Page 71 of Back to Me

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

GRAHAM

I wake up the next morning feeling like shit. Not only does my chest still twist with this never-ending aching pain, but the cheap loveseat in my sister’s hotel room was nowhere near the comfort of my own bed.

I roll over, falling off the couch onto my knees. Groaning, I hang my head low and take a few breaths, feeling the fibers of the carpet press against my fingertips. Slowly, I stand up, every ache in my back cracking like a string of dominoes, one after the other. I press my fingers into my back and look around the room.

“Em? Cam?” I call out. When I hear no response from either of them, I realize I’m alone. My voice echoes against the walls of the quiet small hotel room, an eerie stillness filling the air I breathe in. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stagger into the hallway, finding a floor to ceiling mirror bolted against the wall. I run my fingers through my hair, attempting to straighten out the unruly brown mop. I’m still in the same clothes from last night. I’ve taken off my jacket, wearing only the white button up and black tie I wore underneath, the tie loose around my neck, the top button of my shirt undone. When I stare back into my reflection, my eyes land on the light stubble already grown along my jaw. I run my fingertips over my skin, feeling the small pinpoint hair scratching like fine grit sandpaper. Dropping my hand, I stare back at myself, unwilling to admit this is where I am. I had pictured last night turning out completely different. I had planned on waking up with Sara, my ring wrapped around her beautiful slender finger, just after she had agreed to marry me. Instead, I find myself alone in my sister’s hotel room, staring back at the washed-up version of my former self.

In my reflection, I see my suit jacket draped across the arm of the couch.

Disgusted with the man staring back at me, I turn away from him and pick up my jacket. Digging through the inside pocket, I find my phone and the small box. My chest swells and a lump forms in my throat as I pull out the little black box, staring at it resting in the palm of my hand. I sit back down on the loveseat, unable to bring myself to open it and look at what rests inside.

Brushing my thumb along the black velvet, I’m reminded of the terrible night I had last night. Memories of Sara in her stunning yellow dress are brought back to me in crashing waves. I angrily shove the box back into my pocket, forcing myself to push away the pain and grief for what I never had.

Finally, I look at my phone. Other than a text message from Em telling me she and Cam had gone to visit his mom for most of the day, I have no other notifications. Not one missed call or voicemail from Sara or Mr. Price.

I bury my head in my hands, at a loss what to do. I can’t go home, knowing how angry she is with me. I want to be able to give her a sufficient amount of space before charging in there, demanding she forgive me for something I didn’t do. I’m not even sure if I’d be welcome there. Also, I don’t know what to do about Mr. Price. I can’t go to his office because Theresa told me he wouldn’t be in. I can’t go to his house because I don’t even know where he lives. I’m starving for answers, and I know deep within my bones, Mr. Price knows something. He knows, and the longer I go without a response from him, my suspicions only seem to grow.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I scream into the palms of my hands. My head swells and my throat burns. It’s as if I’m hanging off the edge of a cliff by my two bare hands, one finger slipping at a time.

When my screaming stops, my throat feels raw, and a sudden knocking on the door causes my breath to catch in my throat. Confused, I drop my hands and stare at the door, breathing heavily, swallowing the film of dryness that’s formed against the roof of my mouth. There’s another dull knock on the door, and I stand up, slowly walking toward it.

I swing the door open to find my father standing on the other side, his eyebrows nearly halfway up his forehead at the sight of me.

“Rough night?”

An uncontrollable sigh escapes me, unamused. “Em’s not here.”

“Actually,” he clears his throat, “I came to speak to you. Em told me you stayed here last night.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not really in the mood. I don’t need you telling me what I already know.” Leaving him standing there, I let go of the door and turn to walk back into the room.

His hand reaches out, stopping it from completely closing. “I’m not here to talk about last night.”

Ignoring him, I’m nearly to the other side of the room when I hear a loud smack shake the walls. I shudder and turn around to find my father storming toward me, his face lit with a fire red, his chest is puffed out as if he’s holding an enormous breath. He stops within a foot of me and clenches his teeth.

“Listen, Graham. I’ve put up with your smartass comments long enough.”

Backing away, I stare at him incredulously. Incredulous he’s stormed in here, demanding some kind of respect he doesn’t even deserve.

“Right. Like you suddenly have an interest in having a conversation with me.”

“I am your father,” he seethes. “I didn’t raise you to speak to me with such disrespect.”

The space between us swells. The air thickens with each breath I force through my mouth, and I stare at my father with more disdain than I have in my entire life.

“What are you saying? If you didn’t raise me to speak to you this way, it must be Mom’s fault, right?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he shakes his head. “I would never talk about your mother that way.”

I lean forward, stretching my neck and feeling the anger toward my father growing with every second that passes. My top lip curls in, feeling the anger drip from me.

“I don’t need to. You don’t even put words in your own mouth.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’ve never really cared to have a conversation with me before, let alone talk about Mom.” Sitting down on the loveseat, I fall back against its stiff cushions, already too exhausted to finish this conversation. I divert my eyes away from him, searching for anything to look at that isn’t him.

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