Forget (22 page)

She smirks, catching her breath, post fake climax. “Please, tell me, you’re not dropping a deuce.”

I roll my eyes. “Now,
that
would have been a better choice of words to scare people off. And seriously, Lindsay? Even if I had to shit, you can guarantee I’d be holding it or finding a way to make a quick exit.
No one
wants to be the Party Shitter. I’d risk constipation to avoid that label.”

“Good point. That’s a label you can’t undo until everyone is blitzed, and even then, it might stick depending what havoc you wreaked inside the bathroom.” She moves towards the sink, rummaging through her clutch. I take the opportunity to finish up, sans creepy eyes trying to decipher which type of wiper I am.

“Jesus, I swear you just peed for like fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks for the play by play.” I turn on the faucet, washing my hands with Claire’s designer hand soap.

Lindsay is fussing with her hair in the mirror. “Why does Dylan call you Little Wing?” she asks, blinking up to my reflection. “Seriously, what exactly is going on with you two? It all seems a little more than . . . how did you put it . . .
friendly.
” She uses air quotes with one hand, re-applying her lip gloss with the other.

“Linds, I—I don’t even know where to start . . .” I sigh, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye.

She shoves everything back into her clutch—it’s Prada by the way—and turns towards me. “Generally, the beginning is a good place to start, darling.” Lindsay’s the picture of impatience—arms crossed, foot tapping, and hip resting against the bay of his-and-her sinks.

“He’s kind of amazing . . . Gives the best compliments . . . says all the right things . . .” I’m pretty much word vomiting all over the bathroom, giving her the highlight reel of Dylan and me.

“ . . . The nickname is from a Jimi Hendrix song . . . Musically, I’ve never been so in-tune with someone . . . We’ve kissed a few times . . . God, he has the best lips . . . He’s like this sexy mix of alpha male and sweetest guy on the planet, like Jim Halpert from
The Office
mixed with the Daniel Craig version of James Bond. . . . Hell, maybe he’s not real, maybe I’ve gone crazy, and Dylan is just some mythical creature I’ve created in my brain.”

She pinches my forearm hard enough to bruise.

“Ow!” It smarts like a mother fucker. “What was that for?” I ask, holding my arm.

“It’s real, darling. He’s not a figment of your imagination. He’s real, unbelievably gorgeous, and for the love of all that’s horny, if his English accent wasn’t enough, I think I came just hearing him speak French tonight. So, just to make sure I have all the details right, you’ve had a handful of make out sessions, felt his forearm-sized cock against your leg, and dry humped him—”

Holding up a hand, I cut her off. “Slow your roll, Susie. I never said anything about the size of his cock.”

“I know you didn’t give exact measurements, but the way your cheeks blushed when I asked about the size of his dick was answer enough. Don’t deny it, Brooke. The boy is hung.”

“You act like you’re talking to someone who actually has enough experience to judge!” In the “how many dicks have I seen in person department,” I could literally count on one hand.

“When you felt him grinding against you, did you think,
Oh, there’s his dick,
or did you think,
Holy mother fucking shit, what kind of horse cock is this guy packing inside his pants?
”

I laugh because who wouldn’t laugh at that explanation. “I’m not even humoring you with a response.”

“My advice, bang that half-French, half-English boy’s brains out.”

“I barely know him, Lindsay. I’m not like you. I don’t bang right off the bat.”

She flashes a questioning look.

“Look, I’m not judging. Having one-night stands is fine. Honestly, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just not me.”

“This has nothing to do with being a one-night stand kind of girl and everything to do with a certain someone who lives in L.A. You need to stop worrying about him, Brooke. He’s not here.
You’re
here. And
Dylan’s
here. You need to let go. Do this for you.”

“I can’t do that that to Jamie. I’ve known him my whole life.” A part of me thinks if I had the chance to talk to Jamie about the way I’m feeling, he would understand, and I wouldn’t feel so fucking guilty.

“Yeah, he knew you his whole life, too, when we flew to L.A. a day early for spring break and found him in bed with not one, but two women.” Her venomous tone stings.

My jaw drops in utter shock. I can’t believe she brought that up.

“Look, I’m not trying to upset you or tell you what to do. But I don’t want you to regret not giving something a chance that deserves a chance. This crazy chemistry between you and Dylan is amazing. The way he looks at you tells me that it wouldn’t be one-night-stand kind of sex. It’d be straight-up, missionary, solid eye contact, and sweet nothings whispered into your ear,
Little Wing.
” She grins at me, trying to soften that punch to the gut she just threw a minute ago.

“Do yourself a favor and just forget about the random questions and worries and concerns running through your head. Let go of all the bullshit, and take some advice from Millie,
live in the moment.
” She pulls me in for a tight hug, whispering into my ear, “And darling, right now, Dylan is your moment. The feeling between you two is very much mutual.”

Her serious tone takes me by surprise. I let her words soak in, busying myself with taming down my hair. Lindsay shoves everything back into her clutch and moves towards the door. “I’ll give you a minute,” she says, leaving the bathroom.

I rest my hip against the sink, running my index finger across my bottom lip. The lemon-scented hand soap is still fresh on my skin, reminding me of Millie. She would be so proud of Lindsay’s little pep talk. And my best friend is right. Mille would want me to live in the moment. She’d want me to enjoy all of the little things. She’d want me to give Dylan a chance.

It’s the little things, Lilah Belle,
Millie’s voice whispers into my ear.

My mind pulls a memory out of storage. I’m ten and sitting on my grandmother’s bed. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I cried over harsh words that were said, by a girl I considered my best friend. My grandmother sat me down in her favorite rocking chair and brushed my hair. She had this innate way about her, always knowing when it was the right time to listen, and when it was the right time to bestow her wisdom.

“I know it feels like this is the worst pain you’ll ever feel, but I promise, years from now those words that broke your heart, won’t seem as big or powerful as they do right now.” She said, smiling softly at me through her vanity mirror.

I huffed out an exasperated sigh. “I’m never going to forget what she said to me, Millie. I’m never going to forgive Sara for being so mean.” My ten-year-old brain was convinced that I’d never go through something as terrible as overhearing my best friend talking behind my back.

Millie didn’t laugh at my overreaction, she just listened, and acknowledged that my feelings were valid, and told me it was okay to cry. Once my tears slowed, and my breaths evened out, my wise grandmother pulled me straight out of my negative mindset. “Remember that time I caught you and Ember holed up in your bedroom with all of my makeup?”

I nodded. My sister and I were inspired to give each other makeovers after watching a Full House episode where D.J. and Kimmy try their hand at makeup.

“I found Ember with a face-full of rouge lipstick, and you with enough pink eyeshadow to see you through college.”

“We ruined your makeup,” I admitted, face mimicking the guilt I felt.

“Did I yell at you two?”

I shook my head.

“Did I get really mad that you destroyed a heck of a lot of really expensive makeup?”

I thought back on that day, still surprised that Millie didn’t punish us for what we did. “No,” I answer.

“You want to know why I didn’t ground your cute little asses?” she grinned.

I nodded again.

“When you’re an old woman like me, with a lot of life experiences under her belt, you learn that most of our problems aren’t as big as they seem. We need to live in the moment and focus on the little things in our lives that make us happy. The little things, like the fact that you girls couldn’t have been any cuter with makeup smeared all over your tiny faces. I couldn’t help but laugh when I found you . . .” she paused, laughing softly.

“The cost to replace the makeup wasn’t a big deal because I enjoyed the little things about that day. Because in the end, Lilah Belle, when we look back on our lives, we’ll realize it’s those little things that are actually the big things.”

I blink back the memories, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

I’m here, in Paris, and there’s a world of possibilities. I can spend the next three weeks in this city being scared and hesitant, and my typical rational self
or
I can be spontaneous. I can live in the moment, and not worry about anything, besides enjoying all of the little things that make up the awesome opportunity that is experiencing Paris.

I don’t have to pretend anything.

I can just do whatever feels right.

It’s well past midnight and the party bustles. Drinks flow. Music thumps against the walls. People are all around us, but Dylan and I are in our own little bubble, talking in a quiet corner of the living room.

His eyes are emerald green tonight. I think he’s talking about a meeting today.

My gaze makes the circuit from his eyes to his mouth for the umpteenth time.

Or maybe he’s telling me something about his band?

I watch his lips move, forming words that I can’t process.

For all I know, he’s telling me how to solve world peace, but I can’t stop looking at his mouth. His lips are this contradicting combination of firm yet soft, tender yet sinful. I want to know what that mouth feels like again. I want to feel his tongue licking across my heated skin.

I want . . . I want . . . I want . . .

He grabs the empty glass from my hand, startling me. “Would you like another?”

I shake my head. I’m already feeling buzzed, and I don’t think alcohol is to blame.

“What’s on your mind, love?” he asks, running a thumb along my cheek.

I grab his hand. “Do you mind if we go somewhere that’s not so loud?” I pull him down a dark hallway without waiting for a response, and through a door that leads to an expansive terrace.

The Champs-Elysees is right across the street from where we stand. Streetlights brighten the ground below us. The moon is a night-light in the dark sky. It’s an incredible view, but it’s not the reason for the quickening of my pulse. We’re alone, and the only thing filling the silence is the faint sound of cars driving past.

I walk towards the far end of the terrace, resting my back against the brick wall behind me. Dylan leans against the railing, looking out into the distance. My lungs slowly inhale, breathing in courage to seize the moment. “What do you love most about playing on stage?”

Dylan’s back straightens. He turns around to face me. “The rush,” he says without even thinking. “It’s the most incredible feeling, being on stage, singing in front of a crowd. What about you? What do you love most about music?” he asks, closing the distance between us.

“Getting lost in it,” I admit. “Nothing compares to having a guitar in my hands and getting lost in the music. I love writing and playing my own songs, but I also love losing myself to music that someone else has written. I can escape into their words—living in that moment with them, feeling every emotion they felt when they wrote those lyrics,
their
lyrics.”

He rests his hands against the wall behind me. His tall frame looms over mine, caging me inside his arms. “Kind of like pretending to be someone else?”

“Yeah, I guess.” I never really thought of it like that.

“You know, once you actually find the nerve to get up on stage, you’re fucking amazing up there.”

My nose crinkles. “How would you know? You‘ve seen it twice, and both times, I had liquid courage backing me.”

“You’re better at it than you think.” He touches his nose to mine. Pieces of his messy hair tickle my forehead. “Feeling vulnerable is normal, by the way. I’m not sure it’s a feeling you ever get over. Every time I perform, it’s there, but I’ve learned to channel the anxious energy into my guitar, forgetting about the vulnerability and living off the high.”

He hits the nail right on the head. The vulnerability of performing in front of people is what scares me the most. It’s a little too reminiscent of things I’d much rather forget.

“It’s okay to be vulnerable, Brooke. It doesn’t have to be a terrifying experience.” His eyes search mine. “You could pretend this is a stage,” he says quietly. One of his hands grips my waist. The other still rests beside my head. “And you could pretend that at this moment, you’re not scared or nervous because you know you’re with the right person. Tonight, you’re the girl who feels liberated by her vulnerability. Tonight, you could be the girl who led me out here because she wants to let go.”