Page 38 of Forget About Me

Ben’s touch was lighting fires all evening. The brush of his hand when he handed me a glass or a plate… I can’t even imagine what would’ve happened if I’d tried to sit next to him to watch a movie on the very same couch where we’d explored a multitude of positions back when I was a wild and horny teenager determined to get my sexual education requirement completed before heading off to college. I’d even used textbooks and showed up with diagrams. Ben was a very accommodating TA.

Until he wasn’t.

I’d thought we were so mature to pause our relationship when we went off to school. Like I was going to go and use everything I’d discovered about my body and sex and intimacy with any old college kid. I tried. I went to parties, I went on dates, I fooled around with some cute boys. But it was all so mechanical and meaningless.

So even though Ben didn’t write me, didn’t use the long-distance calling card I knew he had to try to call me at my dorm, I had a plan for Thanksgiving break. I was going to seduce him all over again and convince him that we were meant to be together.

And then the accident happened.

And he went away.

Which he will do again as soon as the show is over. I mean, I don’t know what I thought. Like he was going to give up a crazy successful career to stay here in Boston and play house with a girl who can’t even manage to move out of her childhood bedroom?

The only thing I do know? I wasn’tthinkinganything when he kissed my cheek. My body has no sense of self-preservation when it comes to that man and his mouth. And the rest of him. It’s not even about how he looks. Yeah, the muscles are nice. But for me, it’s how my body responds to him. It’s like he’s imprinted on me, and only his touch, his scent, the way he moves inside me??—?

STOP IT, LUCY.

Punching my pillow as hard as I can, I press my face into it so it will muffle my howl of frustration.

I can’t do this to myself.

I can’t fall in love with him all over again and have him disappear again.

As if. Stupid girl. You’ve already done it. You let him in again. So, what are you going to do about it? Shut everything down? Or give him another chance in the hope that things will end differently this time?

Isn’t that the definition of madness?

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been one week since my last confession. These are my si?—?” Something catches in the back of my throat, and I can’t get the word out. Or breathe.

“Are you all right, Lucy?”

Apparently Father Signorelli’s back. I made myself get out of bed this morning—after a restless night where my sex-starved imagination took that kiss from Ben and ran with it—thinking that maybe a session with the substitute priest would help me figure things out.

But now that I know that it’s Father Signorelli and he knows that I know that he knows it’s me, there’s no way I can spill myactualsins.

“I’m fine, Father,” I force out. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize, my dear. Please continue.”

But I can’t. I can’t tell this old man that I’ve spent the past few weeks lusting after the guy I lost my virginity to back when I was a wild teenager who only cared about satisfying her every selfish wish, whether that was sex, food, music or just running around outside in the rain. He believes the crap I’ve been selling since then, that I’m a dutiful daughter and model citizen and I always have been.

So I make some stuff up.

“These are my sins. I yelled at my brothers, I took the Lord’s name in vain and I—?” I scan my brain for something, anything that’s true. Best I can come up with: “And I lied.”

I’m lying right now, and I lie to Ben every moment I’m with him.

My heart’s slamming against the walls of my ribcage, wanting to call bullshit on all of it—even wishing Father would call me out and say,Lucy, I know you. I know you’re a selfish slut, and you’ll go to hell for it if you don’t truly confess.

But he doesn’t. He just continues with the rest of the rite. “Very well. For your penance, reflect on your sins as you do your rosary this week.”

That’s it?

Of course that’s it. That’s all he ever tells me to do.

“Give thanks to the Lord for He is good,” he says, sounding a little bored.

“For His mercy endures forever,” I say, wondering if I should have told him the truth just to spice up his day.

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