Page 55 of Forget About Me

“How are things going with the play practices, Lucy?”

I’m inhaling my lunch—a mushroom calzone left over from last night’s dinner—while Cindy picks at her healthy-looking salad. No wonder she looks like a bird. She eats like one.

I put down my fork to take a breath and answer her. “Oh, I’m finished with those. They don’t need me anymore.”

What I’m not about to admit, even to myself? That I miss seeing Ben and bossing him around every day. Not that I have an extra second in my schedule. Since the article in the paper landed, I’ve raced out of here at the end of every shift to drive around the city and train dogs and their people. Then I slog back home through rush-hour traffic to make dinner, clean up and nag my brothers about homework before collapsing into bed. Then I wake at the crack of dawn to do it all over again.

So I’ve been busy, but the time in the car is primetime for obsessing over Ben. It’s not just the billboards. I’ve been listening to an unapologetically sexy mixtape that I made for us way back when, making me wonder if it would really be so bad to resurrect that part of me—that naughty girl.

“Are you going to the play?” Cindy asks.

Suddenly, my appetite’s gone. I wrap up the remains of the calzone and chuck it in the trash. “I probably should. Opening night’s tomorrow with a party afterward.” Just the thought of having to watch Ben surrounded by gorgeous women at a party turns my stomach. “I’m not sure if I want to go.”

Cindy drops her fork and her jaw. “Why the hell not?”

I go the sink to wash my greasy hands and get away from her scrutiny. “I don’t have anything to wear. And I have to work the next day.”

“Who gives a shit? You have a chance to dress up and hang out with a bunch of hot actors, includingBen Porter, and you’re not going because you don’t have anything to wear?”

I try to pull a paper towel from the dispenser, but it’s jammed again, so I have to pry one out. And that’s why my voice is strained, not because I’m conflicted about Ben. “Cindy, I don’t really know those people. Plus, it’s Shakespeare. I mean, the dog scenes are pretty funny, but the rest is probably boring.”

She hustles over to get in my face. “Are you insane?” she asks, like I just picked up a bunch of sharps from the hazardous waste box and started juggling them.

Ignoring her, I use the paper towel I worked so hard for to wipe down the counter around the sink. “Cindy, I have to do the early shift here the next morning. Just the thought of it makes me tired.”

Cindy plants her palms on the countertop, drops her head and takes a deep breath before standing as tall as her five-foot frame allows. “It is time for an intervention. You, Luciana Maria Minola, have officially become an old woman at the ripe old age of… how old did you say you were again? Thirty?”

Why does she keep saying that?“I’m twenty-five.”

“Well, you act like you’re fifty-five.” Sharp elbows make pointy triangles at her sides. “You’re coming with me.”

“But I?—?”

Before I can list the things I need to do, she’s dragged me outside. Cindy is surprisingly strong. “No buts, no excuses, no questions. We’re outta here.”

Moments later, we’re screeching down the back streets of Somerville in a little car that only someone as tiny as Cindy would drive. On our way out, she told Deanna we had a wardrobe emergency and we’d be taking a long lunch. Deanna hadn’t blinked, just waved us on. We did have a surgery cancel this afternoon, so I feel slightly less guilty about bugging out in the middle of a workday.

Is Cindy right? Have I become an old cat lady without the cats?

I can’t remember the last time I did anything just for fun or anything even a little bit naughty. If you don’t include kissing Ben Porter.

How long will it be before I’ve done enough penance to atone for my selfishness the day Tony died?

How will I know?

Cindy knocks on the car window, startling me. “Lucy!” She opens my door and flaps her hand. “We’re here. C’mon.”

“Okay, okay. Hold your horses.”

The second I’m out of the car, she slams the door shut and pushes me toward a gnarly-looking building.

Eyeing the heavily graffitied door and rusty metal stairway, I ask, “What is this place?”

Cindy clasps her hands to her heart like we’ve reached the end of the rainbow. “Heaven. It just looks like hell back here. This isn’t the customer entrance, but Roxy doesn’t mind if I park back here.” She giggles as she skips up the stairs and wrenches the creaky door open. “I’m a regular.”

Once we’re inside she bellows, “Roxy, I’ve got a fashion emergency! Do you still have that red dress?”

I follow her down a narrow hallway lined with racks of plastic-sheathed clothing and neatly stacked boxes. The heavy scent of incense doesn’t quite cover the mustiness I usually associate with a thrift store. I’m not a fan of shopping of any kind—except for groceries—but the idea of wearing something that’s been between the folds of someone else’s skin creeps me out big time.

---