Page 45 of Forget About Me

Becky looks over the schedule. “I think Nick wants you to stay, but you can take a break. It’ll be at least another forty-five minutes until we need you.”

Out in the parking lot, I button up my coat as I take in the crisp autumn air, catching the scent of wood smoke. Somebody has a fire going. An image of myself cozied up in front of a hearth with Lucy is quickly replaced by one of a car engulfed in flames. Shaking them both off, I tug on Puck’s leash. “Let’s go, boy.”

As soon as we’re no longer performing, life comes crashing back in. I’m going to have to face Lucy with the full truth. If I don’t, it’ll never let me go.

LUCY

Just as I’m turning the bacon Saturday morning, there’s a soft knock at the back door. Weird. When I peer through the curtains, there’s a sweaty Ben on the stoop.

I open the door, and he holds up a newspaper. “This was in the driveway when I got back from my run, and I wanted to make sure you saw the article.”

The scent of smoking bacon drags my attention away from the sight of his chest in a super tight tee shirt. Not an easy task. “Hang on, I’m burning breakfast.”

Scooting over to the stove, I use the few minutes it takes to rescue the bacon and butter some toast to rein in my libido. He doesn’t move from the doorstep. “You can come in. Nobody else is up.”

He wipes his feet carefully and steps just inside the door. “It’s not that I don’t want to see your family. It’s just weird.” He looks around the room. “Your kitchen looks exactly the same.”

“Yeah, redecorating’s not a big priority around here. Breakfast, on the other hand, is at the top of everybody’s list.” I swoop the plate of bacon under Ben’s nose. “Don’t you wish you could have some?”

He groans. “Stop. You’re killing me. I miss bacon so much.”

I waggle a piece in front of his nose. “Come on. Just have one. All the kids are doing it.”

He slaps his hands to his face and squirms. “Peer pressure doesn’t work on me. I watched all the after-school specials.”

I hold up the bacon and point at his midsection with the spatula. Using a deep, announcer-like voice, I say, “This is your belly.” I point at my stomach. “This is your belly on bacon.”

Ben shakes his head but he’s laughing. “You oughtta take that act on the road.”

“Maybe I will.”

I do miss this goofy guy. I miss our shared weird jokes. I miss a lot of things. However, kidding around is one thing, but the other stuff we shared? He was right when he argued that it was wrong the first time around. Steering my naughty body away from him, I grab a bowl and start cracking eggs into it. “Read me the article so I can keep cooking. Two large, half-grown males will be here any minute demanding to be fed.”

“Okay, but you have to see this first.”

Is he going to take off his shirt so I can see those muscles up close and personal?Oh, Lucy, you need to go back to confession.I turn, only the teeniest bit hopeful that’s what he wants to show me. Sadly, he holds up the front page of the Living section. A large picture of Ben, Puck and me fills the space above the fold.

“Yuck. That’s a terrible picture of me.”

“No, it’s not. You look great.” He turns it around. “I really look different with a beard, huh?”

“Youlook great. I look”—I shudder—“I just don’t like seeing myself like that.” I shake my head and get back to the eggs.

“You get used to it.”

I catch his eye and can’t help but mirror his grin. “Right. Those agents are gonna be knocking down my door begging me to sign a modeling contract.”

He shrugs. “You never know. It wasn’t something I ever thought would happen to me. Anyway, I don’t think you’ll mind what Marcia wrote. I had my doubts that she’d focus on the rescue angle, but she covered everything you talked about.”

With a quick glance over at him, I pull out another frying pan. Is he angry that I got all the focus? It’s hard to tell because he switches to an actor voice to read the article, which is so long I’ve finished scrambling the eggs, slicing fruit and pouring orange juice by the time he’s done.

I pop plates into the oven to keep things warm and hold up the carafe of coffee. “You sure you don’t want anything? Coffee? Water?”

“I’d take a glass of ice water.”

It’s weird asking him these things. When we were kids, he just grabbed what he wanted like the rest of us did. I fill a glass for him, and he leans against the counter to drink it. After refilling my coffee, I stand next to him to look over the article. My nerve endings are abuzz, and I don’t think it’s just the caffeine. “This is great. She pretty much wrote everything I said.”

He sets down his empty glass. “Not so much about the play, though.”

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