Forget (37 page)

He’s smiling softly, heart in his eyes. “Close your eyes, love.”

“What? Why?”

“Just trust me.”

I nod, obeying him. Although I can no longer see him, I acutely listen for clues. The wooden end of the paintbrush taps against the cobblestone sidewalk as he sets it down.

“Lie down, please.” He readjusts my position on the bench.

I’m lying on my side, cheek resting flat against the metal seat. I start to blink my eyes open, but he demands I keep them closed. What on Earth is he up to? Curiosity is the only thing keeping me quiet.

Bristles of the paintbrush move across my hand, painting what feels like circles. The sensation is oddly soothing. “I swear, if you’re putting your phone number or
Call Me Maybe
lyrics on my skin, I will smack you.”

He chuckles, but gives no response.

Time moves slowly as the paintbrush brushes across my arm and hand, dotting and circling. Eventually, he rests my painted hand on the side of my face.

“Shit, I guess I should have asked you if you preferred circumcised or un-cut . . .”

“Dylan!” My eyes fly open.

Snap.

He is kneeling in front of my prone form, Polaroid camera in hand, and taking pictures. “I just kind of assumed since you love my cock so much, you’d want an exact replica, circumcision and all.”

Snap.

“Tell me you didn’t just draw a giant cock on my arm!”

Snap.

“
Ah ha! So you admit it! You love my cock
and
you think it’s
huge.
” He overemphasizes the word huge.

Snap.

“Don’t get shy on me now, ya little screamer,” he says, eyes grinning behind the lens.

Snap.

I laugh, proceeding to sit up so I can see what mayhem he drew on my skin. The second my eyes see the pink paint, I freeze. Splattered across my skin rests tiny pink circles in various sizes.

Pink polka-dots.

My brow furrows in confusion. I open and close my mouth three times before muttering, “I don’t understand.”

Dylan sits beside me, setting one of the Polaroids he just took on my thigh. “If you’re a fucking mess,” he repeats my words from the other night. “Then you’re the most beautiful fucking mess I’ve ever laid eyes. In my eyes, Brooke Sawyer, you’re perfect, pink polka-dots and all, you’re perfect.”

Tears flood my eyes, dripping from my lids and sliding down my cheeks. One lone tear spills onto the photo. I’m mid-laugh in the picture, lying on my side and my pink polka-dot covered hand rests gently across my cheek.

“Dylan . . . I . . .” It’s too much. It’s way too fucking much. I want to sob like a baby and it’s taking every ounce of strength to hold it back. My throat burns from the pressure of the pent-up tears.

He’s wrecked me. My heart rolls out of my chest and into his. He took something so profoundly painful and turned it into something beautiful. He changed my colors. How can pink polka-dots mean pain now? How can I not look at them and remember this perfect night with Dylan?

I straddle his lap, gripping his cheeks, and whisper, “Thank you.”

His dear face gazes back at me, tenderness seeping from his eyes.

“God, Dylan, you . . .” I’m too overwhelmed to speak. I want to say,
you mean everything.
I want to say,
I love you,
but instead, I kiss him deeply. I pour every emotion I have into the kiss, trying to show him what he’s done for me.

The sun starts to rise and we decide it’s time to try to get some sleep. Instead of walking back to his flat, Dylan calls a cab, giving my poor feet a rest. It’s a big Millie no-no by the way, but I don’t care. I feel like we walked all of Paris in a matter of hours.

Sleepy-eyed, I pull my phone out of my bag when I hear a text notification. I giggle, looking through the crazy messages Dylan had sent me last night while he was reading
Memories of Suffocation.

‘Why is Sophia doing this?’

‘Why did she tell Marco????’

‘Brooke, Goddamnit, why did you make me read this!’

‘OH MY GOD DOES MARCO COME CLEAN OR DOES SOPHIA SHOULDER THE BLAME OR OH HOLY FUCKING SHIT WHAT AM I READING???’

‘That was not the end! Bloody hell, tell me that wasn’t the end!’

Once I read through the twenty-something messages he sent me, I find a new text from Jamie.

‘Remember that promise we made to each other when we were twenty-one? I think it’s time, baby girl.’

I want to text,
I need more time.
I just need a little more time.
Maybe we can find a way around this?
But I can’t

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I’m ready. I can’t live like this anymore.’

Those words bring a flash of memories into my brain. Jamie’s handsome blue eyes and crooked grin. The way he laughs whenever we’re watching reruns of
The Office.
The good times we’ve shared together.

And then the bad times start rolling in too. I’ve seen Jamie at his worst, at absolute rock bottom, and I refuse to let him go there again. I bite back tears, knowing full-well, that in order to keep my promise to Jamie and be the person he needs, I’m going to have to say goodbye to Dylan. I’m going to have to say goodbye in a way that doesn’t give him hope. I can’t string him along. I have to let him go.

‘Okay, you jump, I jump. We’re in this together.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

With my heart in my throat, I stare out the window—watching the trees and buildings of Paris blur together—wishing I had more time with Dylan.

I’M IN A MAGICAL
rooftop apartment in Montmartre with a gorgeous view over the Sacre Coeur church. A friendly couple has opened their home to a small number of people, most of which they’ve never met before. I’m finding out, any type of Paris house party is all very top secret and a “you need to know someone to get an invite” type of deal.

Dylan and Jesse are tonight’s entertainment, acoustic and unamplified. The couple who I’ve come to know as Luc and Marie are big fans of Nina Simone, so that gives you an idea of the type of music the boys are currently playing.

It’s all incredibly romantic. Lit candles line the patio and couples canoodle while sharing bottles of wine. Some people are stretched out on blankets. Others sit comfortably in eclectic chairs scattered across the rooftop.

I sip on a glass of French rosé and relax into the ambiance of this intimate setting, while Dylan and Jesse play one of the best versions of
Feeling Good
I’ve ever heard. I’m shocked to find that not only is Jesse brilliant at the drums, he’s also really good with a guitar. Between Dylan’s voice and Jesse’s magic fingers, I could listen to them for hours.

Eventually, Jesse takes a break.

“Come on, Little Wing,” Dylan tries to coax me to sing with him. “Just one song.”

Shaking my head, I give him the “hell no” look. After my conversation with Jamie, and the finality of my time in Paris smothering me with each passing second, I could barely muster the courage to get here. There’s no way I can find the strength to sing in front of people.

“I’ll play with you!” A woman’s voice calls from behind me. She makes her way up to Jesse’s vacated seat, even taking it upon herself to borrow his guitar. Long auburn hair, full lips, and a slip of a dress covering her body, I can’t deny her beauty as she settles in beside Dylan.

She introduces herself, “I’m Mandy with an i,” and I want to tell her that she’s spelling her name wrong. She suggests
I Put A Spell On You,
and I want to smack her. She sings
I Put A Spell On You
with Dylan, and I immediately start to dislike her. She laughs flirtatiously at something he says to the crowd, and I
strongly
dislike her. She rests her hand on his shoulder, softly telling him something into his ear between songs, and I start to edge towards hating her

I feel like I’m handling it all pretty well, staying rooted to my seat and not pushing her off the roof, until I see his green eyes glance at her, bright and smiling.
Bright Eyes.
He just gave her Bright Eyes. He whispers something into her ear, and she giggles in response.

It’s official, I hate her.

Dylan tells Jesse to stop drinking and get his ass back to the makeshift stage, but I can’t hear anything over the blaring jealousy inside my head. It’s dumb. I know it’s dumb. He didn’t do anything wrong, but I still feel hurt.
Even if he did do something wrong, it’s not like you have a leg to stand on,
my snarky subconscious whispers.

He knows this chick and it’s in a more than friendly type of way. Why I’m so hurt and mad and jealous is beyond me, but I can’t deny the emotions raging within me.

The boys are playing again, but I’m too angry and hurt to pay attention to what they’re doing. I finish my rosé, and decide I need to leave when Mandi hands Jesse and Dylan beers. While they’re in the middle of a song, I discreetly make my exit. I hail a cab—
sorry, Millie
—and go straight to my hotel.

I pace the room a good sixty-five times, and then, decide to draw a bath. The giant Jacuzzi tub seems like the best place to soak my wounds and mope over Dylan flashing Bright Eyes at another girl.

I know it’s ridiculous to be this upset, but I can’t help it. I can’t stop wondering just how well “Mandy with a fucking i” knows Dylan.

And what’s going to happen when I leave?

While the bath fills, I grab my journal, hoping I can work through my scattered emotions.

Dear Lilah Belle,

I miss home. I miss Teddy and Ember. And, of course, I miss Millie. Her bucket list led me on an adventure where I’ve been more distracted than anything else.

Will I ever really grieve the loss of her? I doubt it. I could stay in bed for years crying myself to sleep at night and only leaving to attend to the essentials during the day, and still never feel like I’ve mourned her loss. But do you ever? Do you ever really get over losing someone who meant so much to you?

When I think of grieving, I think of tears and misery and heartbreaking emotions

I know Millie wouldn’t want to see me like that, and I’m wondering if that’s why she planned this trip the way she did. Leaving to gallivant around in Paris (the day after her funeral) seemed crazy, but I’m starting to understand there is a bigger reason behind it. She knew I wouldn’t handle it well without a little distraction.

And boy oh boy, have I been distracted . . .

Dylan looked distracted tonight, flashing Bright Eyes towards a girl with hooker lips. “Mandy with an i” can go suck steel off a pipe for all I care. I just don’t want her going anywhere near Dylan. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why I was so hurt by all of it.

He didn’t do anything wrong. But I was still hurt.

Safe to say, I’m in a black mood. My mind is a wasteland of awful thoughts and I’m questioning everything. I’m wanting to go home and dying to stay here forever.

But I can’t stay here. I can’t stay with Dylan.

I have to go home. I need to be there for Jamie.

More Later,

B

I toss the journal on the bathroom counter and get ready to climb into the tub.

“Brooke?” Dylan shouts as the bathroom door crashes open.

I jump in response, adrenaline surging through my veins. “What the hell?” I squeak, grabbing a towel to cover myself.

He stomps towards me, electric with rage. “What the hell? Seriously, Brooke? I should be asking you that! Where’d you go? Why’d you leave?”

I scoot back three steps, still gripping the towel to my chest. “How did you get in here?”

“Jesse knows the guy working the front desk.”

“Jesus, is there anyone in Paris you don’t know or haven’t fucked?” I slap my hand over my mouth shocked at my words.

His eyes go wide in anger.
“Excuse me?”

Ah, fuck it.
Might as well lay it all out there . . .”You heard me. I left because you and ‘Mandy with an i’ looked busy. Figured you two needed time to catch up.”

His jaw drops, eyes searching mine. “Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

Dylan moves closer, arm reaching out towards me. “Brooke . . .”

I step away from his touch.

His arm drops limply to his side. “What’s going on? I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything with her. She took it upon herself to grab Jesse’s guitar and play
after
I begged
you
to play.”

That explanation makes me feel stupid and I realize there’s only one reason why I’m acting like an irrational, crazy person. A four-letter word that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Tell him that this needs to end.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I brush it off.

“So you’re not mad?”

Yes, I’m mad! And I hate that I need to go back to L.A.
“No, I’m fine.”

His dark green gaze examines mine. “So we’ll go to dinner like we planned?”

No, I’m leaving. I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now.
“Sure. I’ll get dressed.”

He throws his arms up in the air, irritation visible on his face. “Christ, Brooke! You’re so full of shit. I honestly don’t know what to say to you right now.”