Page 28 of Don't Forget Me
Like her.
And it worked. Mostly.
But the stack of pages she’d hid from him burned into the skin of her back.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he growled.
Her brow creased. “And why is that? It’s the best room in the entire house.” The only one that made her feel like home.
He crossed his arms, looking from her to the desk and back. “My business manager is supposed to keep this door locked.”
“We’re in some dream world, Nick. I don’t think anything is locked.” She tried to walk by him, but he gripped her arm.
“This. Room. Is. Off. Limits.”
She ripped her arm from his grasp. “You can’t control where I go. This is my house too.”
“Was. It was your house. You sold it, remember?”
She’d never forget. “There is a reason I’m here, Nick.” She bit off his name like a curse as she shoved him out of her way and marched to the door. “You’re welcome for breakfast, by the way.”
Her lungs gasped for air by the time she made it to her room and shut the door, leaning back against it for just a moment.
Pushing away from the solid wood, she pulled out the screenplay and tossed it onto the bed. It had obviously been hidden for a reason. If Nick just kept the screenplays sent to him, there’d have been more.
And she couldn’t remember this movie ever being made. She wouldn’t admit it, but she knew every single one of his movies.
There was no Don’t Forget Me.
Did she have a right to read it? Something made her take it, but to invade his privacy by reading it was something else entirely. Maybe it revealed things about him he didn’t want anyone to know.
Maybe he was a bigot.
Or hated puppies.
“Don’t forget me,” she whispered. Maybe it went deeper than puppies, some other secret.
But who was this Stephen?
And why did Elizabeth feel like that question was just as important as the content in the pages?
“I can’t.” She shook her head. It wasn’t right.
Picking up the screenplay, she walked to the closet to hide her thievery among the teen clothing. When she emerged, she realized she needed to do something with the pent-up angst inside of her.
The worry.
The fears.
And the best way she knew how… writing. Not books or blog posts. Letters. She’d started it when she had cancer, writing letters every day that Evie and Owen would get if she didn’t make it.
This was no different, except that the kids wouldn’t receive these. The ritual was for her.
Retrieving a notebook and pen from the desk in the corner of her room, she laughed when she saw the boy band gracing the cover. She really had been obsessed as a kid.
Sitting back on the bed, she closed her eyes, picturing two little faces. Even without her, Evelyn and Owen would have a happy childhood. Her dad would see to it.
But she’d be lying if she said the thought of not seeing that childhood didn’t terrify her.
