Forget (3 page)

After a minute or two, I get my composure back. “So was he better or worse than Machine-gun-thruster?”

“You’re such a whore,” she grumbles. “Do promises to never speak of certain traumatizing situations not mean anything to you?”

“I never promised on that one. And I still have The Vagina Monologue version of a voicemail you left saved on my phone. Our friendship was forever changed after your
va-janna
gave me in-depth details of her discomfort.”

“She had to tell someone about it.”

No shame, my best friend has absolutely no shame.

Once the laughter subsides, my mind comes back to the present, processing why I’m here and searching through memories of the past few weeks.

“Brookie, are you okay?” She sounds concerned.

I turn on my side, staring out the terrace doors of my hotel room. The sounds of honking horns and busy streets filter into my ears. Everyone is just going about their business. Work still has to be done, deadlines still have to be met, and the universe does not care one bit that I’ve just lost the most important person in my life. It’s cruel that the world doesn’t stop to give me time to grieve. How can everyone just be carrying on as normal, living each minute of today, when my chest aches so hard I think my heart might shatter? Or maybe it already has? Maybe I’m just feeling the shards of broken glass that remain, adding new scars with each thumping beat.

And why am I here? On a
vacation?

“Yeah, I’m just . . . I don’t know. I feel weird being here. I shouldn’t be vacationing in Paris when Millie just . . .” I can’t say the word. It makes it all too final, too real. I’ve cried so much the past few weeks that I don’t even realize I’m crying until the tears drip down my cheeks, wetting the hand underneath my face.

“Stop feeling weird or overwhelmed or guilty or whatever other emotion that’s got your mind racing with crazy thoughts. Millie planned this for you.” Her voice softens. “You are exactly where she wanted you to be.”

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat and try to convince myself that she’s right. “Thank you so much for being there last week. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.”

The minute I told her Millie only had a few more days, she flew to L.A. and never left my side. She was there to say her last goodbye to my grandmother and held my hand through the funeral, giving me strength when I felt like crumbling to the floor in a sobbing mess.

“I didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

I have known Lindsay since my freshman year at NYU, and Millie had become a pseudo-grandmother to her over the years. Hell, she called my grandmother before she called me when she landed her first campaign with Young & Organic, a clothing line developed by high-fashion designer Ella Ray. It was an opportunity that would open several doors for her, and eventually, put her on the map as one of the highest paid models in America.

A large intake of air is the last thing I accomplish before saying the painful words. “I can’t believe Millie is gone.” The sentence hangs in the air. I can actually see each word leave my mouth and hover in front of me. And God do they taunt. Six words stand their ground, making me face everything I want to avoid.

“I can’t believe it either.” Her voice is quiet but shakes like a leaf. This is so unlike my best friend. She is normally bubbly and outspoken, not wordless and on the brink of breaking down.

The emotion in her voice opens the dam. My sobs echo into the phone, erratically booming across the line. Visuals of Millie flood my mind—her silly smile after she’d toss a smart-ass response my way, her infectious laughter, her attempting the robot in the kitchen just to embarrass Ember.

“I’m so sorry, Brookie. I’m so, so sorry,” she weeps.

Her tears only push me further. I cry as if the entire world, and all of its beauty, has come to an end. Because, in my mind, the world lost the most beautiful soul I’ll ever know.

“Me too.” Two words are all I can choke out.

My lungs refuse to take in air. The alveoli are protesting, and the muscles refuse to expand and contract. I gasp for the breath that only comes in short, scarce bursts. Breathing should be easy, autonomous, a simple thoughtless process, but right now, my head and heart won’t stop thinking long enough for me to just inhale, exhale, and repeat.

My grief is smothering the life out of me.

For several minutes, we just cry together. Her tears. My tears. They are the only things filling the line. I turn on my back, my arm covering my face, and the tears stay determined, endlessly dripping down my cheeks and soaking the pillow behind my head.

Eventually, I regain control. The cleansing nature of releasing so much of the pent-up grief that was taking hold of my body, softening my sobs until they’re noiseless cries, and calming my heaving breaths to a slow and steady pace.

Lindsay ends the silence first. “Do you want me to come out there? I’m in Milan on Wednesday, I could probably schedule some time off and hang with you in Paris for a few days.”

I shake my head, but then realize she can’t see me. “You know what? Never mind what I said. I think I need to do this on my own.” I need to do this. My grandmother wasn’t a thoughtless woman; every decision she made had a reason behind it, and there’s a reason I’m here. There’s a reason she gave me that bucket list. There’s a reason she sent me to Paris.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, but if I change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“
Really?”

“Yes, really,” she says, chuckling. “I’m over here mentally high-fiving you all over the place. I want to see you happy and carefree again, Brooke. There has been so much bogging you down back home, and when Millie got sick, I felt like you just stopped being yourself. You were just focused on surviving. On getting through each day, and doing everything you could to help Millie. It’s time to find Brooke again, darling. It’s time to be selfish and do whatever the hell you want to do.”

“I’m scared.” It’s the first time I admit those feelings. I can’t remember the last time I thought about what I wanted or needed. Not what Millie or Ember or Teddy or even Jamie needs, but what I need.

Lindsay reminds me that I’m in Paris. She reminds me that I’m twenty-six and that I haven’t taken a real vacation in over five years. And she reminds me that the only thing I need to do while I’m in Paris is be happy, be carefree, and enjoy myself.

“You make it all sound so easy.”

“Because it is that easy, Brookie. Go throw on a cute sundress and a pair of flats. Get out of that hotel room and sit your cute butt down at the first café that catches your eye. Order an espresso and take in the city. It’s time to start checking off experiences on Millie’s list. I have a feeling it contains everything you need.”

I slide off the bed, walking onto the terrace. The smell of fresh baguettes, the sounds of a bustling city, and the sights of pretty buildings and gorgeous landscapes fill my senses. “I have no idea where to start,” I acknowledge.

“What hotel are you at?”

“Le Hotel Bristol.”

She whistles. “Talk about some swanky digs.
Wow.
Okay, so it’s a Saturday, and the weather is probably perfect. Catch the métro and head to Le Marais. Sit down at a little café, order a café au lait and a pain au chocolat, and just enjoy the atmosphere. Le Marais is laidback and great for people watching.”

“Okay, I think I can manage that.” I give myself a mental pep talk.

“And your ass better send me pics of Paris’s version of man candy.” She groans in frustration. “Damn, I’m getting horny just thinking about . . .”

I chime in, stopping her before she gets started. “All right, all right, I got it. Hot French men equals covert pics sent to my whore of a best friend.”

“All this talk has me contemplating giving Clitourist . . .”

I laugh, cutting her off again. “I love you. Bye!”

And then I quickly hang up.

Outside the hotel, my feet stop once I realize I have no idea where I’m going. Anxiety creeps up my spine. The doorman witnesses my wide eyes and slightly erratic head movements.
I probably look like an idiot right now.
His smile is tight and professional as he asks me something. The only word I understand is aidez.
Help.

“Où . . . est . . . le métro?”
Where is the métro?
I ask in probably the worst French he’s ever heard.

His smile turns soft, wrinkle lines appearing around his mouth. “First time in Paris, yes?”

I let out a relieved breath; thankful this older gentleman has taken pity on me. “Am I that obvious?”

He nods. “It’s okay, mademoiselle. I’m not only good at standing in front of doors, but I’m also very good at giving directions. Some might say it’s my best quality.”

I have the urge to wrap him in a bear hug, but thankfully, stop myself. I glance down at his nametag. “Jean-Paul, I’ll be forever grateful.”

He chuckles and proceeds to give easy instructions that even a directionally challenged girl like myself can understand. I’m relieved to find out that the closest métro station is only a few blocks away. Before taking my first exploration of Paris by foot, I give him a small wave and say, “Merci beaucoup.”
Thank you.

The atmosphere is loud and a little chaotic. It’s nothing like I’ve ever experienced. The narrow streets and the cobblestone sidewalks are lively with energy. Cars honk their horns frequently, and people, whom I assume are locals, step off curbs and cross streets without even looking.

There are no rules or obvious traffic patterns.

This is nothing like the road rage and angry motorists I’ve witnessed in New York or L.A. Pedestrians walk in front of cars and Vespas whip around slow vehicles in a hurry. No one gets annoyed, they just stop, honk, and then move on with their day.

I’m in Paris.
The reality is surreal.

Street vendors offer baked goods, gorgeous buildings emanate Parisian charm, and people walk past me speaking in fast, lyrical French. My untrained ears only recognize a word or two at a time. I should have taken Millie’s French lessons more seriously.

I follow Jean-Paul’s directions, but use my phone as reference. I find the closest métro station and locate the line I need to get to the 4
th
Arrondissement. While waiting for the train, my eyes soak up the surroundings like a greedy sponge. An older man walks in a neat suit with a newspaper tucked under his arm. A gorgeous woman with ruby lips and sky-high heels strides past a small group of teenage boys who are admiring her graceful beauty.

I’m in love with all of it. The sights, the sounds, and the culture that ebbs and flows throughout the station. I’m high off the Parisian energy by the time I take my seat.

And I can’t erase the stupid smile from my face.

I get it, Millie. Now, I get it.

Trance-like, I stare across the aisle and out the window until a guitar case blocks my view. He sits down in the empty seat, his body movements appearing smooth and effortless. His posture is confident, all broad shoulders and straight back.

The light from the train is dimmed, but I can make out most of his features.

Despite the scruff-covered face, he still looks young, probably my age. His jaw is chiseled, strong and sharp around the edges. His nose exudes the right amount of prominence—not too big, not too small. Warm green eyes and full, plush lips are the icing on the hot guy fudge cake. Beautiful isn’t a word choice I often use to describe men, but good grief, this guy is beautiful, nearly unreasonable so.

A hat covers a mess of brownish-blonde hair. It’s similar to a fedora, but with all round edges. I think he’s the only guy in the history of hat-wearing who could pull it off.

Colorful tattoos line both arms, starting at his wrists and sneaking past the sleeves of his white t-shirt. His relaxed yet well-fitting clothes highlight the lean and toned lines of his body. I’d bet a million dollars he’s even more appealing when the cotton shirt and faded jeans are removed.

The backpack and guitar sit between his knees. His long fingers tap out a progressive rhythm against his thighs. My eyes catch sight of a cord slipping out from under his shirt, leading to his ears. He’s wearing earbuds, and I grin at the idea of him playing his own drum solo.

Music selection can tell you a lot about someone’s personality, and I’m dying to know what he’s listening to. He doesn’t look the heavy metal or rap fanatic type. Pop and hip-hop are possibly too mainstream. I’d guess he’s more laid-back, low-key, probably digs bands like Incubus or The Black Keys.

Oh shit, how long have I been staring?

A hint of anxiety fills my chest. Manners and the ability to be discreet are nowhere to be found. My eyes dart to his face, and thankfully, he’s looking towards the front of the train. I should be embarrassed, but I convince myself that I’m not the first woman to blatantly ogle this guy. And since I promised Lindsay undercover pics of Parisian man candy, I decide to continue on this path of absurdity. What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t honor my promises?

I pull my phone from the front pocket of my messenger bag. I turn it on vibrate so no one will hear the shutter and set the phone on my knee. Once the shot is filled with colorful tattoos, messy hair, and a scruff-filled face, I angle my body a little, trying to make it appear like I’m not looking at the screen, but I am. I
so
am.