Page 65 of Forget About Me

LUCY

“Do you go to church, Roxy?”

I’m sifting through dresses on a rack in Roxy’s store, looking for something to wear to the fancy restaurant Ben’s taking me to. I was going to just wear a church dress, but after my second client canceled this afternoon, I somehow ended up here.

That red dress upended my world. In a good way, I think. Maybe there’s another one that’ll help me figure out what’s next. Or at the least, make Ben proud to be out with me if a photographer catches us.

“I do go to church, darlin’. Do you?” She’s working through the other side of the rack, methodically considering each dress by pulling it, turning her head one way then the other and then either holding it out to me, or shaking her head and returning it to its spot.

I continue with my own more impulsive survey as I answer. “I do, or I did. I mean, I was raised Catholic, so I went with my family every Sunday growing up whether I wanted to or not. Lately, I’m having some doubts. What religion are you?”

She holds up a green dress, similar in shape to the red one I wore to the party.

“The dress religion?” I tease.

She starts to shake her head, but it turns into a slow nod. “Well, yes, fashion is a kind of religion for me.” She looks at the dress, then back at me. “I don’t think this green is for you.” She hangs it back up carefully, creating space between garments and smoothing the fabric. “I was raised Baptist, but I don’t follow any particular religion these days. My church right now is just about a preacher and a community that makes my soul sing.” She studies another fifties-era dress before sliding it along the rack, shaking her head. “You’re going to dinner. You don’t want to be all pinched in at the waist.” She swirls her hand in the air like she’s whisking away a fly. “I’m going to the forties section.”

As I continue to push dresses along the rack, I mull over her words. To me, church has always been the place where you go to get that slap on the wrist, the reminder that you’re a sinner and you have to work hard to keep that in check. Where you contemplate all the things you did wrong that week and beg for forgiveness. I don’t think my soul has ever sung anything there.

I haven’t been to church in a couple weeks, and I don’t miss feeling like I’m always on the verge of fucking up.

Yes, fucking up. That’s what I said, God.

Do you really care if I swear? Do you care at all about anything we do down here?

Instead of begging for forgiveness from Father Signorelli, I’m going with Father Krausnick’s words, which honestly make more sense to me.It’s a sin to ignore the gifts he’s blessed us with. It’s a sin to forgo the simple joys of life. And it’s a sin to deny love.

Working with Ben and Puck has allowed me to see that I have a gift. The publicity from the interview is allowing me to share that gift with others.

I’ve certainly enjoyed more simple joys lately, if sex counts. I mean, why shouldn’t it? His kiss is like heaven, after all.

And love? How can I deny my love for Ben? Or even my family’s love? By playing the Cinderella role, I’ve been atoning for my sins. But I think I’ve also been trying to keep everyone safe—including myself—by keeping us all close. But like Ben said, it’s a normal part of life for kids to leave the nest.

“Lucy?” Roxy’s voice breaks into my thoughts.

Across the shop, a dark blue something shimmers on its hanger as she dances it in the air. “I have found your dress.”

Roxy’s smile, the joy in it?That’swhat life is about.

Thank God for that substitute priest.

BEN

Tuesday night, standing on the Minolas’ doorstep, I have to make myself press the doorbell. I starved myself all day so I can actually eat dinner tonight, but the tightness in my gut has more to do with the fact that the last time I stood here, I was on crutches and Tony’s wake was on the other side of the door.

Shaking that off, I focus on tonight’s plan. I’m taking Lucy out for our first real date. My leg isn’t broken and neither is my heart. Checking the curb, where the town car and driver I’ve hired for the evening wait, I remind myself that she, at least, deserves a night to remember. My dad’s delivery van would not have worked for a romantic evening, and having a driver will allow us to enjoy the fine wines L’Espalier is known for. I owe Randall big-time for this. He waits tables at another fancy place and somehow used that connection to score a last-minute reservation at the award-winning restaurant.

I don’t hear any movement on the other side of the door, so I’m about to try knocking when Mrs. Minola flings it open. “Ben! Don’t you look nice all dressed up.”

“Sofia, let the boy come in and stop letting all the warm air out.” Mr. Minola reaches around her and extends a hand. “Good to see you, young man.”

“Good to see you too, Mr. Minola.” His warm handshake eases my anxiety a bit. Once I’m in the foyer, my hand goes to the worn newel post, which I grabbed hundreds of times as a kid as I flew down these stairs on the heels of my best friend.

Mrs. Minola whaps me on the upper arm. “What? I don’t get a hug? You’re too famous for that now?”

Her expressive face tells me a complicated story: a bit of Minola fire, some hurt, but mostly love. Demanding, expectant maternal love. Love I never really knew until I met her. As a kid watching Tony and Lucy with her, I ached for the kind of attention they were already ducking. One day, after a ball game where I’d made a bunch of stupid errors, she turned it on me full force, squeezing me tight and telling me it was okay, I’d do better next time.

Until this moment, I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed her. It isn’t just Lucy I love, but this whole family.

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