Page 42 of Forget About Me

I’m rooted to the spot, watching Ben punish himself with this workout.

It’s intoxicating. Maybe this is why he’s so successful as a model. He’s not only sculpted his body to perfection, but there’s something in his pain that’s mesmerizing.

Why is he doing this? What exactly is he punishing himself for? And what is wrong with me that I’m turned on by it?

This time when he finishes a round with the weights, he turns toward the window. Panicked, I shrink back onto the steps, and before I know it, I’m halfway down the driveway, my face hot with shame.

The next night, it’s way past my bedtime by the time I pull into my driveway. Play rehearsals go until ten, but afterward Ben walked me to my car, asking questions about training that I know he knows the answer to. But that was it. No attempt to kiss me again. Things are just awkward between us.

He’s a lonely guy and needs a friend.

I wish I were strong enough to be his friend without wanting to be skin to skin with him. To hang onto this good girl armor I’ve welded around myself.

It probably doesn’t help that I spend every night staring at pictures of him while my fingers find their way to places previously so neglected there were likely cobwebs in the corners… which gives me about thirty seconds of pleasure followed by a few hours of guilt.

After I lock the back door, I check the state of the kitchen. Looks like my brothers and my dad put their dishes in the dishwasher, but they left a pot soaking in the sink and random items on the counter. Do they not see them, or do they think it makes me feel needed to have something to clean when I get home? I take care of it all and put plastic wrap over the leftovers they just shoved into the fridge.

Maybe they’re right, whether it’s intentional or not. Maybe if I spend enough time cleaning, I’ll be so tired when I go to bed that I’ll be able to stay away from the magazines. I start the dishwasher, set up the coffeemaker for the morning and wipe down the counters, adding items to the grocery list as I go. I move a load from the washing machine to the dryer and straighten up the mud room.

Finally, a yawn hits. I head for the stairs, but a light in the den catches my eye. When I reach in to turn it off, I have to suppress a scream. It takes a moment for me to recognize my mother sprawled on the couch. I’ve never seen her so… horizontal. Slumped back into the cushions, stockinged feet up on the coffee table, her forearm over her eyes—she doesn’t look like herself.

“Mama, are you okay?” I whisper.

She lifts her arm to squint at me. “Oh, Lucy. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Not only does her voice sound like she swallowed a handful of gravel, she didn’t answer my question. I hover in the doorway, not sure if I should join her or leave her in peace. “You’re back early from Texas.”

Her travel schedule has been brutal lately. She sits up, moving a bit stiffly, but she smiles. “I was able to catch an earlier flight.”

“You should go to bed. You look tired.”

“I should.” She nods but remains seated, her hands spread wide on the cushions.

“Do you want some tea?”

“No, I’m fine.” She pats the couch next to her. “Come sit with me. I want to hear about you. What’s new in your world?”

I’m not ready to share what’s going on in my Ben’s-back-in-town-and-I’m-a-mess world, but I kick off my shoes and flop onto the couch. I sit facing my mom, a knee bent and my palm keeping my head aloft. Turning my focus on her is much easier than talking about myself, and maybe I can learn something from her that will help me deal with what Ben is stirring up. She mobilized her grief by helping to create Project Red Ribbon for MADD. They encourage drivers to tie a red ribbon on their vehicles from Thanksgiving to New Year’s Eve as a pledge to always use what they’re calling adesignated driver, basically a person in each crowd who doesn’t drink so his friends can.

“Is everything in place for the campaign?” I ask before she can start in on me.

“Yes. It goes almost like clockwork now. And with Wyoming raising their drinking age in March, we finally have every state in line—no teenager can drink legally anywhere in the country. We can now start collecting data, and I know the results will prove that it makes a difference.” She leans back into the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling. “But the families of victims from that horrible crash in Kentucky spoke at our meeting—the one where twenty-seven people were killed on a school bus? Seems like every time we have a win, we get clobbered again.”

I scoot over to lean against her shoulder, snaking an arm around her narrowing waist. “You’re doing good work, Mama. You’re saving lives. Tony would be proud.”

Her ribcage expands as she takes in a breath. She holds it for a bit before the air whooshes out again. “I hope so,” she finally says.

We snuggle together in silence, and I just melt into my mom’s warmth. I can’t remember the last time we were this close—that I’ve been this close to anyone who wasn’t covered in fur.

“So, are you still seeing Ben?”

I choke out a cough. Even when she’s rarely home, my mom always knows what’s going on. “Uh, yeah? He’s paying me to train his dog for a Shakespeare play. It’s been kind of fun, actually. The director likes what we’re doing.”

Giddiness swirls in my belly, and it’s not just about Ben. “They’re going to put an ad for me in the program, and I might be in the paper Sunday.”

Her head snaps in my direction. “The paper? What for?”

She looks like she used to when we’d chat after school. The glow of her attention feeds me in a way I’ve forgotten to hunger for. “Well, the PR lady from the theater got theGlobeto do an article on the dog in the play and the training process. We also talked about animal rescue. It was pretty cool.”

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