Between the Lines

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Emma

Graham: I’d like to talk to you. Alone. If you’re willing to talk to me. Can i come to your hotel, or can we meet somewhere?

Me: When?

Graham: Now, if you want. Later tonight. Tomorrow.

Me: Now is good. Dad is out with a friend. I was going to order room service and watch movies.

Graham: Where are you?

Me: Soho grand

Graham: Be there in thirty minutes

“Hey,” Graham says, for the second time today.

“Hi.” As I pull the door open, it occurs to me that I’m getting the wish Cara granted me.

He walks into the room as the door shuts with a snap and we pause feet apart. An old Switchfoot video plays in the background, the refrain flowing through the room like a private soundtrack. “You and your music videos,” he smiles, running his fingers over the information folders from college visits that we’ve left on top of the dresser. “Have you decided on a school?”

“I think so. It’s between those two.”

He nods. “Both have great programs. I guess you’ll be moving to New York?”

“Yes. We’ll go over everything when we get home. Make an informed decision.” He nods again, but I know he didn’t come to talk about my college plans, so I don’t elaborate.

“So… I thought you might want an explanation. I’m not sure where to begin.”

We’re both quiet then. Everything about Graham, everything I thought I knew, all of it has tilted. My vision of him, my feelings for him, all still the same and yet nothing the same. His hands are balled into loose fists at his sides.

“You have a daughter.” I have no right to the accusation in my voice. The last thing I want to do is make him feel interrogated, but he isn’t talking, and the questions are crowding into my skull, knocking around, every one of them wanting an answer right now. “I thought we were friends… so why didn’t you tell me?”

He spreads his hands, “I don’t… tell people. Outside of my family, only Brooke knows, and a handful of friends from way back.”

“Were you… are you… married?” The concept is so foreign that the word comes out like something distasteful.

“No. I’m not, I wasn’t. Cara’s mother… she’s never been in the picture. Not since Cara was born.”

I’m trying to process this. Failing. It’s like the puzzle box has the wrong illustration on the front, and as the pieces fit together, the image generated is something completely different than what I was expecting. “How did you… end up with her?”

He walks across the small room and faces the window, silent. I give him time to gather his thoughts. Finally, he turns with his hands in his pockets. “My relationship with Cara’s mother was over by the time she knew she was pregnant. She was considering her options, but she didn’t want to keep her. And I just… I wanted her. The possibility of claiming her, of raising her, it gave me a purpose. I had to do it.”

He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair, staring at the carpet. “I talked to my family. I was sixteen at the time, so there was no going it alone.” When he raises his eyes, they’re ablaze with resolve, and it’s easy to picture the face his family had seen then. “If they hadn’t been supportive, I don’t know what would have happened. But I’d made my decision, and they could see there was no changing it.”

“So they agreed to help you?” He nods. “And then—?”

“And then I had to convince my ex-girlfriend to carry her to term, and give her to me.”

I sit down on the bed, in a semi-state of shock. “Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

He sits next to me. “Yeah. That’s the usual response.” His hands grasp each other and he stares at them. “The family emergency, when I disappeared during filming? Cara had an asthma attack, and was hospitalized. I’ve never been that scared.”

He’d disappeared hours, maybe minutes, after he kissed me on my bed. He could have told me then, but he didn’t trust me enough. “Wow, this is just… so awesome.” I’m grasping for words, wincing at my falsely joyful voice, but it’s like if I stop talking I might hyperventilate. “I mean, you’re, you know, a father. Somebody calls you daddy. And that’s just so…”

“Awesome?” He’s disappointed, or hurt, but at the same time, unsurprised. He’s used to this reaction. “Anyway, now you know everything.” He stands up. “Listen, I’ve got to, um, do a couple of errands. We can talk later, okay?” I don’t hear the likelihood of a later in his voice.

“Okay.” I follow him to the door, realizing that he just shared this really intimate thing with me, and I freaked out. He’s standing in my room, my wish in solid form. “Graham,” I say gently. He turns, and I lay my hands on his chest, feel his heart hammering the same accelerated rhythm as my own. His dark eyes are sad, staring down at me.

My hand shaking, I reach up and push my fingers through the hair at his temple, pulling his head down. I kiss him, softly, carefully, and for a moment, he doesn’t react at all, and I’m sure that I’ve read everything wrong… And then his mouth crushes into mine as his arms go all the way around me, pulling me to my toes.

I thought I’d idealized kissing him, but his lips against mine now make that first kiss a distant echo. His hands skim up my sides and lace through my hair, turning me until my back is pressed against the wall and his body is pressing into mine, his heartbeat pounding under my hand. Pulling him against me, my arms draw him closer still, fingers kneading the hard muscles of his back, up and over his shoulders, down his arms and back again. When we break for air we’re gasping, our chests rising and falling in unison as he leans into me and I arch into him, every physical indicator declaring I want you, I want you, I want you.