by kj lewis
I talk with Lucy like everything is normal, which pisses Graham off even more than he already is. He pulls into the garage, and I’m out of the car before it’s in park. Lucy is right behind me. We clear the mudroom and enter the kitchen. Half the crew is around the island cooking, and the other half is around the table. The Eagles are playing in the background, the doors are open, it’s another storybook night.
I open the fridge and start to grab a Diet Coke. Dammit! I can’t. I’ll lose the bet. As if she anticipated it, Ruth hands me a glass of wine, winking at me as Graham storms into the kitchen. The entire mood in the room changes from the tension radiating off him.
“Son?” Ben says with a furrowed brow, taking a sip of his beer.
“What’s going on?” Jules says to me.
“He’s an angry elf,” I say bulging my eyes and adding a smart ass look. They try to keep their laughter in so that they don’t stoke the fires, but to no avail. Everyone cracks up.
“Emelia!” he bellows again.
“Graham!” I bellow back. “I do not like to be handled!”
This draws Matt’s attention. “Word to the wise man: don’t try to handle James.”
“Did you know that Mags knows Blaine Moore? He’s so hot for her,” Lucy says popping a strawberry in her mouth, oblivious still or just tired of this show.
“Emelia. Now,” Graham says.
There’s a vain in Graham’s neck that does a little dance when he’s angry. It’s unnoticed by most, but I have charted that neck with my tongue, and I know it wasn’t there earlier. We stare at each other like fools. I’m the first to dismiss him. I turn to the table and start a conversation.
“Fine. Have it your way,” Graham says before throwing me over his shoulder, carrying me upside down out of the kitchen.
“Graham!”
“Dinner in twenty minutes,” Ruth yells to us, like this is an everyday occurrence.
I’m relieved when he doesn’t stop on the stairs. In his room, Graham tosses me on his bed and kicks the door close.
“Emelia,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Graham, I do not like to be handled.”
“Well, you’re going to be, so move past it. Work through it. Whatever you have to do. I don’t want to have this argument with you again. Do you understand me?” He’s towering over me.
“I don’t like to be handled.”
“Emelia!”
“What even gives you the right? You left me today, Graham. And don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about. I know you.”
He doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t say anything. His breathing is still erratic.
“Fuck this,” I say, raising on my toes to kiss him. He doesn’t kiss me back.
“I’m not the right person for you, Emelia. It would be selfish of me to keep this going knowing you want more than I’m able to give.”
“Able to or willing to? Because there is a difference, Graham.”
He doesn’t answer.
“So let me get this straight. You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me either. How does this work, Graham?”
When he still doesn’t answer me, I move around him, opening the door and leave.
Dinner is light and fun despite Graham sulking like a schoolboy. We decide to build a bonfire on the beach and roast marshmallows and make s’mores for dessert. We’re pulling the items we need, adding some beers to the basket, when the phone rings from the security gate and I hear Ben tell them to bring it up.
“Package for you,” Ben tells me.
“From who?” I ask.
“Whom,” he corrects, “and I didn’t ask.”
I sign for the delivery and bring the box into the kitchen. Jules and Becca have gathered around me—signs that they are both nosy. It’s from B&H photo in the city. The note inside reads: “Because nothing will ever be enough to repay you. The Raines.”
I remove the packing paper and pull out a camera bag. It’s a Hasselblad, a ten-thousand dollar camera. There are also two Sony lenses and an assortment of other things that only a professional photographer might need.
I stand in stunned silence. Jules is the first to break it.
“How awesome! Weren’t you just saying that your old one stopped working from all the sand that got in it?” She says this with the kind of nonchalance of someone who grew up with affluence.
“I don’t need a camera like this. It’s too expensive. A cheaper one would have done just fine.”
“He called me today,” Graham says behind me. “He wants you to have this. It would mean a lot to him if you would accept it.”
“But…”
“I know,” he cuts me off. “But sometimes a gift is more for the person giving it than it is for the person receiving it.”
This camera costs more than my first car. I’m used to getting gifts from clients after a large project or as a tip for Christmas, but I usually return them and send the money to Memphis to cover my responsibilities. I start to explain it to Graham, but stop when I remember I’m mad at him.
“It’s very kind of them,” I say, setting it back in the bag.
“Ready?” I give my best smile to everyone in an attempt to shift the focus back to our outing, but I know Graham noticed the subtle change in my demeanor. He nods and picks up the basket to carry to the beach. I grab some blankets.
The weather couldn’t be more suitable for a fire on the beach. Adam has a great one going, and I curl up on a blanket with Lucy. Between the songs, the s’mores, and the cheesy ghost stories, it should have been a great night, but I’m having a little trouble shaking my melancholy mood. I don’t know if it’s Graham, but I know it’s guilt. I feel guilty for the gifts I have received today. I mean, who gets to live a life like this? It’s not every day you get a horse or a ten-thousand-dollar camera, much less both in the same day. Why me? There’s nothing more special about me than someone else. I’m not more deserving than the next guy. It’s overwhelming.
It’s past eleven. Adam kicks sand on the fire, ensuring its out before we head back to the house.
As everyone heads back to the house, I pull Ben to the side and ask, “Would you mind if I use one of the cars?”
“Of course not, sweetheart,” Ben says. “It’s late though. Do you want to wait until morning?”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
I grab the keys to one of the Mercedes and hit the road. With the windows down and the music up, I drive. I remember I didn’t tell Jules I was leaving. Knowing she’d be worried, I pull out my cell to text her. I have two missed calls and a text from Graham. I hesitate to text him back. He doesn’t want a relationship with me, so what do I owe him. But, I realize, not answering would create needless worry—it would be petty. I don’t want to be petty. I finally text him back.
Staying at Jackson’s 2nite. Plz tell Jules. Back in morning.
I put my phone away, turn up Gomez’s “Little Pieces” and drive.
The words to the song strike a chord with me. Without realizing it, I chose a song that parallels what’s happening between Graham and me. We both have pieces that we aren’t sharing. Really, how is he supposed to decide if he wants a relationship when I don’t give him the information he needs to make an informed decision? Games. Drama. I’ve never been a girl for either.
The sound of seashells underneath the tires is the telltale sign that I have made it to Jackson and Patrick’s house. Some of the tension I’ve been feeling over the last few hours dissipates. Their place is cozy and welcoming—it feels like I’m home.
Jackson opens the door before I get out of the car. “Jules called and said you were on your way. I’m supposed to call her if you don’t make it.”
He hugs me and hands me a glass of Diet Coke. “Hi, beautiful,” he adds, kissing the top of my head.
“Patrick already went to bed.” He answers my question before I ask it, directing me to the sofa. We sit on opposite ends.
“So…” h
e says.
“I have no idea,” I sigh and wave my hands in a gesture of resignation. “I just felt like I was losing touch and needed to get a way for a minute.” He listens patiently and attentively as I fill him in on the events of the day—the horse, the camera.
“You know how much I love Colleen, and the Raines’ are such nice people, but it just was overwhelming. I mean who gives gifts like that?”
“The people we work for. You know, Emme, accepting those gifts doesn’t make you a bad person. You work hard. You give back. You carry more than your fair share of the responsibilities in Memphis. Until this week you’ve worked multiple jobs. I could go on and on. These are blessings, and therein lies your problem. You don’t understand why some people have more blessings than others.”
“I feel inadequate,” I confess.
“That surprises me. I’ve never known you to be self-deprecating. You’re the most self-assured person I know.”
“I would have to go into so much to explain it and right now, I just want to curl up and forget about it.”
“I have your room all ready. You get one night and then no more running.”
I smile at these words only a true friend could get away with saying.
“Thank you.” I give him a kiss and pat the top of his chest. “I can’t have this.” I hold up my drink. “I have a bet going that I can go three days without. I’m twelve hours in.”
“Then you only get one night here for sure,” he shivers in jest.
I don’t know if it is all gay men, or just Jackson and Patrick, but they know how to prep a guest room. The room is quaint but subtly luxurious. The sheets feel like I am sliding between silk. I usually sleep so well when I’m here, but tonight I’m uncharacteristically restless. I can’t take my mind off Graham. Sometime after three, sleep finally claims me.
“Good morning, sunshine…Good morning, sunshine!”
I open one eye to see Patrick lying next to me. I close it back and bury my head into the pillow.
“Jules texted and said you are to get up. Now. You are meeting them for breakfast at nine.”
I mumble something unintelligible. The covers come off, and he drags my feet to the floor.
“It’s a good thing I wasn’t sleeping naked.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. Strictly dickly, remember? Now, get dressed.”
The guys are sitting at the table reading the paper and drinking coffee when I come downstairs.
“You two look like you should be in Better Homes and Gardens.” I go to the fridge to look for something to drink that might get me moving.
“You’ve had an eventful week, darling,” Patrick says. “I’ve been following you.”
“What is the sudden curiosity with my life? I mean how hard up do you have to be for news?” I spot some sparkling water and mix it with cranberry juice. A little fizz goes a long way when I’m looking for a pick-me-up.
“How was Blaine yesterday?” he asks me, smiling overtop of his paper.
“Leave her alone,” Jackson says taking a bite of his fruit.
“Shush, I’m talking to your ‘it girl’.”
“You know you’re my only ‘it girl’,” Jackson deadpans.
“Don’t you forget it, honey. Seriously, Ems. You said nothing was going on, but I hear you spent the day riding together. Even shared a meal”
“Please tell me that is not in the paper,” I cringe.
“Page Six, honey.”
I roll my eyes and stand. “I have to jet. We’re having breakfast at Sunny Side Up. Want to come with?”
“Thanks, but I have a long list of things to get done around the house today.” Jackson stands with me, walking me to the door. Patrick follows. Jackson turns my back to him, and in less than a minute I leave with a braid cool enough for a photo shoot. I admire his handy work. I wish I had someone to do my hair every day. I thank him and Patrick and then head out the door to the restaurant.
It’s packed for a Thursday, and there’s quite a long line out the door.
“I was just texting you, Mags,” Jules says as I walk up. “I think we are going to go somewhere else. We’re starving and it’s a two-hour wait.”
“Give me a minute.”
I walk to Maria at the hostess stand and give her a hug. In the style of vets of the restaurant business, we catch up in record time as she shuffles menus, lists, and hungry patrons. “I can’t believe how slammed you guys are,” I say.
“It’s the holiday, and this place is pretty hot. But you know that,” she winks. “You’re lucky you have friends in high places. I’ll pull a table together for you. Just, for the sake of our survival, pretend you called ahead. Grab your group and it’ll be ready before you guys can make your way through this place.” Maria motions to the packed restaurant and greets another family walking up.
I motion for my group to come up.
“I texted last night and asked her to hold a table for us,” I say, keeping Maria’s shady little secret. “It’s ready.”
The restaurant has been featured in several magazines, not just for its food, but for the architecture and design of the restaurant. Its white shiplap walls and barn-red vaulted ceiling evoke the style of an old family farm, but there are also classic diner pieces and current, high-end chic pieces mixed in. All of the mismatched tableware and some of the design pieces were picked up at garage and estate sales over the course of about a month out by the owner and me, which is how I got to know Maria and the rest of the staff. There’s a wraparound bar that seats twenty, decorated with the daily offerings of breads and muffins. Each table has fresh fruit in the middle for people to eat while they wait for their food. The air smells like sugar and blueberries.
We take our seats and talk about what we want to order. The waitress, who I remember from my styling days with the owner, brings two carafes of Orange Juice and Milk.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she apologizes, giving me a pitiful look. “You know we don’t serve sodas.”
I catch Graham’s smirk, but I ignore it.
“You all take a minute to look at the menu and I’ll be back,” she says, hugging me before leaving us to our menus.
I can tell she and the other wait staff are overwhelmed, so I get the orders from my crew and refill our carafes in an attempt to help her out. I’ve eaten at this restaurant many times over my weekends here with Jackson. There’s something settling about this place—the hustle and bustle of all the tables, families coming together over breakfast, the sound of heavy plates clinking together. The familiarity comforts me. It reminds me so much of home—Memphis.
“Emme!” Colleen’s nieces shout and try to jump into my arms all at once, drawing the attention of almost everyone in the restaurant. I let them lead me to their table where they are having breakfast with their parents. I say hello to some other regulars I remember from my waiting days on my way to the restroom.
“I’d like a word with you,” someone hisses as I exit the restroom. It’s John Michaels.
Why does everyone in the city have to go to the Hamptons?
“I’m busy. Plus, you’re not my client anymore. You need to talk to Jackson.” I walk away from him without looking back.
His hand tightens around my arm in the same place he left the bruises last time, and he attempts to move me backwards.
“Now,” he says in a low whisper.
“Michaels.” I look to my side, grateful to see Ben standing there. To the normal observer, Ben looks like an old friend catching up, but I can tell he is struggling to keep his demeanor calm. He looks from the hand John has around my arm to John himself.
In a low voice meant for the three of us only, Ben says, “Remove your hand this second, or I’ll break every last finger.”
John slowly lowers his hand.
“I’m representing Miss James and I will be reporting this as a violation to the restraining order in place. If you have any issues, you have your attorney call me. Otherwise, we will see you in court.”
“Pops,” Adam says, patting Ben on the shoulder as he and Graham walk up. “Why don’t you introduce us?” I’m positive they didn’t hear the exchange, but they know their dad and they know his feathers are miffed.
“Another time, son. He was just leaving.” Ben nods curtly at John.
I keep my eyes on Ben, hoping to divert any questions the guys might have. Ben doesn’t move. He watches as John walk away without a word. As I make my way to the table, I hear Ben tell Graham, “I want to talk with Smith when we leave here.”
We make a solemn return back to the table, but the merriment of the rest of the breakfast helps us put the matter to bed. After breakfast, the Taylors leave in their car as I say my good-byes to the owners. I make my way to the Mercedes that I’ve parked in one of the back overflow parking lots. I’m rather distracted by my cell phone when I hear a voice in front of me.
“We need to talk.”
His voice draws my eyes up. Will I ever tire of looking at this man? His faded jeans skim his body, and my sex quivers just looking at him.
“I didn’t realize there was more to say.”
“Emelia.”
“Graham.” Just saying his name back to him encompasses so much conversation that I don’t even have to put words to.
He opens the driver’s-side door for me. He’s letting me drive? I swear he does it just to make me crazy. He’s trying to throw me off my game. I slide in and he shuts my door. He climbs into the passenger-side seat.
“How long have you been waiting?”
“Longer than I’ve ever waited for someone before.”
His honesty surprises me. “Where to?” I ask him.
“Back to the house. I want to show you something.” Graham hits a button to lower the top and hands me a pair of Ray Ban aviators. Picking up his phone, he connects the Bluetooth and pulls up his music. I pull off the main street and head to the coast, to take the long way home. I cut my eyes over to him and issue an imperceptible grin when Nina Simone starts to sing, “I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl”.
I turn onto the property. After the guard opens the gate for us, Graham has me take a sharp right past the guard stand onto a dirt road. Following it around for about four miles, we come to a house. Actually, the word “house” doesn’t do it justice. It’s a work of art that seems to double as a house. Graham gets out when I park the car and comes around to open my door.