Page 50 of Forget About Me

The last seven years have proven that I can live without the love of my life.

I just don’t want to.

When I open the door late Wednesday night, I’m surprised to find a soaking wet Lucy on my front porch. From the look on her face, it’s not just rain dampening her cheeks. Dread ticks away in my brain. Worry turns to panic when she covers her face and moans.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I left the house, and somehow I ended up here.”

I’m not sure how long we stand there just staring at each other but before I can move or say anything, she drops her hands, her eyes avoid mine and her tone flattens as she says, “You know what, I’ll be fine. I’m sorry I bothered you. I can’t believe I came over here to cry at you like I used to. I’m sure I was enough of a bother when I was twelve.”

My stalled brain finally clicks into gear. “Wait—Lucy, don’t leave.” I manage to catch her hand, but she shakes her head, eyes on the ground. I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “Come in. Please? You weren’t a bother then and you aren’t now.”

After a long moment, she allows me to pull her inside.

“What happened?”

She shrugs up a shoulder to wipe her nose. “Ugh. Do you have a tissue? And maybe a towel?”

“Of course. Hang on.” I jog to the bathroom, and grab a couple towels, start to pull off some toilet paper, then just grab the whole roll. I hand everything over to her and steer her toward the living room area. “Sit down for a minute, okay? I’ll get you some water.”

When I return, she’s perched on one end of the couch with a towel around her shoulders. Even though I hate that she’s upset, I’m glad she’s here. That despite everything, she still trusts me.

Setting the glass on the coffee table, I sit on the couch, not too close. “Is everyone okay?”

Finally, she looks me in the eyes. “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry. No one’s hurt or anything. It’s not that kind of thing.” Her breath hitches as if the tears want to start up again. “It’s”—she blows out a controlled breath—“Thanksgiving.”

Guilt closes around my throat like a too-tight collar. I don’t know what I could say that would be of comfort, even if I could speak.

“Sal and Vinnie ambushed me when I got home tonight. They’re both dating girls now. Pretty serious, I guess.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know how I didn’t notice. It’s been over a year for both of them.”

“Jesus. Aren’t they like twelve?”

She chokes out a laugh. “We don’t keep them in a deep freeze. Vinnie’s nineteen, Sal is seventeen.”

“Wow. All grown up.”

“Yeah, a little too grown up.”

Her lips press together, but a tear stubbornly rolls down her cheek. I’m aching to pull her onto my lap and kiss it away.

She grabs more toilet paper.

I sit on my hands.

She blows her nose. “They’ve been invited to go away with their girlfriends’ families—one to Vermont, the other out to the Berkshires—for the Thanksgiving holiday.” She tosses the wad of toilet paper onto the coffee table. “You know, the kind where people actually celebrate what they’re thankful for and drink and play football and go for romantic walks in the snow?”

“Yeah, I think that only happens in movies.”

“Well, they want to enjoy it like the rest of America instead of eating pasta and trying not to cry, which is my family’s tradition.” She grabs another wad of toilet paper and starts to shred it. “The thing is, I don’t blame them. I’d leave too, but—?” The pain in her voice has that dagger slicing from my heart down to my gut. “But I’m worried about my parents. It’s the worst day of the year for them. They need us around them. But we have to move on someday, right? I just don’t know… I don’t know how.”

I can’t just sit here and watch her cry, so I scoot a hair closer and open my arms wide. She hesitates for what feels like a century before falling sideways into my embrace. Her shoulders shake. I rest my cheek on the top of her head. I don’t know what to say, but I can hold her.

Eventually the sobs ebb, and she slumps into me. She mumbles something into my sweater. I don’t want to let go, so I whisper into her hair. “Did you say something?”

She rubs her forehead against my chest and speaks just loud enough that I get it this time. “We just threw it all away.”

“What?” I shift and nestle her into my side but keep my voice low. “What did you throw away?”

“Thanksgiving.” Her breath hitches and she rolls her head to look at the ceiling. “The food. Pies my mom baked that day. Sweet potatoes she whipped for the casserole, beans she steamed, bread she cubed for stuffing. A whole half-cooked turkey. We just threw it all in the garbage. She’s never made any of those things again. I don’t blame her, but it’s so hard this time of year. Turkeys go on sale and recipes are in the paper and it all just screams, ‘Your brother died, and it’s all your fault!’”

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