Forget (32 page)

Once her fingers released the charm, she answered my question. “I was only nineteen when I snuck off to Paris.”

“Snuck off?”

She grinned. “Yeah, I got on a plane headed for France when I was supposed to be driving to the beach with three of my girlfriends. My parents didn’t know I was in a foreign city until ten days later . . . when I didn’t come home with my friends.”

My jaw dropped. “Were they mad?”

“It was the maddest my father had ever been. No one knew where I was, and when I finally found the courage to call home, I had to hold the phone three feet from my ear because he was shouting so loud.”

“You flew by yourself on an airplane? To Paris?”

“It was my dream. And I didn’t just visit, I lived there for five years.”

“Five years?”
My eyebrows shot up. “How did you pay for everything?”

Her honey eyes sparkled with amusement. “Once I turned fourteen, I saved every penny I made working part-time jobs when my parents thought I was busy with school activities, spending time with my friends or taking acting classes. Waitress . . . Maid . . . Seamstress . . . I did anything and everything. It was crazy that I was hiding part-time jobs from my parents because they were very wealthy. My mother came from old money and my father was a very successful businessman. But I knew my father would disapprove, so I refused to go to Paris on his dime.

“So, I saved every penny, and once I had enough money, I bought a plane ticket and lied to everyone I knew. Even my girlfriends didn’t know my plan until I had them drop me off at the airport. I can still see the shocked looks on their faces when I finally told them.” Her hand covered her mouth as a laugh escaped her lips. “Needless to say, once I got to Paris, I had enough money to stay in a hotel and keep myself fed until I found a job at a small café. It was the cutest place, owned by the sweetest husband and wife. They took pity on the lost American girl who found her way to their doorstep. I lived in an apartment above that café the entire time I was in Paris . . .”

I interrupted her. “
Café?
What is a café?”

“It’s like a little restaurant. They served coffee, croissants, yummy baked goods like cookies and cakes, and delicious sandwiches at lunch time.”

Millie tended to ramble whenever she talked about Paris, but I loved listening, eager to learn new things about her. “I can’t believe you moved to a different city all by yourself.”

“It was the best thing I ever did.”

“Did you buy your favorite necklace there?”

She glanced down at the charm resting on her neck. “Someone bought this for me. Someone who was very special and made my heart smile bigger than it ever has.” Her eyes met mine. “Of course, this was before you and Ember came along.” She smiled, but it looked tight around the edges, kind of like it didn’t belong there.

“Who was it?”

Millie shook her head and quietly chuckled. “My curious little Lilah Belle.” Her fingers ran down her apron, pushing out the wrinkles near her belly. “I promise, when you’re a little older, I’ll tell you all the wonderful details about this necklace, but right now, I need to make dinner and you need to finish those hearts.” She winked, and then turned back towards the stove, quickly ending our conversation.

As I put my purple crayon to the paper, I kept picturing the weird smile that appeared on Millie’s lips when I mentioned her necklace. Smiles were supposed to mean happiness, but that smile didn’t seem happy, it looked like it hurt.

I wondered what the color blue of her necklace’s fairytale flowers meant for my grandmother. Were the pretty blue petals the color of her pain? Or were they the color of her love? Love
and
pain, they were opposites and had their own colors. At least, that’s how I thought it worked.

One day, I’d get her to tell me about that special someone who gave her the pretty necklace, and hopefully, she’d tell me all about it in French, while eating cookies at her favorite café in her favorite city . . .
Paris.

RAYS OF SUN PEEK
through the skylights of Dylan’s flat, serving as my natural wake-up call. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s a little past ten in the morning. I stretch my arms and legs, rolling onto my side, finding an empty space where Dylan should be. A folded piece of paper rests on his pillow.

Before reading Dylan’s note, I grab my phone off the nightstand and turn it back on. I’d been making a habit of turning it off at night . . . or anytime that involved Dylan naked and me getting mind-blowing orgasms.

Interrupt me once, shame on you. Interrupt me twice, shame on me.

Consider my lesson learned.

Little Wing,

I’m at Au Fait helping my dad with a few things.

Come by once you’ve woken up.

-Dylan

P.S. There’s fresh fruit and orange juice in the fridge.

And the pastries (the raspberry crème ones that make you moan) are on the counter.

P.P.S. You’re adorable when you sleep.

Attached is a Polaroid of me. I’m sound asleep—face smashed into the pillow and hair in disarray. If adorable is a code word for hot mess, then yes, Dylan is correct, I’m adorable when I sleep.

I’m sniffing his pillow like a weirdo—
yes, even I agree it’s ridiculous
—when my phone starts blowing up with text notifications.

The first message I pull up is from Lindsay. It’s been less than twelve hours since I dropped her off at the airport, and I’m already sad she’s not here.

‘I’m in NYC. Safe and sound. Ready to sleep my ass off.’

‘I miss you.’

‘I miss you too, Brookie. Can we agree that going more than a month without seeing each other, is not acceptable?’

Before Millie died, it had been three months since Lindsay and I had seen each other. I refuse to let that happen again.

‘Yes! First thing I’m doing when I get back to L.A. is finding a weekend next month to come hang with you in my 2
nd
favorite city.’

’2
nd
favorite city??? Say it isn’t so. Don’t tell me you love L.A. more than NYC.’

‘Nope. But I think I love Paris more than NYC . . . ’

‘Dear God, how many times have you let Dylan come inside your mouth, Brooke? I think his sperm might be going to your brain . . . ’

‘You’re disgusting. I’m ending this conversation. I love you. Get some sleep ya filthy hooker.’

‘Love you too, sperm breath.’

Next, I find three picture messages from Ember. They’re from Teddy’s t-ball game last night. He looks so grown up in his little baseball cap and cleats.

And finally, a text from Jamie.

‘Don’t answer your phone. My dad is in London. God only knows if he’d try to fly you back to L.A. on the jet.’

‘Like I’d ever answer a phone call from Alistair when I’m Paris. As if.’

‘And here I thought we got past the Clueless movie quotes once you grew boobs (sort of) and let Connor Jacobs rid you of your “hymenally challenged” situation.’

I love him, but Jamie can be such an asshole sometimes. My boobs aren’t
that
small . . . Okay, maybe they are that small, but it’s not like I had a say in my genetics.

‘That was way harsh, Jai. (And don’t think I didn’t notice the little quote you threw in there)’

‘You made me watch it like a thousand times in eighth grade. Terrible or not, it’s forever branded into my brain.’

I laugh, typing out another response.

‘You’re welcome. And why is your dad in London?’

‘Meetings. I think he’s hell bent on world domination . . . ’

Jamie’s dad had acquired three small labels under the Wallace & Wright name in the last year. The man is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to business.

‘What label is he trying to take over this time?’

‘Trio’

‘Trio Records?

They’re huge in the UK. Think they’ll go for it?’

‘Alistair is nothing if not manipulative.’

He’s right. If Alistair wants something, he’ll do everything to get it, without caring who or what he has to destroy in the process.

‘So true. How is the (thing I’m not supposed to ask but I’m going to anyways) going?’

‘It’s only been a month, but I’m feeling better already.’

My heart feels a thousand times lighter.

‘I’m so glad to hear that.’

‘What would I do without you?’

‘Be miserable. Drown yourself in Netflix marathons . . .Kidding. You’d be fine, but slightly less awesome because you wouldn’t have all those kick-ass movie quotes memorized.’

‘As if. I’m heading to a meeting. Chat later?’

I need to talk to him. Not through text, but on the phone. I need to hear his voice when I tell him what’s been going on in Paris. I know he’ll understand. God, I hope he’ll understand.

‘Yeah. There’s something I need to talk to you about, but I don’t want to do it through text.’

‘Everything okay?’

I want to say, no, it’s not, I think I’ve fallen in love with someone. I think I might fuck up everything, but I don’t.

‘Yes. Everything’s good.’

‘Okay, let’s make a phone date soon. Time zones are a pain in the ass. Love you, baby girl.’

‘I love you too.’

Normally, I’d throw on a pair of Chucks, t-shirt, and jeans, but since I’ll be meeting Dylan’s father, I re-think the kicked-back, relaxed look. I toss on last night’s clothes, and head downstairs to grab a bite to eat, before heading back to my hotel where I can shower and find a more suitable outfit.

The pastries are on the counter, beckoning me like little treats sent straight from the devil. I pour a glass of orange juice, rest my hip against the counter, and find a piece of paper laid out on the island with Dylan’s handwriting.

Since your French isn’t very good . . . appalling, to be honest, I think these should help. Oh, and eat the banana. Surely, a woman that demands a minimum of five orgasms a day could use the extra potassium.

“Quelle heure est-il ?” What time is it?

“Où se trouve le métro?” Where is the métro ?

“S’il vous plaît, Monsieur Dylan, je veux un autre orgasme.” Please, Sir Dylan, I want another orgasm

An unpeeled banana sits at the bottom of the note. My final French lesson of the day is written across it in black ink.

One side is French,
“Je veux vos jolies lèvres autour de mon sexe, Little Wing.”

And on the other side is the English translation
, “I want your pretty lips wrapped around my cock, Little Wing.”

I remember Dylan saying he misses the notes his mom used to write on his bananas. He took that memory and turned it into an entirely erotic and inappropriate gesture. I unpeel the banana and take a picture of myself—mouth around it, a half-grin on my wide-opened lips—and send it to him. I add,
“Mmmmmm Potassium makes me moan too,”
for good measure.

Au Fait is a little busier than I expected for a weekday afternoon. Dylan is behind the bar talking with a young bartender I’ve never met before. I walk towards them, nervous butterflies filling my belly. Of course, I’m nervous about seeing what Alexandre has for me, but I think I’m more nervous about the fact that I’m meeting Dylan’s dad. It’s not like I have the best relationship with my mother and father. Let the record show, parent charmer I am not.

Dylan spots me, a giant grin consuming his face. He moves from behind the bar and lifts me up in a giant bear hug. I yelp, completely caught off guard by his affectionate gesture. I’m all sorts of discombobulated today.

“I missed you,” he says, setting me back on my feet. “I ordered some food. I hope fish and chips are okay, yeah?” He gestures for me to sit down.

“Sure.”

“Everything all right?” He slides my bar stool closer to his.

“Sure.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure.” Jesus, I’m a regular chatterbox. Did I mention that meeting Dylan’s dad is making me a little anxious?

He presses a soft kiss behind my ear. “Everything will be fine, love.”

“Definitely,” I respond, forcing a smile on my face.

“Okay . . . no, that’s not gonna work.” He motions towards the young bartender. “Jules, what’s the strongest drink you can make?”