Chapter 15
15
I’m still attempting to shove my feet into the heels my mother lent me when the doorbell rings.
“Coming!” I call. I limp down the hallway and try to ignore the stinging pain that’s already forming around my toes. High heels are a sadistic invention. I don’t care how great they make my butt look.
When I pull the door open, Graham is standing there in a dark suit, clutching a bouquet of roses like the world’s most attractive prom date. His mouth drops open as he stares at me, his gaze running down the length of my pink cocktail dress.
“Wow,” he says hoarsely. “You look…”
“I know, these shoes are ridiculous,” I say. “It’s like walking on stilts. I tried to put on flats, but my mom told me I looked like Strega Nona.”
“You look perfect,” he finishes softly. A ripple of pleasure shoots through me as our eyes meet. He’s staring at me with an unwavering intensity that hurts my chest. I’m struggling to breathe as it is, given how ridiculously handsome he looks. The golden strands of his hair have been carefully styled with product, and the sharp cut of his suit hugs him in all the right places, highlighting his broad shoulders and slim waist. The man should wear formalwear daily, as a gift to humanity.
I break our gaze, training my attention on the bouquet in his hands.
“You brought me flowers,” I say lamely. Graham’s gaze drops to the bouquet in his hands, which he’s gripping tightly enough to crumple the paper, as if just noticing it for the first time. His cheeks go crimson.
“Oh, yes. I didn’t know what people bring to Bar Mitzvahs. I just didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”
“No, it’s sweet,” I reassure him, taking the bouquet from his hands. “Let me just put them in water.” I hurry into the kitchen, and when I return a minute later, he’s still standing in the threshold, looking more nervous than my actual prom date did.
“Well, we’d better get going before we miss appetizers,” I say. “You can normally count on a good cocktail wiener at these things, but knowing my sister, there’s going to be a disproportionate number of gluten-free options. We’ll want to get there before there’s nothing left but spinach and kale bites.”
Graham’s face breaks into a relieved smile, the tightness of his features loosening. “I’m sure José is delighted. He’s always looking for opportunities to eliminate taste from food.”
He glances over my shoulder. “Your parents already left?”
“Oh, yeah. They were needed early for photos.” What I don’t mention is that my mother was only too eager to leave ahead of me to give me “alone time” (her exact words, accompanied by an eyebrow wiggle) with my “date.” If the woman only knew.
“Shall we?” I ask. We head toward the car, and I shake my head when he opens the passenger door for me.
“You don’t have to do all this,” I protest with a laugh. “It isn’t a real date.” I pause, considering my statement. “On the other hand, I guess this tracks. I never get the five-star treatment from men who are available. Trust me, I’ve done the legwork.”
Graham’s smile falters a bit, but then he doesn’t say anything as he moves to the driver’s side. When he flips on the ignition, a Beach Boys song drifts through the speakers.
“Seriously?” I raise my eyebrows. “Tell me the truth: how old are you? Because if you’re a 150-year-old teenager who was saved by a benevolent vampire during the Spanish Influenza, I can keep a secret.”
“As if I’d confess such a thing to a woman who’s clearly Team Jacob.”
I snort as Graham shifts the car into reverse. We settle into a comfortable silence and my eyes drift back to the faded photograph on the dashboard.
“May I?” I ask, gesturing to it. Graham nods as he hands the picture to me. I wipe off a thin layer of dust to better examine it. In the photo, Graham, who looks like he’s about six or seven. There’s an adorably oversized pair of green glasses on his face, and he’s dressed in a pair of shorts and a black Orioles T-shirt. He’s sitting next to his grandfather on a bench and clutching a Styrofoam cup in one hand. Upon closer inspection, I recognize the small wooden hut in the background.
“Oh, I know this place! This is the snowball stand on York Road.”
Graham grins. “Yup. My grandparents used to take me there all the time.”
Snowballs are a summer staple in Baltimore. They’re a ball of shaved ice that’s covered with flavored syrup. The texture is harder than Italian ice, so you have to chip away at them with a spoon. It wasn’t until I went to college that I found out they’re a local dish most people have never heard of.
“What’s your flavor pick?”
Graham scoffs. “Is that even a question? Skylite, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
It’s not clear exactly what flavor Skylite is. Some people have tried to parse out the ingredients in the sugary sweet taste, but really the best way to describe it is blue.
Graham spares me a sidelong glance. “And yours?”
“Chocolate,” I reply. “With marshmallow sauce.”
Graham purses his lips, nodding in approval. “A respectable choice. If the stand was out of Skylite, of course.”
I breathe out a laugh, then return my attention to the photo. My heart twists as I notice the way that Graham’s grandfather is looking down at Graham with a look of pure adoration.
“You must really miss him,” I murmur, as I brush my fingertips over the image.
Graham blows out a long exhale. “Every day. He was always my north star, a voice of reason. Lately, I’ve found myself wishing desperately that I could talk to him.” He spares me a long glance before shifting his attention back to the road, and my cheeks prickle with heat.
“My mother always said their expectations of her were suffocating. They wanted her to take over the hotel when they retired, and she was not interested. She wanted to live out her own dream, not someone else’s. It’s why she rarely came back to see them. She was so certain that they disapproved of her choices, so she believed she was doing the right thing for everyone by staying away. But I think deep down, she was afraid that she had disappointed them.
“When she came for my grandfather’s funeral, it was the first time she’d been back here in ten years. The regret was written all over her face. And I just… I don’t want to repeat her mistakes. I don’t want to let down the people who matter to me.”
I study him thoughtfully. It’s the second time he’s mentioned not wanting to repeat the mistakes of his parents, of striving to show up for the people he loves, and I can’t help feeling like there’s a larger issue playing beneath the surface.
“Well, she’ll be back here for the wedding,” I say helpfully. “Maybe that will be a good time for her and your grandmother to reconnect?”
Graham’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. “She won’t be in attendance,” he replies gruffly.
My mouth drops open. “Your mother isn’t coming to your wedding ? Why not?”
Graham keeps his gaze firmly on the road. “Trust me, she has her reasons.”
I shake my head slowly.
“Did you guys have a fight? Or is this about Trudy? I know things between them aren’t great.” Graham’s hinted that the relationship between his mom and grandmother is strained, but surely the two of them would be willing to put aside their differences for something as important as Graham’s wedding day.
I watch as a muscle ticks in the square line of his jaw. “It’s not that. It’s… complicated. Just leave it, okay?”
A rebuttal is on the tip of my tongue, but something about the look on Graham’s face forces the protest back down my throat. I hand the photograph to Graham, and he slides it back into its place.
His words from an earlier conversation make their way to the front of my mind. I remember the feeling of isolation that Graham described when he first moved to New York. For the first time, it occurs to me that with Claire gone, Graham has hardly anyone here. He must feel incredibly lonely.
“Listen,” I offer. “If you need additional family presence at your wedding, my Bubbie would be happy to step in. She’ll do whatever you need: walk you down the aisle, safeguard your rings, throw rice, smear lipstick all over your face. I can’t promise she won’t also hit on you, but she’s loyal as hell, and she’ll never miss an event that offers cake. I’ll be there with you too, and not just because you’re paying me.”
Graham turns to smile at me, but it’s a smile I haven’t seen from him before. There’s a sadness beneath it, mixed with something else that I could swear looks like longing.
“That means more to me than you know,” he says, his voice a low scrape. We lock eyes for a long moment, and my skin prickles beneath his gaze. Then the light changes and he looks away. We drive the rest of the way in silence, the car filled with the weight of unspoken longing and the Beach Boys.
Cocktail hour is in full swing by the time we arrive. Graham’s eyes widen as we step into the Black-Eyed Susan’s ballroom. The entire surface of the ceiling is covered in primary color balloons, and oversized cubes in matching shades trim the stage, where a DJ is blasting Billboard Top 100 hits. A sign-in board by the ballroom doors spells out Jackson’s name with letters shaped like video game controllers. The black tabletops are surrounded by cherry red chairs, and flower arrangements erupting from the heads of blocky video game characters serve as centerpieces. In one corner, a cluster of preteen boys are poking holes in the bottoms of plastic cups in an admirable attempt to shotgun Shirley Temples.
“Is it me, or is this a Roblox Bar Mitzvah?” Graham asks, lifting one eyebrow.
I shake my head. “There’s no accounting for the taste of thirteen-year-old boys.”
Graham purses his lips as he glances around the room. “You do have to appreciate the impressive dedication to the theme. Did you plan this?”
I shake my head. “I would have loved to. Family events are my favorite kind to plan. But my sister was insistent that she could do it all herself.” Without quite meaning to, I add more bite to the last word than I intended. I’m well-aware of Sarah’s hyper competence. She’s been that way her whole life. It’s not that I think she needed my help planning Jackson’s Bar Mitzvah. I just wish she’d been willing to accept it. To let me step outside my role as her little sister and be her friend and partner.
Graham casts me a sidelong glance, his brows pinched thoughtfully.
“But you’re great at what you do,” he says, as though befuddled by the idea that anyone wouldn’t agree. “Don’t they see that?”
“No need to bullshit me, Benedict. You’ve already hired me.” I give him an exasperated eye roll and shove my hands playfully against his chest. But then he catches me by the wrist and the amusement immediately seeps out of me. His gaze is penetrating as his thumb traces circles over the skin of my palm.
“It is getting increasingly difficult to bullshit you,” he says, his voice so low it’s practically a whisper. I’m not quite sure what he means by that, but my brain has gone so fuzzy that it’s impossible to parse out much of anything. My fingers, now moving of their own accord, slide between his, and his gaze drops to the place where our hands are interlocked. A muscle in his jaw ticks.
With what feels like an insurmountable effort, I extract my hand from his. The attraction that pulls me toward him is undeniable, but the reality remains that giving into it is wrong and will only result in disaster.
I take a step back and then toss him what I hope is a passably neutral smile.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the dance floor. “Let’s get you an inflatable saxophone.”
The worst part of the entire evening is how seamlessly it’s all going. A small, vindictive part of me had hoped that dragging Graham to my nephew’s Bar Mitzvah would be an especially creative punishment for him, but two hours in, he’s already become part of the fabric of my family. He was especially enthusiastic during the horah, his legs weaving in and out of a box step like he’s Tevye the Milkman. And let’s face it, my family was thrilled to have a man over five foot eight in attendance to help lift Jackson in a chair. He even gamely insisted on participating in Coke and Pepsi, a party game typically limited to kids, where you’re split into two teams, and race to your partner on the other side of the dance floor when your assigned soda is called. Now I’m sitting on a chair at the edge of the dance floor, sipping a glass of white wine as I watch him slow dance with Bubbie to a Stephen Sanchez song.
“Are you having fun?” she asks him.
“I’m having the time of my life. What a simcha, ” he says. He offers her a cheeky smile, clearly delighted by his usage of the Yiddish word. She beams at him.
“Well, if you like parties, you should come to my ninetieth birthday celebration. Ali’s planning it, so you know it’ll be a hoot.”
The two of them turn to look at me, Bubbie’s face beaming with adoration. But Graham’s expression is laced with admiration, longing, and an indisputable trace of lust. It’s all too much, even when accessorized with a glow stick necklace and an airbrushed trucker hat that reads “Mazel Tov Jackson.” I bury my face in my wine glass to hide the emotions that are bubbling a bit too close to the surface.
“I wouldn’t miss it, Bubbie,” Graham says, and she lets out a tiny hmmph of satisfaction. Her hands drop to his waist, giving his backside a squeeze. It isn’t too much of a stretch since he’s so much taller than her that she barely comes up to his shoulders, even with the extra six inches awarded by her overly hairsprayed beehive.
“Oh my gawd, Ali,” she exclaims. “The buns on this one! Like two firm deli rolls.”
Graham flashes one of his devastating half smiles. “Bubbie, behave yourself,” he chides. She giggles again.
“You know,” she rasps. “I’ve always had a thing for accents. There was an Englishman who used to come in all the time when I worked in the candy department at Hutzler’s department store. I used to slip him free chocolates whenever he stopped by my counter. Of course, it wasn’t all I’d like to have slipped him.”
“Bubbie!” I chide. “What about Zayde?”
“What about him?” Bubbie scowls. “Can’t a girl keep her options open? Besides, it was the seventies. Everyone was swinging back then.”
I shake my head. “I could have lived the rest of my life without that information.”
Graham snorts out a laugh and we exchange a grin.
Bubbie winks at him through her non-fogged lens. “I’m joking. I never took another key out of the key bowl. That man was my besheret, my soulmate. Just look at the beautiful family we created together.”
Graham’s eyes drift appreciatively around the room. Then he gifts her a thoughtful smile.
“My grandmother says your soulmate is the one person on earth with a key that fits your lock.”
A pleasurable warmth swells inside my chest at the sentiment. But then just as quickly, it’s replaced by heaviness, and an invisible hand squeezes my heart. Because isn’t it just my luck that I’ve finally found a man who fits so seamlessly into my world and I can’t keep him? Because he isn’t mine and he never can be.
The knot of emotion in my chest starts to bubble up, forming a lump that I’m struggling to swallow. Heat pricks at my eyes as I leap to my feet. Through the blur of tears, I can see Graham frowning at me, his eyes traveling back and forth across my face as he struggles to read my expression.
Are you okay? he mouths at me, and instead of replying, I just shake my head, because I know that the minute I try to speak, the threatening tears will spill over, and the last thing I need right now is for Graham Wyler to see me cry.
Shoving back my chair, I take off in the direction of the emergency exit, ignoring the sound of Graham calling my name. When I reach the doors, I hurl myself against the metal bar, stumbling out into the cold night air. But before I can make it all the way through, my heel catches on the doorframe. My ankle twists as I fly forward, landing hard on my hands and knees, and it’s the metaphorical straw that breaks me. With a loud, guttural sob, I close my eyes and surrender to the onslaught of emotion. My body shudders as tears wrack my body. Somehow, it’s perversely pleasant, a sweet release after bottling up my emotions for so long.
Footsteps echo through the hallway and then the door creaks open. I hear a low curse and then he’s by my side, lifting me off the pavement and dragging me into his lap. He brushes the hair off my face as he wipes my tears with the pad of his thumb, his expression unspeakably tender. Then his eyes drop as he does a quick perusal of my body, inhaling sharply when his gaze lands on my skinned knees.
“You’re bleeding,” he says. His voice is low and hoarse, and I groan.
“This is why I don’t wear heels,” I sniffle. “They never fail to ruin a dramatic exit scene.”
Graham doesn’t crack a smile. Instead, he stands up, my body still gathered in his arms, and begins carrying me back toward the doors.
“Uh, where are we going?” I ask.
Graham’s voice is strained. “I have Band-Aids and antiseptic in my office.”
I glower at him. “Isn’t this a tad overdramatic? I’m perfectly capable of walking. It’s just a scrape.”
Graham ignores me, bypassing the ballroom’s side entrance and carrying me down the narrow hallway. He takes a left down another carpeted hallway and then he’s pushing through an office doorway, clicking on a light.
His office is exactly how I pictured it. Neat and orderly, just this side of sparse, but with a few Graham-specific touches. There’s an ivory cardigan hanging on the back of the door, and an abandoned mug of tea resting on a coaster atop the cherrywood desk. The entire room carries traces of his citrusy scent, which is quickly becoming my favorite smell.
Graham deposits me into one of the chairs facing his desk and then begins rummaging through his drawers, returning a moment later with a first aid kit. He sinks to his knees in front of me, his eyes dark and hooded as he gestures to my torn stockings.
“May I?” he asks, his voice a low scrape. I nod, biting down hard on my bottom lip as his hands reach up under my dress. His fingers slip into the waistband of my ruined stockings, and he drags them down slowly, his knuckles skimming my thighs, before tossing them on the floor. My heartbeat is hammering so hard against my chest that I wonder briefly if he can hear it.
He slides a package of Neosporin between his lips, tearing it open with his teeth. Then he pulls it and squeezes a small amount directly onto my knees, his warm fingers tracing circles over my skin. By the time he peels open a Band-Aid, I’m breathless. All he’s done is apply basic first aid, and somehow, it’s one of the most erotic experiences of my life.
“Graham,” I whisper, and he groans at the sound of his name. Rocking back onto his heels, he closes his eyes.
“I’ve tried so hard,” he mutters under his breath.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I mean, it’s not that much blood. But if you’re feeling woozy, I can take it from here.”
When Graham opens his eyes again, they are burning.
“I’ve tried so hard to be sensible, to fight the way I feel about you,” he says roughly. “But I can’t do it anymore. It might kill me.”
His words strike with the force of a freight train, knocking the wind out of me. A long silence stretches between us as I struggle to form words.
“What are you talking about?” I finally manage.
Graham drags a hand down his face.
“It was never supposed to be like this,” he mutters, but it seems like he’s mostly talking to himself. My stomach coils as I brace myself for whatever is about to pass through those gorgeous lips. He releases a slow exhale and then meets my eyes again.
“When I told you that Claire and I are best friends, I meant that literally. She’s one of the most important people in my life. I owe her everything.” He levels his gaze at me before continuing.
“But we are not a couple. Not romantically. We never have been.”
Time stands still as the weight of his words settle over me. My lips part, but I can’t seem to formulate a coherent thought.
Graham drags a hand through his hair. “Writing for American television has always been her dream. But her student visa was expiring, and she didn’t know how much longer she would get to stay here. One night at the bar, she jokingly asked me to marry her for a green card. She wasn’t serious, but I wanted to help her. She saved my career once, and I was more than happy to repay the favor. So, I said yes.”
I blink a few times as I try to process what he’s telling me. “But… you’re British,” I finally say. “How can you get her a green card?”
It’s a ridiculous detail to focus on right now, but everything is spinning around me like a Tilt-A-Whirl and this fact seems like the one thing I can grab onto.
“My mother’s American. I have dual citizenship.”
I shake my head, my brain struggling to process his words.
“Let me make sure I have this straight. You and Claire are not a couple, and this is a marriage of convenience?”
“Well, it doesn’t feel very convenient right now,” he grumbles. “But yes.”
His eyes are cautious as they search my face, gauging my response.
“I feel terrible that we lied to you about it,” he continues. “But what choice did we have? We can’t exactly be going around telling people we’re faking love for a green card marriage. ICE is no joke.”
Something about this still isn’t making sense. I feel like I’m scrambling to put the pieces of a puzzle together without looking at the photo on the box.
“But… if the marriage isn’t real, why bother with a big wedding? Why not just get married at City Hall?”
Graham barks out a soft, humorless laugh. “That was the original plan. I wasn’t even going to tell Granny about the marriage. But she overheard me on the phone with my mother, when I asked her to post my birth certificate for the license. I told her we were going to elope, but she insisted that we consider a wedding at the hotel, the same place where she and my grandfather were married. She loved the thought of it becoming a family tradition. And then it occurred to me that it’d be a brilliant opportunity for a publicity boost. A two-birds-one-stone situation that would allow me to help two of the people I care about most.”
“Does your grandmother know that this is a sham marriage?”
He shakes his head. “I wanted to tell her. But she was so excited about the engagement. It was the first time I’d really seen her smile since my grandfather died. I couldn’t stand to admit the truth and break her heart. And honestly, the fewer people who know, the better.”
He pauses, nibbling on his bottom lip.
“My mum knows. It’s why she’s refusing to come. I couldn’t understand her objection when I first told her. It seemed harmless enough. I figured we’d stay married for two years, or however long it took for Claire’s employer to get her immigration paperwork sorted. Then we’d file for divorce. It wasn’t like I was dating anyone, and even if I was, I had no intention of getting into a serious relationship. It was all meant to be simple, uncomplicated. A favor I was happy to do for a friend. But then you barged back into my life, and—” He takes a deep breath and then exhales slowly. “You barged into my life, and nothing has been simple since.”
The air in the room evaporates. I’m conscious of nothing but the rhythmical thumping of my heart against my chest. Graham takes a step closer.
“I’m lying in bed every night, trying to force myself to stop thinking about you, but I can’t. There’s no escaping it, and honestly, I’m tired of trying. I don’t want to fight the way I feel about you anymore.”
The lump in my throat swells. “What are you trying to say?” I whisper, because even though I think I know, I’m desperate to hear him say it.
Graham licks his lips, readying himself. Finally, he looks directly into my eyes. “It’s you, Ali. I think it always has been.”
My bones are on fire. My chest has gone so tight that I no longer remember to breathe. I blame the lack of oxygen circulation to my brain when I lean forward, throwing my arms around his neck and crashing my lips against his.