Defeated, my shoulders slump as I watch Graham continue to walk away from me, the image of his back growing smaller with every passing second.
Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I wait until he disappears around the corner into the dark night before I turn around and look up at the wall. A few feet from where I found Graham packing up his supplies, high up on the wall, I find the piece he had finished creating only moments before. The few people who were left taking pictures with their phones have now gone, and I’m left standing alone.
Wiping the still wet tears from my cheeks, I look up to an image of a teenage boy, wearing a grey hoodie and dark blue jeans, the paint only just now beginning to dry. Staring into this boy’s eyes, I feel my chest cave in, and the oxygen leaves my lungs. The vision of him standing before me, holding out a bouquet of flowers blurs into a wavy mixture of color.
When the tears have dried on my cheeks, and I can finally breathe at a steady pace, I leave the graffiti park and turn my back on Graham’s painting.
After staring at his impeccable work, it took several minutes for my breathing to return to normal and the sadness to leave my body. Six years ago, before moving to Dallas had been an option for both Graham and me, I had drawn a similar picture. In my old leather-bound journal, I had sketched a girl holding out a bouquet of flowers. She was much younger than the young man in Graham’s painting, but it was the first completed piece I had ever sketched using a small piece of charcoal.
One day, several weeks later, I had left my journal on the coffee table in the living room I shared with his sister and my best friend, Em. Graham had walked by, spotting the journal and picked it up. My drawing of the little girl was the first page he had turned to and looking up from the page, he had stared into my eyes, asking if I was the one who had drawn it. I was terrified and contemplated denying it because no one had ever seen any of my artwork and compared to Graham’s, mine didn’t hold a candle. But his blue eyes had filled with amazement before he looked back down at the paper as he shook his head.
“Sara, this is amazing. I didn’t even know you could draw like this.”
I shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. I was just playing around.”
He looked back up from the journal and smiled. “It’s beautiful.”
Sometimes, I’ve contemplated when the exact moment it was I had fallen in love with Graham. Now when I think back on it, I think it was then.
But none of it matters anymore because I’ve managed to disappoint him once again. Pushing my love for him aside, I had been a shitty friend tonight. I had abandoned him when he needed me the most.
When I step through the front gates of the graffiti park, I begin the long journey back to my car. My toes burn, and my calves ache with each step, but I ignore it and push through the pain, thinking how I deserve every bit of it.
I’m halfway down Sylvan Avenue when the strange man from earlier runs up beside me, matching his steps with mine.
“We meet again.”
“Please go away. It’s been a very, very bad night, and I just want to go home.”
He glances up from his feet and darts his eyes across the street. “You shouldn’t be walking out here by yourself. It’s not safe.”
Turning my head, I look up at him. “I can take care of myself. How do I know you aren’t dangerous?”
He shrugs. “You don’t.” Keeping our pace, he reaches his arm across his body, holding his hand out to me. “I’m Julian.”
I stop walking and stare up at him in disbelief. “Telling me your name doesn’t change the fact you’re a stranger. I have no idea who you are.”
Withdrawing his hand, he sticks it back into his pocket. “Give me a chance to get to know you. Come on, one drink.”
“No.” I continue walking to where my car is parked along the street, not caring whether he’s following me or not.
“I’m thirty-one years old, originally from Baton Rouge, and I hate cats.”
Stopping, I turn around on my heel, holding back the burning pain growing on the bottom of my foot. “What?”
He smirks. “I’m telling you a bit about myself.” Pulling his hand out of his pocket, he begins listing things on his fingers. “I’m an only child. I’m competitive with everything in life. I hate losing.”
I take a few steps forward, closing the gap between us a little more so we aren’t standing so far apart. Dropping my gaze, I ask, “Do you feel like you’re losing right now with me?”
“Yes,” he laughs under his breath. “And it’s driving me crazy.”
Staring into his green eyes, I think about Graham, how I know I’ll never be his, and this is what always happens.
I run into a man who I think can give me all the things I want out of life, only to find myself naked in his bed later, disappointed once again.
Julian grins, displaying his perfectly pristine, straight teeth. “It may be driving me crazy, but I don’t give up easily.”
A small giggle erupts from my chest. “I see that.”
“I promise, one drink, then we can go our separate ways. Nothing more,”
I consider him once more, knowing I’ve heard that same line one too many times. It’s never one drink, and we never part ways at least, not until the next day.
Holding out my hand, I look up at Julian. “Sara Andrews, I’m twenty-seven years old, I’m an artist who works for a much more
