Forget (2 page)

But God, he was gorgeous, downright sinful in appearance. He had the clearest blue eyes and the strongest jaw line I’d ever seen on a man.

He removed his hand from the opened gash above his eyes, and blood dripped down his face at an alarming pace. I didn’t hide the shock well. It was really deep and looked terrible.

“Well, pretty American girl who cannot control her umbrella, once we remove the forget-me-not petals that are stuck to your sandals,” he said, glancing down at my feet. “You’re going to accompany me on a quick trip to the hospital.”

And that was how I met Christophe.

(Just FYI, I know what you’re thinking right now, and I agree—I should have been a writer.)

My umbrella brought Christophe and I together and left him with a small silver scar above his right eye. It was the most ridiculous meet-cute in the history of meet-cutes.

If you don’t know what a meet-cute is (and I’ll be highly disappointed in you if you don’t) just think of every romantic movie you’ve ever watched, and remember that perfect moment when the two characters meet in the most unlikely, adorably awkward circumstances.

While you’re scoffing at the whole meet-cute sentiment, remember that one of your favorite movies has one. The Breakfast Club. Detention is what put Claire and John in the most improbable circumstance of actually having a conversation with each other. And yes, I remember that damn movie. How could I not? You only watched it a hundred times.

So back to my original point. Christophe is the one who gave me the necklace. “Ne m’oubliez pas,” he said. ‘Do not forget me.’ And I didn’t, I could never forget him. I know you have your doubts, but in my heart, I know that someday you’ll find that kind of love. And when you do, honey, I hope you get to keep it for a lifetime.

Now, for the good stuff . . .

Put the necklace on. Open the envelope inside the box that says, PARIS. There’s a plane ticket waiting for you at the airport. Your hotel is already booked. And inside that envelope is your Paris Bucket List.

This, Lilah Belle, is my last dying request, so you can’t say no.

You
HAVE
to go. (Yes, I’m playing the last dying request card. Deal with it.)

I don’t mean go to Paris in weeks or months or next year. I mean the day after my funeral. This is your time to spread your wings and fly. This is your time to live. This is your time to celebrate life—yours, and mine—instead of mourning my physical absence.

Because we both know, I’ll always be with you.

Just think of it as a long-distance relationship. You’re on Earth, and I’m probably somewhere in the Paris version of Heaven, drinking espresso and smoking cigarettes. (No use giving them up in the after-life when I managed to get cancer without smoking them in the real one.)

Our new “Millie (the best grandmother in the world) is in the afterlife, but still by my side” version of time together starts now. It starts with packing your bags, getting on the plane, and checking off each experience on the Paris Bucket List. It starts with seeing Paris through fresh eyes and experiencing all of the things that changed my life while being open to letting new experiences change yours.

One last thing, remember the journal you wrote in when you first came to live with me? The one Annie encouraged you to use? Well, the notebook inside the box is for you to try your hand at journaling again. When you were a kid, I know you were holding back, but now, I think you need this. Please use it. Write about anything you want—your thoughts, Paris, life, hot French men.

I hope this will become a cathartic outlet, a private space to free your mind and heart of all the pain that stole your innocence at such a young age. You’re a fighter, Brooke. Your strength is one of the best things about you, but I want you to remember, it’s also okay to be vulnerable. You don’t always have to fight everyone else’s battles.

It’s okay to do things just for you sometimes.

No regrets, remember?

It’s time to start using that rusty French of yours.

Je vous promets que vous ne regretterez pas cette. (I promise you will not regret this.)

Je t’aime, Lilah Belle. (I love you)

Avec Amour (All my love),

Millie

P.S. I hope one day, you’ll try your hand at performing again. I know you have a fantastic career helping other artists produce amazing music, but you’re far too talented to waste that beautiful voice. The world needs to hear you sing.

One Day After Millie’s Funeral

THE MINUTE I STEP
into my room—inside the luxurious Le Bristol Hotel—I leave my suitcase by the door and slide off my flats. I walk through the room, if you could even call it that; the damn thing looks more like a mission statement. Gorgeous, old world décor, with whimsical Parisian paintings accent the space. Everywhere I glance, I find something more beautiful, more ornate than the next.

I’m convinced my grandmother lost her mind when she planned this trip. I know she had quite the inheritance from her family, but I had no idea her bank account had this kind of cash flow. Between the first class flight, the sleek town car escort waiting for me at the airport, and the five-star hotel accommodations, I’m beyond overwhelmed.

I pull my cell phone out of my back pocket, sending a quick text to my sister Ember, telling her I made it to Paris, to give my nephew Teddy a kiss for me, and I’ll call her tomorrow.

Jamie is the next person on my text message list.
I’m here. Safe and sound.

He has been my best friend since we were kids. Ember and I had moved in with Millie during the middle of the school year. I was in the fourth grade, the new girl who didn’t know a soul, and Jamie was the only kid who took the time to be nice to me. He even offered me his Twinkie at lunch. Needless to say, our best friend status was sealed that day. We stayed attached at the hip until I went to college at NYU, and even then, we remained close, often visiting each other over holidays and weekends.

There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for Jamie. Our history is deep-rooted, ingrained inside of each of us. I know his pain, and he knows mine. I keep his secrets, and he keeps mine. He has trusted me with the darkest, most painful parts of his life, and holding onto that trust will always be a priority. I won’t hurt him.

Our relationship is complicated . . .

See, when someone I love confides in me, not only do I keep their secret, but I bury it deep. I bury it until I can’t remember which is the truth and which is the lie.

Bottom line, the best way to keep a secret is to pretend there isn’t one.

And that’s exactly what Jamie and I do.

My phone pings with his quick response.

‘Paris better treat my best girl well.’

‘Millie spared no expense. The bed in my hotel room is HUGE. And the Jacuzzi tub could fit every past and current band member of Nine Inch Nails, plus Trent Reznor’s wife.’

‘Damn, a bath tub that could fit . . . 25 . . . no, 26 people?’

‘Bingo.’

‘I’ll be in meetings all day, but I’ll call you tonight to see how your first day in Paris went.’

‘Meetings? With who?’

‘Mind your own business, nosey girl. You’re on vacation. Four weeks off and no time to worry about the random bullshit happening back home.’

‘Why do you get to have all the fun?’

Damnit, I hate being out of the loop.
I have a feeling something big is in the works. I sigh out loud in frustration, leaning my hip against the counter in the bathroom, which is bigger than the apartment I used to rent in Santa Monica.

‘Excuse me? I’m getting all the fun? You’re the one in Paris, baby girl.’

‘C’mon, Jamie. Just give me a little something to get excited about . . . ’

‘Nigel is in talks with this indie band from Europe. If Dr. Dre’s hip-hop drum beats and Led Zeppelin’s heavy rock had a love child, it would be this band.’

My jaw hits the floor.
Say what?
If music could give orgasms, I think that style of music would definitely be worth multiples.

‘WHAT? Like Arctic Monkey’s AM Album?’

‘Bingo.’

‘If I had a cock, I’d totally have a boner right now.’

This conversation has me itching to get back to L.A. I want to meet the indie band they’re trying to sign. I want to listen to their tracks, and most of all, I want to get them into the studio and work my magic.

If it weren’t for Jamie, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to work as a record producer for a huge label like Wallace & Wright. It’s a job most people would kill for.

His dad, Alistair Wallace, started the label back in the seventies. After buying out the Wright half a few years back, he had become the sole owner of one of the music industry’s top labels. Speaking from a business sense, the man is a genius. But in every other aspect of his personality, he’s a total asshole. Hell, asshole doesn’t begin to describe what Alistair is really like.

Even though he gave me the prospect of a lifetime, I have a strong disdain for that man. He’s made Jamie’s life a living hell. I’m not normally a “need to get revenge” or “this means payback” kind of girl, but with Alistair, I would do a lot of things to make him pay.

‘Exactly. I popped wood after hearing one track. All right, I gotta go. Get your cute butt out of that hotel room and enjoy Paris. Love you, Brooke.’

‘Love you more, Jamie.’

Texting him has me missing home. I think about all of the reasons why I’m in Paris, which puts me on the path of a total meltdown. When I start considering catching the red-eye home, I grab my phone, and hit speed dial.

I need someone to talk me off the ledge. The phone rings several times until I finally hear a scratchy, “Hello?”

“I’m here, I’m in Paris, and I have no idea what to do.”

“Brooke?” Lindsay croaks. “What in the hell time is it?”

“Paris time says noon.” I sigh as I fall back onto the bed.

“You do realize that Paris is six hours ahead of New York, right?”

I shut my eyes tightly. “Please come save me.”

Clearing her throat, she whispers, “Darling, it’s the ass crack of dawn here, and I haven’t been in bed for more than two hours.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Hold on,” she adds in a whisper-yell.

Soft footfalls and scratchy movements fill the line.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes . . . No . . . I don’t know . . .” I pause at the sound of a door clicking shut. “Wait a minute, where are you?”

“I’m in my bathroom.”

“Took the phone into the bathroom, so the nameless guy sleeping in your bed doesn’t wake up?” I question, but I really don’t have to ask. There’s a reason we’re best friends.

She snorts. “Exactly.”

“All right, let me hear it. What’s his nickname?” I ask, more than happy to escape into Lindsay’s crazy land of hook-ups.

“Clitourist.”

“Cli-tourist?”

“Yep, I’m pretty sure it was his tongue’s first trip to Pussy-ville.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“You want to know the worst part?”

“
That’s not the worst part?”

“Surprisingly enough, there’s more,” she adds on a laugh. “Instead of just stopping and asking for directions, the guy chose to take the ‘I’m going to act like I’ve done this, even though I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing’ route.”

“It was
that
bad?”

“Let’s just say I’d rather have my eyebrows waxed than sit through another round of his bumbling version of foreplay. The whole time his face was between my legs, I felt like his tongue was tapping out Morse code messages . . .” she pauses for a moment and I picture her shaking her head in disappointment. “I’m a hair trigger! If it’s done right, two minutes of good oral and holy creamin’ Jesus, I’m coming like Old faithful.”

“
Holy creamin’ Jesus?
Really Linds? In reference to
oral sex?
I have a feeling that if there’s a way to get to heaven, that’s probably not the golden ticket.”

“C’mon Brooke, I think even Jesus would’ve been disappointed with last night’s performance. His Dad
did
create the tongue, and Lord knows, he’d expect a man to know how the fuck to use it.”

My soundless giggles vibrate the bed.

“Are you doing that weird silent laughter thing? Or are you crying for my poor va-janna? Either is an appropriate reaction. I’m still not sure which one I should be doing.”

She knows me too well. Her question is my undoing, and the laughter dam bursts. “Please stop, just stop . . .” I blurt out between laughs.

“Seriously, Brookie. It was that bad. I mean, it’s a pussy for fuck’s sake. How hard can it be to find a clit and suck?” she questions, but it’s rhetorical. “Needless to say, I gave him about three minutes to get his shit together until I told him to get to fucking. Thank God his dick is
huge.
It’s literally his only redeeming quality when it comes to sex.” Her tone is too serious for this story, but that’s what makes Lindsay so hilarious. She can say the funniest shit with a straight face whereas I’m quite the opposite. If I find something funny, I can barely get the words out through my obnoxious giggles.