Looking down at my phone, I stare at those four words, convincing myself they don’t hold nearly as much meaning as I think they do when I run into a wall. Well, it’s not so much a wall as it is a man, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit.
He grips my arms, steadying my body, preventing me from falling face first onto the concrete. I glance up at the man who saved me, catching myself staring into his bright green eyes. The sky is pitch black, not a single star shining, but the streetlamp beaming down on us illuminates every shadow and line of his body.
“Are you alright?” he asks. Concern spreads across his face as three lines crease the smooth skin of his forehead.
“I’m fine. Thank you.” I struggle to catch my breath, pulling myself away from this well-dressed stranger.
Adjusting my dress, I take a step around him, seeing the entrance to the graffiti park ahead of me on the right.
Barely making it a few steps, I feel a hand wrap around my arm, stopping me.
“Wait. Why are you in such a hurry?” he asks, curiously.
“It’s not really your business, is it?” I gently pull my arm away, breaking his hold on me.
“You’re right, it’s not.” His mouth curls up into a small smirk, his blonde hair dancing across his forehead in the wind. “But considering you’re running in those heels and that dress, I have to assume it’s for something important.” His eyes dance across my body as he examines every inch of me. “A woman as beautiful as you dressed like that causes me to wonder why you’re even here at all.” Already feeling self-conscious for wearing a cocktail dress in the most casual part of Dallas, I wrap my arms around myself. As I stare back into his green eyes, I can’t help noticing how out of place he looks as well.
Mirroring him, I look up him and down, darting my eyes from his polished black shoes to the deep blue tie wrapped around his neck, resting against his crisp, white collared shirt.
“I could ask you the same thing. You don’t look like you belong here either.”
He laughs, shoving his hands into the stiff pockets of his pants. “I came to check out a few artists. I like to come down here occasionally.”
“Okay.” I lift my hand over my shoulder, pointing toward the Fabrication Yard. “I really do have to go.”
Backing away, he pulls one hand from his pocket, holding it out to me. “Wait, can I at least buy you a drink? Maybe take you out?”
Thinking of Graham and wondering how I’ll come up with a way to explain to him why I was so late, I slowly shake my head.
I don’t say another word as he returns his hand to his pocket, disappointment washing over his face. He doesn’t break his eyes away from me until I turn back around and run into the front entrance of the yard, leaving him standing on the sidewalk under the bright, yellow street light.
When I’ve finally reached the far end of the park, I find Graham bent over in the corner, angrily shoving cans of spray paint into his duffle bag. A crowd of people surrounding the wall begins to disperse. Several people are still standing in front of it, holding their phones up, taking pictures of Graham’s piece. Without stopping to even look at the wall, I walk up to Graham and nervously cross my arms, knowing how upset he is with me.
“Hey.” I stand a few feet from him, waiting as he keeps his back to me and watch him pack the rest of his supplies with his paint-stained hands. The fabric of his grey hoodie stretches across his sculpted back as he shoves the last can into his bag and drags the zipper across. Bent down on one knee, he rests his arm against his leg and hangs his head low, refusing to turn around and face me.
“Glad you finally made it,” he says, sarcastically.
“Graham, I’m so sorry. I—"
“You know what?” he asks, cutting me off. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”
I take a step toward him. Standing up, he lifts the strap of his duffle bag over his shoulder and finally turns around. His eyes don’t stay on me for long before they dart past me, over my shoulder.
“Of course, it matters,” I say, my voice soft and pleading as tears build behind my eyes. “My boss kept me late, then I got stuck in traffic. You know how bad I-30 can be.”
He sniffs, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, shoving his free hand into the front pocket of his paint-stained hoodie. “Right. I’ll see you at home.”
Walking past me, he makes his way across the large open field, headed for the entrance.
“Graham, wait. Please. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. You know I wanted to be here.”
He stops, spinning around on his heel. I lean back in surprise as his blue eyes glare at me.
“Exactly, Sara,” he says, raising his voice. “You wanted to be here. You were the one who wanted me to do this in the first place. And you didn’t even fucking show up.” My stomach twists with each of his words, his chest rapidly rising and falling with every breath he takes.
I close my mouth and swallow, tears now streaming down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Yeah, well.” Sighing, he looks into my eyes. “You’ll be happy to know your little plan worked. A ton of people showed up, and I even got an offer to do an exhibit from a curator at the Dallas Museum of Art.”
My mouth falls open, feeling nothing but happiness for Graham. I always knew he was amazing, he just needed that one person to find him. I clear my throat and say, “Graham, that’s incredible. I’m so happy for you.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, well, you would have known
