Page 22 of Forget About Me

Shaking myself out of a lust-induced haze, I notice the check sitting on the kitchen counter. From my porch I yell, “Lucy! You forgot your check!”

“Whoops.” She slaps her forehead, laughing, but by the time we’re within touching distance, her guard’s back up.

Willing myself to be patient with her, I hand over an envelope containing the check and two tickets toRomeo and Juliet. “Thanks, Lucy. I mean it.” Our eyes lock briefly, then she turns toward the corner of the garage and walks down the old path cutting through the neighbor’s backyard to her old house.

Either she still lives with her family, or she’s stopping by to say hello. I keep her in sight as I climb the stairs back up to my place, but she doesn’t turn back around. Not once.

“Ben! Look what I’ve got,” Lucy calls, waving something over her head. Problem is, from up on my apartment porch, I’ve got such a good view of her bouncing cleavage as she jogs down the path that I can’t look anywhere else.

Once she skips up the steps, I can’t get her inside fast enough, but before I can get my hands on her, she dodges away.

“Hang on, mister.” She dangles a cassette in front of my nose. “I stayed up half the night making this mixtape to get us in the mood.”

“You know just seeing you gets me in the mood. Just thinking about you.”

“Well, maybe it’s for me,” she says over her shoulder with a flirty smile. After sliding the tape into my boombox, hips swaying in anticipation, she pushes play and slowly turns to face me as“Do Your Thing” by Isaac Hayes starts up.

Then she begins do her thing.

My dick was hard before—but her grooving with the sensual music as she slowly peels away her clothes… I think I might explode. I hang on, though, because I know if I do, I’ll make her scream my name when I do my thing.

With her. Over and over again. All night long.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“He’s So Shy” - The Pointer Sisters

Lucy’s Keep on Truckin’ Mixtape, Song #4

LUCY

Back home after my first lesson with Ben, I sneak up the back stairs, avoiding my family. Without turning on any lights, I peer out my bedroom window and lean left until I can see the back of Ben’s apartment. In the early dark, with his lights on, I can see him moving around inside.

How is it that he’s been here half the summer, less than a hundred yards away, and I never noticed? I roll my forehead against the cool glass. How many times did I press my face to this very spot the summer I was eighteen, waiting for his lights to flick on and off, the signal that he was back in his apartment?

My fingertips go to my lips, a memory of the very last kiss we shared so present that I can’t believe I thought I’d erased it. He held me tight in the shadow of his garage, my lips desperate to hang onto the feel of him, and I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began. Then, like always, we had to break apart to pretend that we were just friends so he could walk me back down the well-worn path from his house to mine—the path originally created by Ben coming to our house to see Tony. I can still hear the creak of our back gate signaling Ben’s imminent arrival. A sound that disappeared after the accident, when Tony—when the two of them…

Squeezing my eyes shut, pressing my lips together, I refuse to give in to tears.

Despite these efforts, the ache of missing Ben is joined by the ache of missing my big brother. The unfairness of it all. Tony didn’t get to serve his country or even be a grownup before he was killed by that drunk driver. My mom and dad still keep track of that guy, but I don’t like to think about him. I don’t want to imagine him still alive, whether he’s in prison or not. If I let those thoughts in, I’ll drown—not just in sorrow, in rage. For all the losses that crash caused: my brother, my first love, even my parents, since they both disappeared, my mom into volunteering for Mothers Against Drunk Driving and my dad into work.

I eventually learned that the only way to keep my head above it all is to stay busy, keep my to-do lists full. There’s the everyday stuff of shopping and laundry and cooking. Tonight, I should get on Sal to write his college application essay and make sure Vinnie’s doing okay with his courses at the community college.

Which I’ll do as soon as I can disconnect from this windowpane. I just can’t seem to do that. Or let go of memories of life before the accident. Just seven years ago. I don’t even feel like the same person anymore. Ben’s different, too. Quieter, more subdued. He was always shy, but now he’s… weighed down.

Cindy’s tales about his life in California strain believability. He goes to Los Angeles and gets famous, then suddenly comes back to work for his dad? What could’ve happened to make that happen? I’m pretty sure I know what made him leave Arlington originally, although it’s a bit egotistical to assume that he left just to get away from me.

I eventually manage to push away from the window and pull the curtains closed, but instead of going in search of my brothers, I turn on a lamp, grab my bag and pull out the magazines I bought. Flopping onto my bed, I flip throughRolling Stoneuntil I find a photo of Ben. Tanned, taut muscles glisten above tight, low-slung white briefs. It looks like Ben and… not. It isn’t just the extra abdominal ridges or bulked-up biceps. His jaw’s harder, his eyes hooded. No goofy smile. This Ben is untouchable. Unapproachable.

TossingRolling Stoneaside, I pick upUs. In the celebrity news, there’s a picture of Ben in a tux on the arm of some actress. He’s smiling at the woman, but again, it isn’t the Ben I knew. It’s like Ben playing a role.

Maybe this is who he is now, though. Hard to tell from the handful of interactions we’ve had, during which, if I’m being honest, I’ve been so angry I can’t be sure I really saw him. Pretty sure I’ve been hanging on to my idea of the jerk who left me when I needed him most.

Do I still need him?My body screams that itwantshim every time I get within arm’s length. My eyes back on the magazine pages, I wonder if the sweet, funny boy I knew even exists anymore.

Enough mooning, Lucy. This is ridiculous. Chucking the magazine across the room, I can’t believe I agreed to train his dog. Even charging him more than I thought he’d ever pay, it isn’t worth having to spend time with him. I’ll either find out that he has indeed become a self-involved jerk or that he is the same guy but isn’t mine anymore.

Plus, if he wanted to see me, wouldn’t he have contacted me when he moved back to town?

---