“Only if you find it even remotely impressive.”
“I don’t,” I clip, biting my bottom lip to keep it from curling up.
He gestures with the remote toward me. “Have I told you that you’re a horrible liar?”
I shrug and hum. “Perhaps. I don’t remember a lot of things that you tell me.”
His eyes come to life with amusement. “Come eat.”
The takeout boxes get arranged on the coffee table. We sit on the rug and munch on beef with broccoli, sesame chicken, cashew shrimp, and spicy pork rice. This is a definite upgrade from my typical dinners at home.
“Which is your favorite?” I ask.
“Hmm…probably the cashew shrimp. Yours?”
“Spicy pork rice.”
“Like the heat?” Graham asks suggestively.
“And you don’t?”
He gives me his full-on smile. He grabs a remote from the end table, and suddenly soft instrumental piano music starts playing through hidden speakers. It is soothing after a stressful day.
I stand to gather the leftovers.
“Relax on the couch while I clean up.” Graham holds his hand up as I start to move. “I insist.”
I feel spoiled. Pampered. The feeling has been foreign for so long that I forgot how good it feels. I rest my head on the pillow and grab a throw blanket from the back of the couch. My eyes grow heavy, and I see light in the darkness. A beautiful shade of blue.
It is hope.
* * *
The sound of typing wakes me from my slumber. I slowly pull myself up from the softness of the cushions. The instrumental music is still playing in the background. My eyes lock with Graham’s. He is on the opposite couch typing on his laptop.
“How long have I been asleep? Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask in a panic. “I need to get home. Is it still Saturday?” I glance out the frosted window, and it appears dark now. Maybe I slept through an entire day. In the past, that was common for me. Sadness can do that to a person.
“Just forty-five minutes or so. You looked so at peace that I didn’t have it in me to disturb you. Yes, it is still Saturday. Any other questions?”
“Can I please go home?”
“Of course. Let me grab you a jacket to wear. It’s cold out now.”
I watch as Graham retreats up a set of stairs that I never even noticed before. Within seconds he is back down, holding a plain black jacket.
“Here,” he says, offering it to me, “this should fit well enough.”
“Thanks.”
I put on the fleece-lined jacket and relish in the warmth it delivers. It comes down to my knees but serves its purpose well. I follow Graham out into the foyer, slip on my shoes, and step into the waiting elevator. We travel down to the parking garage where he auto starts the engine of his metallic-gray Lexus.
“You a car hoarder?” I ask with a smirk.
“What’s the criteria?”
My mouth drops a little. “Owning more than you necessarily need.”
He gives me a shrug. “Highly likely.”