Page 36 of Forget About Me

“You have a nice view here. I forgot that.”

“When the leaves are all gone, your bedroom window is visible from there. Assuming that’s still your room?”

She nods. “Yep.”

“Remember when we used to send each other messages? Flashing lights?”

She nods slowly, her face still a mask. “Yep.”

Guess she’s not up for a trip down memory lane. I serve the main meal, describing the health benefits of each dish. “This is a particularly high-protein diet. Usually you’d have either tofu or seitan.”

When I sit, her eyes meet mine, but they’re not happy with me. “Is this some kind of message?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you think I need to lose weight?”

“What? No.” I shake my head. “Are you kidding? You look great. Beautiful,” I add, then wish I hadn’t because she rolls her eyes. “It’s just—this is what I’m used to cooking now. My dad won’t even try anything I cook, but I wanted to share it with you. Since you taught me how to cook all those Italian dishes. Which I’d love to eat but can’t.”

Tension flattens her full lips. “Because you have to go back to California.”

“Well, yeah. I’m obligated to at least two more shoots. And I have to ‘maintain my physique.’ It’s part of my contract, which I can’t afford to break.”

She picks up a single piece of tofu. “Really? I thought you’d be rolling in dough.”

“I made a good amount of money, and I’ve saved a lot of it. But CK Enterprises has very good lawyers. It’s easier to just bite the bullet and finish up the job. The working out I have to do keeps me sane, anyway.”

She’s picking through the plate, politely trying everything. I lift a fork heaped with brown rice and steamed broccoli. “I hope you don’t hate it.”

She finishes chewing and swallows. “Well, it’s better than it looks, I’ll give you that. I like the vegetables, actually.” She forks up a snap pea. “And this sauce is really interes—uh, complex. The tofu is surprisingly good. But that stuff?” She points at the seitan. “Is disgusting. Sorry, but I am not finishing that.”

“Yeah, it’s an acquired taste.” I scoop up a piece. “It’s good for you.”

“Too bad. I’m not eating it.”

“I won’t make you.”

“As if you could.” She huffs out a laugh, and her face relaxes—not completely, but I’ll take it. I ask about her work. After a few stories, we’re both laughing.

“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “All my work stories involve barfing or poop, not exactly good dinner conversation.”

I sit back and set my napkin on the table. “It’s okay. I’ve lived with a bulimic model or two, so I’m used to the barfing.”

“You lived with a model… or two?”

“Oh, yeah.” I scoop up the plates and take them to the sink. “A whole bunch of us lived together for a while. It was Keen’s way of controlling our image. Supposedly. I think it was also some sort of strange social experiment for him.”

“That must have been…”

“Interesting?” I finish for her.

She smirks. “An orgyis what I was thinking, actually.”

A dry laugh escapes past my lips as I lean back against the counter. “He was probably hoping for that, but it was the opposite. We were all so fucked up it was more like one long group therapy session. But we were close, in the end. At least I thought so.” Picturing the stark, modern mansion tucked away in a canyon, I suddenly realize that after everyone moved out, we barely saw each other anymore.

“The end? What happened?”

“He got bored, and the PR people decided it’d run its course.” I shrug. “We all got our own places.”

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