Page 78 of Forget Me

“Now, go sleep,” he said, pushing me toward the guesthouse. I hadn’t noticed that he’d led me back to it.

“Thanks.” I pulled him into a hug, and Coco, as usual, danced at our feet.

“Anytime. You’re a good guy, Mateo.”

Inside my house, I fed Roger then collapsed onto my bed for a few hours’ sleep. When I woke, I still had dark circles under my eyes, but I had enough energy to optimistically pack an overnight bag, ensure Roger had enough food for the next twenty-four hours and no access to toilet paper, and get back in my car. I headed toward the Excelsior.

* * *

A little aftersix that night, I pressed the buzzer at Mimi’s building, a sack of takeout in one hand and a garment bag in the other.

A wave of gratitude washed through me when she answered. I couldn’t tell through the tinny speaker if her monotone meant she was reluctant to let me up or perhaps only tired, but she buzzed me in, and that was what mattered.

When I walked into her apartment, she leaned against the counter in her neat kitchen. All I wanted to do was lift her up onto it the way I had on Sunday night and taste her again, but that would have to wait. She needed other types of care first.

“Hey,” I said, kissing her cheek before I set the food on the counter. “I brought you dinner.”

“And a change of clothes?” She lifted one dark eyebrow at my garment bag. “That’s bold.”

“This?” I grinned. “This is for you.”

“For me?”

“Did you have lunch today?”

“I did.” Her stomach growled. “Well, if you count a fun-size pack of M&Ms and a hundred-calorie bag of almonds from the vending machine as lunch.”

I shook my head. If she’d let me, I’d get up early and pack her a nutritious lunch every day. “We’ll look at what I brought later. First, we eat. Do you like Thai food?”

Her stomach rumbled again. “Yes, please.”

I laid the garment bag across her sofa, then we washed our hands and set the food on her kitchen table.

She was quiet while we ate. I watched her, trying to figure out if she focused on the food because she was starving or tired or because she was planning how to snip me out of her life like a wasteful expense.

A dozen times during dinner, I opened my mouth to ask her what she was feeling, what she’d been thinking, to try to crack her open and see the emotions she kept hidden so well. But each time, I chickened out. I wasn’t ready to hear it if she’d decided we were done. Not yet. Not until I’d shown her what else I’d brought her.

After we filled our bellies, I set the leftovers in her fridge for her lunch tomorrow.

“Are you ready to see what’s in the garment bag?” I asked, leading her into the living room.

“Okay.” Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright from the meal we’d eaten. Still, she eyed the bag with trepidation.

One summer, I’d worked in my tío José María’s tailor shop. I remembered how dress sizing worked, and I’d reproduced Mimi’s measurements from the memories of how my hands splayed across her body on Sunday night. Still, my fingers trembled as I unzipped the bag. She wore mostly black and gray, and her clothes tended to conceal rather than accentuate her curvy figure. What I’d brought was well outside her usual wardrobe. If she gave it a chance, if she gave me a chance, I was certain she’d look stunning.

I pulled out the first dress, an iridescent blue-violet tulle confection.

“What’s this?” She curled her lip.

“For the gala. You have to try it on.”

“Have to?” She raised an eyebrow. “It’s not my style.”

“Try it.” I held it out to her. “For me.”

She hesitated for a few seconds. At last, she rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

Grabbing the hanger, she flounced to her bedroom and shut the door.

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