Forget (39 page)

I grab a piece of paper and pen off the small desk near Dylan’s photograph wall.

What in the hell should I write? How do you tell someone goodbye when you don’t want to say goodbye in the first place? I go with the simplest option, giving him as much truth as I can

You’re the only person who could ever make pink polka-dots beautiful.

This isn’t goodbye. It’s just, not right now.

I’m sorry. I know you deserve better than this.

But please, trust me. I only left this way because I had to.

I will never forget about you, about us, but it’s okay if you need to let us go. I’ll understand.

I’ll always feel it too,

Brooke

Once I’m on the plane sitting across from Alistair on his private jet, I pull Millie’s bucket list from my bag, staring down at number twenty. The only number left unmarked on the list.

18.
Visit 9 Jazz Club. Graf a drink and enjoy the music.

19.
Kiss a French man
.

20. Fall in love. If it’s not with a man, then it will be with Paris. I promise, four weeks is enough time.

The flight attendant offers me a drink. I decline. Alistair asks me questions about Paris. I respond with noncommittal answers. I can’t stop looking at number twenty. I reach into my messenger bag, grabbing a pen and correct the list.

18.
Visit 9 Jazz Club. Graf a drink and enjoy the music.

19.
Kiss a French man
.

20.
Fall in love. If it’s not with a man, then it will be with Paris. I promise, four weeks is enough time.

The seatbelt sign flashes as the plane’s engines vibrate the cabin. I stare out of the window, watching the lights of the runway blur past. My heart lurches against my ribs as it tries to find an escape route back to Dylan’s flat, desperate to be with the one person it belongs to. I bite back the tears, shielding my eyes from Alistair and the two flight attendants on our flight.

I didn’t just fall in love. That makes it sound like I’ll be able to pick myself back up once I’ve hit the ground. There’s no picking myself up from this. I’m in love with Dylan. There is no coming back from that. I’m irrevocably changed because of him. He’s ingrained in me now—my heart, my soul, my body—he will always be a part of me. I will always crave him constantly, so deeply that it’s a physical ache.

And now, I have to face the aftermath of what I just left behind. I have to face the fact that even though, I know there will be a right time for us to be together, leaving the way I did has more than ruined our chance. He might never want to speak to me again. I may have replaced the love he felt for me with hate.

I think about him waking up to the note and the pain that’ll be in those green eyes of his as they scan over my words. God, I wish I could erase that pain. I think I would rather him forget my existence, than put him through the mess I’ve made. I guess that’s how you know you really love someone, when you’d rather they forget you altogether than deal with the pain.

I think I just ruined the best thing I ever had.

But it was inevitable. I made promises, and I intend to keep those promises.

This isn’t the end. This is just the beginning.

Brooke & Dylan’s story continues in Blur (Changing Colors, Part Two)

Turn the page for a sneak peek of Blur (Changing Colors, Part Two)

One Month After Paris

DISCOVERING NEW TALENT IS
more of a challenge than you’d think. Since the day I got back from Paris, I’ve been on a mission to find my own band to sign, work with, and help produce an album. This is extremely ironic, considering the label has its own scouts, and I’m not one of those scouts.
Compartmentalizing, party of one!

Needless to say, I’ve immersed myself in work. If I’m not in the studio, I’m catching live shows or open mic nights at local bars and clubs. I even flew to New York last week to catch up with Lindsay and check out an indie band that sent me a demo a few months ago. Eternal Refuge was good, not great, but good. I think with another year under their belt, they’ll be ready. But right now is not the time for them to sign with a label. If it were up to Alistair Wallace, he would have pressured them into a contract, but luckily, I was on my own for that trip.

After the show, I sat down with the band and gave them their options, along with some of my own advice. They could sign a contract now, before they’ve really formed their own sound, and let a record label mold them into what they want them to be. Or they could wait, keep playing shows, find
their
voice, and sign when they know, without a doubt, that they’re ready.

They went with the latter. I gave them my contact info and told them to keep in touch. I know one day they’ll be great, and hopefully, when that time comes, Jamie and I will sign them to
our
label.

“
I’ll take one latte and one coffee black, no sugar, no cream,” I tell the barista behind the counter at The Grind. Her nametag reads “Fiona.” She gives me an odd look behind the counter, but proceeds to write my name on both cups, and takes my credit card to swipe. Once Fiona hands me the receipt, I stand off to the side, eavesdropping on other customers’ orders while I wait for mine.

When I was at NYU, I worked as a barista at a mom and pop coffee shop not far from my apartment. Four years of watching hundreds of different faces order their coffee made me realize a person’s order can say a lot about their personality.

Black coffee drinkers (Jamie) tend to be straightforward, no-nonsense, and can be very resistant to change. Whereas double decaf, almond milk, soy, and extra-foamy folks tend to be more obsessive and controlling. The latte drinkers (that’s me) swing more towards the neurotic and people-pleaser side, while the instant coffee drinkers are usually the most laid-back people you’ll ever meet. They could make a career out of procrastination.

And finally, the men and women who order the sweet drinks topped with caramel and whip cream are generally overgrown kids who’ve kept the taste buds and sensibilities of a ten-year-old.

Obviously, these are all assumptions on my part, and we are no more defined by our drink choices than we are our astrological signs. It’s quite possible someone could be a controlling black coffee drinker or a neurotic decaf drinker. I know better than anyone else that we can’t be pigeonholed into one specific set of personality traits. I’m the queen of the pendulum personality.

“I’ll take a café au lait,” A thirty-something woman orders. She beams at the man beside her, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. “We just got back from our honeymoon in Paris.”

“Oh wow, I bet it was amazing!” Fiona exclaims, handing off their cups to her male coworker.

The couple starts gushing about all of the gorgeous things they saw, while I indulge in my daily routine of thinking about Dylan.

I miss him. I miss him dreadfully.

Four weeks and the man had ingrained himself into my mind, my heart, and my soul. It seems every little thing brings him to mind—a song on the radio, a photograph inside a shop, a couple walking hand-in-hand along the street. In an instant, we’d had too much together, felt too much, and every one of those feelings has a memory. At first, I started blocking out any song or show or movie that would bring him to mind, but it was a fruitless effort. Memories of him are unavoidable. He had become such a huge part of me in such a short amount of time. Nearly everything brings him to mind—my favorite bands, songs, and TV shows.

You name it, and it reminds me of Dylan.

That’s probably why I’ve fallen back in to survival mode. My mind going to that blank, robotic-like place it did when pink polka-dots meant a different kind of pain. I’ve kept so busy with my job that I’ve given myself little time to dwell or pine or second-guess. I’m convincing myself that I’m strong enough to move past this terrible place. Strong enough to move on, even when huge chunks of myself are missing.

“One latte extra foam and one black coffee!” The barista startles me. She slides my cups across the counter, eyeing me with a questioning edge. I’ve seen that look. I’ve given lots of customers that look. She’s trying to figure out which coffee is mine.

“Thanks,” I say, but what I really want to say is
Yeah, sweetheart, the black coffee isn’t for me, but it should be.
Black—
just like my soul
—would suit me better than my usual lightly sweetened latte. At least, I’m sure Dylan would agree.

I grab the cups, head to my car, and start the engine. My phone pings with a message from Jamie.

‘You headed our way? Meeting is at 10.’

‘I’ll be there. What’s this meeting for again?’

‘I swear you’ve been lost in the clouds since you got back from Paris, baby girl. New band my dad and Nigel are signing. It’s going to be a big opportunity for you, so put your happy face on.’

‘Like ‘I get to produce’ kind of opportunity?’

‘Something like that . . . ’

‘I haven’t even heard these guys (or girls). What if they suck ass?’

‘What if they’re really fucking brilliant?’

‘What’s this band’s name again?’

Nope, you don’t have time to search for their music on YouTube. Leave your sister’s shop, grab me a coffee on your way, and get your ass here.’

‘Their band name is Nope? This doesn’t sound promising . . . ’

‘Don’t be a smartass.’

‘I’m already in my car with your coffee in tow. Be there in 10.’

Before heading towards the label, I browse through my other text conversations. Ember letting me know she’s taking Teddy to the museum today. Lindsay’s picture message of the hot shoes she’s wearing at a photo shoot.

And then Dylan. It’s been two weeks since I’ve heard from him. The minute I got back to L.A. and turned my phone on, I had several missed calls and messages from him.

‘Where are you?’

‘Tell me you didn’t leave Paris without saying goodbye . . . ’

‘Tell me you didn’t just walk out of my life without any inkling of when I’ll see you again.’

‘Why did you do this, Brooke?’

‘Not right now? What the fuck does that mean?’

‘There are so many things I want to say to you, but I refuse to say them in a bloody text.’

‘I hate that you did this. Hate it. But it still doesn’t change how I feel about you.’

‘I know you’re ignoring me. At least just let me know you made it back to L.A. safe.’

It was painful to say the least. My heart broke with each message. And my heart broke even more over the fact that, after the way I handled things, he was still worried about whether or not I made it home okay.

Now do you get the whole black soul sentiment?

I eventually texted him back and let him know I was okay. I told him I was sorry for hurting him the way I did, and that if I had a choice in the matter, I wouldn’t have done it. I asked him to trust me. It’s a long shot asking someone to trust you when you can’t even tell them the circumstances that require their trust. I told him that it was okay if he was done with me and wanted to move on, that I would understand.

It was a lengthy text. I cried the entire time I typed it out.