I’m an empty shell of the woman I used to be. Now I’m the one who has been pushed aside and talked down to for so long. I’ve become numb to the subtle beatings and teardowns from my boss.

Thoughts of Allison and all the times she’s brushed me off, ordering me to fetch her soy non-fat lattes, and organize every detail of her life causes my skin to flash with a dull burn. Allison has caused me to question everything, burrowing herself under the surface of my skin like a parasite. My mind filters through all the doubts and fears. Did I choose the right career path? Should I have majored in a more secure profession in college? Am I really as talented as I think I am?

The burning sensation spreads, searing itself into every corner of my soul. I press my palm flat against my chest, willing myself to gather up the strength and courage I need to do this. I need to do this for myself, no one else.

Wrapping my fingers around the long, metal door handle, I swing the door open, taking a step onto the glass tile. Slowly crossing the gallery, I take a deep breath, pushing away the ache growing in my belly. Dropping my purse onto my desk chair, I don’t bother booting up my computer or sitting down. Straightening my shoulders, I slide out the thin sheet of computer paper I’ve kept in my purse for the past week. With it gently pinched between my fingers, I head toward Allison’s office.

When I round the corner to her office, the stark white walls intensify against the bright lights of the chandelier hanging above the center of the room. Every sharp line from the modern furniture situated throughout the room blurs into one big, white, obscured mess. My eyes scan the office, only to find it empty.

Leaving the office, I walk up the glass steps to the loft. In the years I’ve worked for Allison, I’ve never seen the upstairs section of the building. During my interview when Allison had hired me, she had laid out two absolute rules that were never to be broken. The first was to never approach a customer, let them come to you. The second was to never, under any circumstances, step foot in her studio.

Today is the day I break one of those rules. Gripping the metal stair railing, my moist palm slides against the cool metal, and I feel my nerves fluttering in the pit of my stomach. When I’ve reached the top stair, I step onto the hardwood floor, taking in the space—double the size of my and Graham’s loft, roughly the size of the gallery downstairs and Allison’s office combined. Large sheets of paper and thin canvases line the walls, dangling by a thin string of yarn, each piece pinched between small clothespins. Every sheet is covered with thick black lines and circles. My chest constricts, and my eyes well with tears when I see every piece is haphazardly sketched in charcoal.

All these years, Allison has turned me away for using charcoal, insisting it was beneath her. And here I stand, in the studio she’s prohibited me from entering, staring at the art laid out before me. It’s here, all in black and white.

“Allison?” I ask with a shaky breath.

Peeking out from her easel in the center of the room, her face contorts from shock to anger. “What are you doing up here?” Her voice is cold and laced with anger.

“I, um,” Distracted by the art displayed all around me, I keep my focus trained on the pieces hanging around the room. I swallow back the disgust and betrayal. “I needed to talk to you.”

Dropping a piece of charcoal onto the small table beside her, she steps around her easel, crossing the room in my direction. Her eyebrows arch in annoyance.

“Sara, you know you are never supposed to come up here. This place is off limits.”

Her hands are dusted in black powder, and my skin crawls.

“I know,” I say through clenched teeth. Balling my hands into fists, I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. I debate whether to bring up the apparent issue plastered in front of me. Obviously annoyed with my presence, she ignores me and casually walks over to the sink, washing away the black deceit, revealing her pale skin beneath.

“I needed to speak to you about something important,” I say meekly.

---