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“Sunshine, please stay with me … I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep,” he says, his voice groggy, words sluggish with misery.
“I’m here, you sleep,” I tell him. My arms ache to hold him.
“I’ve been dreaming of our hammock, Sunshine,” he whispers.
My heart thunders in my chest. Our hammock. Sunshine.
“You have?” I ask.
“Yes, I wish we were there right now,” he says. “You smell like strawberries.” A shiver starts right at my very core and travels over my entire body. I haven’t used that shampoo in years.
I close my eyes.
“We’re done reading. The sun is peeking through the leaves of the tree we’re in and you’ve got shadows all over your legs. We’re laughing. Let’s stay here.”
I swallow the lump of emotion in my throat and nod vigorously. I can feel the weight of him beside me in our hammock. “Yes, let’s,” I whisper, and my heart settles in my chest. My world, in the blink of an eye, feels like it’s been set to rights.
“It hurts so much,” he whispers in a broken voice.
“I know. I’m so sorry,” I tell him.
“Me, too. But you’re here. I’m not dreaming?” he asks sleepily.
“You’re not dreaming,” I say more for myself than for him. I can’t believe how five years of distance and silence has disappeared in just a few hours.
We don’t talk. His breathing evens out, and I find myself waiting for each inhale. I remember my father telling me how he used to stand over our cribs and watch our chests to make sure we hadn’t stopped breathing and how he would sometimes do it all night.
Every once in a while, Graham calls out my name, and when I answer, all he says is, “I’m sorry.”
I whisper my own apology. I’m so ashamed of myself. That in all this time, I haven’t once picked up the phone to check on his mother. I walked away from him when he had been in the middle of what I knew was the biggest struggle of his life. I checked stupid online web magazines to get my updates.
What kind of person did that to the person who saved her life in more ways than one? Because he couldn’t give me what I wanted? I’d forgotten that Graham and I were more than that. Even after I named my gallery after us. My Instagram handle, the tattoo on my ribcage—they all said I knew that this star was my universe and that I was his. Yet, I’d let my wounds’ pride stop me from being what I’d promised. His friend. Always.
What if this call had been from his mother, telling me that Graham had died? The thought is unbearable.
There’s a knock on the door, and it takes me a second to remember that Lucas is locked out of our bedroom.
I walk over and answer it.
His eyes widen in alarm as he looks at me. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll go to a hotel,” I say numbly. The phone is still pressed to my ear.
“What are you talking about? A hotel?” He steps back and looks me up and down. “Who are you talking to? What happened?” He looks horrified, and I know I owe him a tremendous apology. More than that. Right now, though, I just need to be alone. With Graham.
“Not now. I’ll call you. I’m so sorry.” I press a soft kiss to his lips, grab my wallet and keys, and I walk out.
I walk to the corner of West 117th Street and Frederick Douglas. It’s almost two in the morning, and the streets are teeming with people. I stand in front of the Rite Aid and stick my thumb out while I strain to hear Graham over the sounds of traffic and people.
I jump in the first taxi that stops and ask him to take me to The Viceroy Central Park. I’m listening to Graham snore when another call comes through.
It’s Lucas. I decline the call.
I put the phone back to my ear, lean back into the taxi and watch as we crawl down Columbus Avenue toward mid-town. The sounds of traffic, squeaking brakes, the constant honking of horns invade the taxi. Yes, Graham’s deep, slow breathing is the only sound I pay any attention to.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice comes from the other end of the phone. I pull it away from my ear in surprise and stare at the screen for a second as I try to make sense of the interruption. My stomach drops as realization sinks in.
“Apollo?” she asks when I don’t answer. “It’s Amber,” she says tentatively. Hearing her name strikes like a sharp-edged steel blade against the flint like covetous jealousy that lives in my heart.
