Forget (33 page)

Jules eyes light up. “I’ve got this great drink that’s a mix between an Electric Punch and a Glowing Dildo. I’ve been calling it Electric Neon Boner Party.”

“Sounds lovely!” Dylan taps his hand against the bar. “Go ahead and make her a double, yeah?”

Make
her
a double
?
“What the hell?” I glare at Dylan.

Jules gets to work on mixing the drink, and in no time at all, I’m facing a glass full of straight up liquor.
Lovely?
Yeah, not so much.

Dylan turns towards me, expression careful. “Don’t get mad, but I’m quite positive you need a little something to take the edge off.”

I continue to glare, anger rising. “
A little something?
You just ordered me a Glowing Boner or whatever the fuck it’s called.” I throw my hands up in the air, ignoring the fact that I’m probably making a scene. “The splash of sour mix he added is the only thing that
isn’t
liquor. I’m not sure whether to throw it at you or light it on fire and use it as a bottle rocket.”

He bites his cheek, visibly amused by my anger. “Brooke, I love every single one of your gorgeous smiles, believe me, I do, but the one you just flashed a minute ago, well it was more, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, but it was more ‘serial killer meets her first victim’ than anything else . . . And the thumbs up didn’t help your cause.”

“I gave you a thumbs up?”

He nods.

“Jesus,” I mumble. “By all means, give me a double Boner Disco.”

“Electric Neon Boner Party,” Jules corrects.

I discreetly roll my eyes and take a few sips from the straw. God forbid, I use the wrong name for a drink that’s sole purpose is to make people forget their
own
names.

Dylan is chuckling beside me. “Not gonna lie, mate, but I think I like Brooke’s name for it better. Boner Disco has quite the ring.”

I feel slightly calmer after gagging a quarter of the drink down. The sour mix did nothing to tame the burn. “Sorry, I was a little pissy before,” I apologize, feeling guilty about my outburst. I’m blaming it on the nerves.

“No apology necessary. It made my day hearing you say the words
fuck
and
boner
in the same breath,” he chuckles into my ear.

“Pervert,” I mouth, grinning.

He winks. “Only for you, the queen, and your perfect little toes.”

An older gentleman with pepper-grey hair walks out from the back room. Even if he wasn’t heading towards us with a giant grin plastered across his face, I’d still know, without a doubt, that it’s Alexandre Bissette.

“Pop, I’d like you to meet Brooke,” Dylan introduces. “Brooke, this is Alexandre.”

“It’s a pleasure,” he offers. “And I have to say, she’s far more beautiful than you led on.” A mischievous grin covers his mouth. It reminds me so much of his oldest son. Their resemblance is uncanny—same green eyes, strong jaw, and dimple indented into their right cheek. Dylan definitely takes after his father.

“Ignore him,” Dylan says quietly towards me, but loud enough for his father to hear. “He’s old and often conjures up pretend conversations in his senile brain. We’ve been looking into nursing homes . . . it’s all quite sad.”

“Senile?” Alexandre questions with a chuckle. “I’m as fit as a fiddle. Your mum has zero complaints.”

Dylan groans, and I giggle. Watching the exchange between father and son, I decide the playful personality must be genetic.

Good-humored teasing, and thankfully, not-so-awkward pleasantries aside, we move into a booth tucked away in the corner. Alexandre sits across from us. Dylan’s jean-clad thigh is pressed against my leg. His hand covers my bare knee, rubbing reassuring circles against my skin. After, rummaging through my suitcase like a madwoman, I’d settled on a short-sleeve, white and navy blue wrap dress that ties at the side. The breezy cotton material paired with simple flats equals the perfect outfit choice for this warm summer day in June.

I decide it’s an extra perfect choice in attire when I rub my clammy palms across my dress. The whole idea of talking with Alexandre about my grandmother has my anxiety increasing by the minute. When put in stressful situations, I swear I could challenge a horse to a perspiration battle.

“Hey,” Dylan whispers in my ear, hand still rubbing those gentle circles on my knee.

I tilt my head, questioning him with my eyes. Surely, he’s not going to order me another Boner Disco. I left the first one at the bar for a reason.

“I forgot to tell you how bloody gorgeous you look today.” He leans back, eyes softening as they lock with mine.

“Thanks.” Nerves are forgotten, blush taking their place. It’s inevitable when he’s looking at me like that.

Our meals are dropped off at the table, and Alexandre keeps me entertained with stories of Dylan growing up—prankster, heartbreaker, but all-around a good kid. I’m not surprised by any of it. He asks me about Millie and my sister Ember, while Dylan tries to distract me with smiles and winks when in all actuality, he’s stealing bites of food off my plate. It’s adorable, and intimate and makes my belly warm with affection. The uncertainty I felt prior to meeting his dad is long gone.

“I’m so sorry about Millie,” Alexandre says, his hand patting mine in a sweet gesture. “I loved that woman from the second I met her.”

“When did you meet her?”

“I’d say it was about seventeen years ago.”

I calculate the dates in my head. That would have put me at nine years old. Around the time Ember and I were put in foster care. I didn’t know Millie was in Paris then.

Dylan’s grip on my knee grows tighter. I wonder if he’s calculated the dates too . . .

“She was a pistol. So full of life. Anyone that met her loved her.”

I nod, blinking back the tears threatening to fill my eyes.

He sets two envelopes on the table and slides one across to me. “She wanted you to have these.”

I open it, finding several old photographs inside. They’re pictures of a young Millie, fresh-faced and gorgeous. All of them were taken in Paris.

“Millie was beautiful,” he says, watching me look through the photographs. “It was obvious why Dylan’s great uncle was so in love with her.”

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Little Wing,” Dylan muses over my shoulder.

“Is this Christophe?” I hold up one of the photos. A handsome man has his arm around my grandmother. They’re smiling at each other.

Alexandre nods.

“Wow,” I say, fixated on the affectionate eyes they have for each other. “They look so in love.”

“They were quite in love,” he agrees. “Honestly, I don’t think that love ever lessened.”

“After the second time Millie came to Paris . . . did they . . . did they ever see each other again?”

“They had lost touch, but I managed to contact her when Christophe became ill. She was with him until he took his last breath.” Alexandre’s voice hints at sadness.

I’m overwhelmed with emotion as I think about how their love story played out. There are so many details I don’t know, but a lot of them I’m starting to piece together. I have a feeling the reason she came back from Paris seventeen years ago had everything to do with Ember and me. My heart wants to break in half and grow ten sizes bigger simultaneously.

“When did Christophe pass away?”

“About six years ago.”

I was at NYU with Lindsay and Ember would have been in high school. How didn’t I know about any of this?

“Well, I think I better get back to it before Jules runs this pub into the ground,” Alexandre says, sliding out of the booth. I glance around and notice that the lunch crowd has dwindled, and Jules is pretty much twiddling his thumbs behind the bar. I’d say Alexandre has sensed my quiet mood, and I’m more than thankful for his tact.

“Brooke, it really was a pleasure. I hope to see you again very soon.”

“Me too, Mr. Bissette.”

“Please, no Mr. Bissette business. I’m far too young for that.” He winks. God, he really does remind me so much of Dylan.

I smile up at him. “Alexandre, thank you so much for this. It really meant a lot.”

He offers a soft smile, sliding the other envelope in front of me. “This is also for you, but she wanted me to tell you not to open it until you’re ready.”

Speechless, I stare down at a white envelope with
Lilah Belle
written across the top in Millie’s handwriting.

God, I miss her.

It’s funny how throughout our lives we save our moments, placing them inside our mental scrapbook, and no matter how many scrapbooks full of memories we amass, none will mean more than the moments we wish we had back.

I want my moments with Millie back.

I want them back so badly that my bones ache. The conversation with Alexandre, the photos of Millie, and the letter I’m not ready to open, have my body screaming for a darkroom and a bed. I’m dreadfully tired. The gravity weighing down on my heart is why I tell Dylan I’d rather go back to my hotel and take a nap then attempt to check off another item on Millie’s bucket list.

He senses my mood, doesn’t try to change my mind, and goes back to the hotel with me.

I crawl under the covers. He lies beside me.

I cry quietly into my pillow. He holds me in his arms the entire time.

And that’s how I fall asleep, inside Dylan’s comforting embrace.

MILLIE DIED TODAY.

It wasn’t dramatic like you’d see in the movies. It was quiet, peaceful even.

When she took her last breath, she was surrounded by the people that loved her most.

A thunderstorm had passed through Laurel Canyon, and the lingering smell of fresh rain filtered through the cracked window of the guest bedroom. Ember and I sat on either side of her bed, holding her hands. My best friends Lindsay and Jamie each whispered “I love you” into Millie’s ear and kissed her cheek one last time.

Teddy refused to leave his great-grandmother’s side. He sat quietly in my sister’s lap while we all said our last good-byes.

After Ember and I hugged each other tightly, she took Teddy out of the room, afraid that it was too much for his little heart. It took me a while to find the strength to leave the bedside. I stood by the window, taking in the small bits of sunshine that were filtering in through the clouds. I pictured Millie sitting in her chair under the big oak tree. I pictured her laughing and smiling and singing along to her favorite French song.

One lone daisy rested inside the blue vase by her bed. I picked it up, snapped off the stem, and slid the yellow flower behind her ear. Even in death, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever known.

I curled up next to Millie, holding her hand close to my heart, and let my tears drench the pillowcase, as I lay beside her for the very last time.

I made my way up to Millie’s bedroom, the one that had been empty for nearly a year since cancer had made her weak and incapable of walking up steps. My fingers flipped through the neat rows of album covers resting inside an antique trunk in front of the bed. I picked up Millie’s favorite record, sliding the shiny, round disc out of its sleeve. Holding it by the edges, just like she taught me, I placed it on her prized Studebaker wooden turntable.

I slid the box out from under her bed.
Lilah Belle.
My name was written in her signature print on a white envelope nestled underneath a pale blue ribbon. I held the box in one hand and wrapped myself up in a soft rose-colored afghan with the other. I nestled into Millie’s old side of the bed. Even though it had been months since she’d been in her upstairs room, I could still smell remnants of her lavender perfume.

Once the stylus dropped, the rich sounds of Edith Piaf’s beautiful voice singing
Non, Je ne Regrette Rien
filled the room.

The intricate design of the afghan caught my eye, flooding memories of my grandmother crocheting when I was a little girl. The song, the blanket, her room, it had me thinking about so many things. I wanted to keep my promises to Millie. I wanted to be able to mimic her sentiments on the past, on her life.
Regret nothing.

And I wanted to go back in time and have one last day with her.

But I couldn’t.

She was gone, and all I had left were my memories, her material things, and the unopened box resting heavily in my hands.