Forget Me Not by Julie Soto

12

Ama

APRIL

With Hazel in town, we burn through our to-do list quickly. I want to get a lot settled before my busy wedding season is in full swing. After our meeting at Blooming, we go to the Rose Garden to talk through my ideas about closing the street and renting the Airbnb across from the park. Hazel nods along with me, but her gaze keeps sliding to the Rose Garden.

When Jackie walks down the park to look at the area we’d be using for guest seating, I say to Hazel, “What are you thinking?”

She takes a deep breath. “The garden is beautiful. It’s very Jackie.”

I say, “Maybe we can add a flair of drama,” echoing Elliot’s comment about dramatic bouquets.

She fake-glares at me, and we share a smile as Jackie comes back to us.

The next day, I’ve secured a visit to the old ballet studio from my friend at the city permit office. When I say I have a friend at the city permit office, it’s not as glamorous as it seems. His name is Hal. He has the keys, and I have the donuts.

I told Hazel and Jackie to meet at ten, but half an hour before that, I’m at Weatherstone getting an espresso shot and cold brew. I have a bag of donuts in one hand, and as soon as I open the rusted front door of the old ballet studio, I realize I should have left them in the car.

Something skitters.

I go sit in my car for ten minutes, eating my chocolate old-fashioned to calm down.

Jackie didn’t say how long the ballet studio has been closed, but when I think about it, I’ve been going to Weatherstone for almost ten years, and I’ve never seen tutus or pointe shoes.

Maybe this is a mistake. Creating a reception hall from nothing is a huge task. Not to mention electricity and plumbing, all the catering, the sound system, the back-up generator—it’s all brought in. It’s building a new reception hall.

I take a deep breath, stuff the donuts into the bag, and go reopen the front door. I prop it open so they’ll know I’m inside.

Now that I’m prepared for rodents and roaches, it’s easier to just stand still and look around.

And it’s not bad. Truly.

There’s no indication that anyone’s been squatting. There’s no trash or toddler’s forgotten ballet slipper lying dramatically as a symbol of the dying arts. Hal told me that someone bought the lease five years ago but never did anything with it. It expired a few months ago, but clearly in that time they’d cleaned it at least once. I don’t expect the lights to work, but I flip the switch uselessly anyway.

Along the side wall, there are six or seven windows covered with a velvety curtain meant to resemble a grand drape at a theater. I start tugging them back, and light and dust spill into the room in a haze. My eyes travel up the tall walls. There are marks where the ballet mirrors and barres used to be, but above that, there are dancers painted along the wall—a strong man performing a split jump; a girl in a white tutu mid-pique, a woman in a simple rehearsal leotard and skirt standing in fourth position, fingers delicately reaching.

It’s enchanting. I smile at the silhouettes of them all, wondering who I could call to clean and restore them.

There’s a room at the back, and I make my way toward it, opening curtains and letting the light in as I go. The door is ajar, and I turn on my phone’s flashlight to make sure I’m not disturbing anything as I enter. It’s a smaller dance room; still, probably three hundred square feet.

I remember Jackie mentioning a rooftop and go looking for the way, hoping there are stairs and not a fireman’s ladder. When I open the door to what I thought was a closet, I find stairs, thank the heavens. The venue needs to be ADA compliant to clear permits, though, which is a problem. For now, I focus on climbing up to see if this is even an option. Without finding any rickety steps or broken floorboards, I make my way to the door at the top and heave it open.

The wind floats across my face. The sun shines like I’ve found nirvana. My mouth opens in a huge smile when I see a flat industrial rooftop with brick half walls around the edges, primed and ready for a party. There’s nothing here, but I can see everything. The LED floral dance floor in the center, twinkling as dusk falls on the party. A bar to the right. High-top tables scattered. Boxwood hedges lining the perimeter. And some kind of magic Elliot can create. Maybe added height?

And along with all of this—the Sacramento skyline is right there. I prop the door open and check every angle, making sure there isn’t anything unsightly. All I find is my hometown. Jackie’s hometown.

This is the kind of venue people would kill to have.

I see a Prius pull up on the street, and I head downstairs. My mind is spinning with ideas as their footsteps patter to the door.

“Oh, wow,” Jackie says, stepping through the threshold with Hazel behind her. “This is wayyyyy worse than I thought it would be.” Her eyes are on the floor and the dirty windows. “I’m so sorry for suggesting it.”

“I love it,” I say, and she looks at me like there’s a rat on my shoulder. Which, there could be. “So, listen to this.”

Hazel steps inside gingerly, like maybe the floor could give in. I come to stand next to them in the entrance, fanning my hands and painting a picture.

“We create something here.” I point to where the small lobby used to be. “Some kind of welcoming area. A separation between here and the main hall. Maybe a photo booth, but sophisticated? Elliot could make a rose wall that says Jackie and Hazel and the wedding date. A sign here reminding everyone of the hashtags.” I don’t even have to consult with him on what’s possible. We have money to throw around.

I see their eyes following my hands as I weave a story, not looking at the dust or possible vermin droppings.

“So the flow through the door is here”—I push my hands forward—“around the flower wall, and into the dining area.” I walk Jackie to the center of the ballet floor, and Hazel follows. “We can use the entire space for round tables to really open it up. We set up a bar in one of the corners. Caterers station in the small room back here.”

Hazel lifts a doubtful brow at me. “And we break everything down before dancing? I don’t really like that.”

“Neither do I,” I say, grinning broadly. I gesture for them to follow and lead them carefully upstairs.

“No way.” Jackie laughs as she steps onto the roof. “No way. Can you really do this?”

“I don’t know yet, to be honest. But I’d like to try.” I watch Hazel move to each of the corners. I can’t read her face. “Elliot’s dance floor is center here, looking amazing at night. A second bar over there.”

Jackie is nodding, looking around, but it’s more of a jerky, nervous thing. Hazel turns and she’s smirking at me. “I love this,” she says.

I breathe in the spring air and launch onward.

“I need to warn you that building a space from nothing can get expensive. Plumbing, sewers, checking for mold, rewiring electrical, ADA compliance. The food will now be one hundred percent off-site catering, which is never a bad thing, but just not all inclusive like other locations could give you.”

I give them all the warnings and fine print, but Hazel is floating across the rooftop, hardly listening. “Let’s look at downstairs again,” she says. She takes Jackie’s hand, and I see Jackie’s shoulders relax.

Once we’re down in the dance studio again, I point out the exposed beams, the height, the brick walls. This space might have been a dance studio, but it was never built that way.

“Do you think Elliot could do something nice with these ceilings?” Jackie asks.

“Absolutely. He has beautiful chandeliers. You could have flowers above down here, and below on the rooftop dance floor.”

“When can he come see it?” Hazel says. “I’d love to start seeing this whole thing come together.”

“I can definitely bring him in the next time we visit—”

“Can he come by today, do you think?” Jackie interjects. “I mean, we’re already here. We already have the key.”

I stammer a bit before saying, “Last minute may be tough with the shop. But I can offer it.”

They nod—annoyingly—and there’s nothing left for me to do but pull out my phone. After yesterday’s disaster, I really hate that I’m bothering him again. I want to just text him instead of calling the shop phone, but that would be admitting that I never deleted his number. And I really don’t want to see the last messages he sent me again.

I hit the button to dial, and listen to the ring. He picks up quickly. Too quickly. Like maybe he’s at the register already and he’s busy?

“’Lo?”

“Hi, it’s Ama Torres. I’m here at a possible venue with Jackie and Hazel, and they wanted to know if you had some time to spare to come down.” My voice is pitched way too high, and my fingers are like claws around my phone. “Totally understand if it’s too short notice.”

The line is quiet. I pray it’s an easy no. Cut and dried.

“I can’t go to every potential venue. They do know I’m the florist, not the designer, right?”

Breath puffs out of me like I’ve been punched in the stomach. God, it’s so much worse than just hanging up on me. I feel like I’m nineteen again, and Whitney is scolding me for being too passive at the setup. Are you in charge, or aren’t you?

“Of course. I assume you’d want to be looped in later, at a more appropriate time. When we’ve finalized, I’ll send you the initial designs, and we’ll work over email from there.”

My face is burning. I can hear Jackie and Hazel chatting behind me about tables and layout and all the things I’m in charge of. I wait for the line to click dead, but I don’t hear it. He’s rustling papers around. Maybe I’ll hang up first.

“What’s the address?”

The embarrassment from the last two minutes has clogged my ears or something. My first thought is that he’s got a customer at the counter, and he needs their address for the delivery.

“Emma?”

My eyes squeeze shut. I know he didn’t mean to say it like that. I know that’s just how he talks. But it sends needles pressing into my chest, puncturing everything.

“It’s on Twenty-First Street, next to Weatherstone.”

“I’ll be there in ten. I can only stay a few minutes.”

I nod to myself until I realize he can’t see me. I say, “Great,” but the line is already dead. For Hazel and Jackie’s benefit, I add, “See you soon. Bye.” I turn to them with a pasted smile. “Ten minutes.”

Hazel and Jackie are happy, and that’s all that matters. Hazel asks if I need a coffee, and before I know it, I’m alone in an abandoned building, while my clients wander over to Weatherstone.

I take the opportunity to center myself. He’s partially right. If it were any other clients besides Jackie and Hazel, I would have told them we don’t bother the vendors before a location is secured. If it were any other vendor, I wouldn’t have called. And the idea that Hazel wants Elliot’s input on the overall design instead of just the floral aspects is concerning. I should be taking more control of these meetings, but I’ve been far too underinvolved at the only meetings she’s been to—the ones at Elliot’s shop.

I pace the ballet floor, taking pictures of everything and getting my thoughts together. I’m lost in my own imagination of design by the time a shadow darkens the doorway. He steps inside without a word, taking in the scope of the work to be done. I’m standing across a dark ballroom, holding my breath, waiting for him to scoff at my idea, mock me for thinking I could create a reception hall from nothing.

I watch him tilt his head back to the ceiling. He says nothing, but pulls a measuring tape from his back pocket.

I breathe in relief. His mind is working, and that’s all I need.

I find my voice and explain, “There’s a rooftop. I have no idea if it can work, but the goal would be dinner down here, dancing upstairs.”

“Who’s your rental company?” He barely raises his voice, but I can still hear the clatter of consonants across the wood floor.

“I don’t have one yet. Everlast has four other weddings that day, so I might have to work with an out-of-town company and ship it up.”

“Whitney has four weddings on October seventh?” He scoffs. “Did you give her the date?”

I hate that he’s pinned down my exact fears, but he’s talking to me for once. “She doesn’t have to work around my schedule—”

“But you have to work around hers.” He’s stretching the measuring tape down the long wall on the right, making notes on a scrap of paper.

“She’s Whitney Harrison,” I argue.

He looks up at me for the first time. The first time in two years. I want to fuss with my hair, my jacket, my makeup. He actually sees me.

“And you got the Hazel Renee wedding,” he says.

A light, feathery feeling fills my chest. It’s like a compliment. It’s like a reminder that I’m also amazing.

But then I hear it again, as a whole sentence, as a cause and effect.

She’s Whitney Harrison, andyou got the Hazel Renee wedding.

I’m suspicious again if Whitney did this on purpose, like he’s implying.

His eyes leave me, and he looks down to his notes. “What about Michelangelo’s?”

“They’re blacklisted.”

The words are out of me before I can stop them, and I see him shake his head in disdain.

They are blacklisted. By Whitney. They work on baby showers, graduations, and quinceañeras, barely scraping the wedding circuit because Whitney Harrison owns the wedding circuit.

“That’s a great idea,” I say. “I’ll call them today. Thank you.”

He doesn’t say you’re welcome, like a normal person. But he never did.

Jackie and Hazel step into the doorway, and I feel like I can breathe. They greet him, and I launch into my spiel again. I focus on projecting confidence, laying out my vision before Hazel can turn to Elliot and ask for his. I watch his face, searching for resistance, waiting for that curl of his lip that means he’s feeling put out. It’s not there.

I see a familiar intensity behind his eyes when we get up to the roof. He’s measuring the square footage and checking the height of the side walls while I talk. But I know that look. He’s inspired.

He interrupts me once. “The dance floor. It’s going to be raised about a foot off the ground. I can make it as thin as I can, but you’ll lose the depth of the piece. If it’s above eight inches, then we need a step all the way around it, to pass inspection.”

“Can we raise the floor everywhere?” Hazel asks, like raising the floor is an everyday thing.

“I … I suppose Elliot and I can look into creating a full artificial floor for the roof.”

“What do you think, Mr. Architect?” Jackie asks, nudging Elliot’s arm.

I wait for him to correct her, to say that he never finished his degree. He was always so sensitive about that. But he just adjusts his watch.

And I blurt out, “Did you get your degree?”

His eyes snap to me for the second time today before quickly darting away.

“Yeah,” Jackie says helpfully. “Last year, right? And his license. He’s a fully licensed architect now!”

Hazel says something—something about how nice that’ll be for our purposes. But I can’t hear anything but white noise for a moment.

I relaxed back in my chair, staring at him across a table set for two. “I think you could go back, if you wanted. They have a bunch of online options for degrees. It’s up to you, but … you just said it yourself—your dad wanted you to get your degree. And who knows? Maybe it would give you a leg up in some way, when you inevitably open a showroom.” I winked at him slyly, and his eyes dropped to my lips as I brought my wineglass to them.

“Yeah, it’s possible.” His voice cuts through my memories. I blink, and he’s telling Hazel what the options are. I blink—and he’s finished his degree. There’s a pulsing pain in my stomach, like an old wound that never quite healed right, but I refocus.

“It won’t be cheap,” I add.

“Well, run it by me. Maybe we can wiggle the budget,” Hazel says.

Jackie turns to Hazel and whispers so low I can barely hear over the breeze. “Are you comfortable with that? I mean, we can see other places too.”

“Other places won’t be your old dance studio in your hometown,” Hazel says, and kisses her softly.

I feel my armpits start to sweat. It’s always amazing when the couple likes something so much that they want to make room in the budget for it, but you never want them to regret giving you so much money to play with. It has to be spectacular.

When we go downstairs again, I say to Elliot, “We wanted your thoughts on the ceiling.”

I watch as his throat tips back, eyes moving over the beams. “Do you want a full floral wonderland? Above in the downstairs, below in the rooftop?” he asks.

It’s remarkable how well we finish each other’s thoughts. My stomach twists with the nostalgia of it all.

“Chandeliers is what I was thinking. But tell me what you see,” I say.

“We have the pink roses in the design already. We can do chandeliers. Add in baby’s breath. Make it cloud-like, like your mom’s was.”

He says it casually. Like that wasn’t the beginning. Like it was just a job to him, not the first time I was in the back room, or the first time I asked him about his tattoos.

Hazel looks at me hungrily, eyes leaving the ceiling. Jackie says, “Elliot did your mother’s wedding? That’s sweet.”

“Yeah, one of ’em.” I clear my throat. “What’s your other idea? If not chandeliers?”

He points to the tall beams running up the brick walls. “Structures. Tree-like. Large columns that pull the eye upward, with large pieces on top. Maybe you don’t want to give up space, but there’s also the option of renting white curtains or tent pieces from Michelangelo’s.”

“A faux outdoor tent,” I say, looking over the room. “With lights above, it could feel like a night sky.”

“I think I may pass out.” Jackie laughs. “You guys are describing such beautiful things. I feel like I need to see it.”

“Of course,” I say, squeezing her arm. “We’ll let Elliot get going, but I’ll mock up a few designs and send them to him, then he’ll add the floral design to them. It’s rough, but we can see it all together that way.”

I look at him to make sure our old way still works. He’s looking up at the ceiling, his fingers scratching at his collar.

That’s when I see it. Ink. My heart stops. I can’t tell if it’s coming from his chest or his shoulder, but there’s a tattoo creeping out of his collar.

A new one.

It’s barely a glimpse before I have to look away. My mind is running a mile a minute as Jackie says something to him.

It hurts to know that there’s a tattoo I can’t look at or touch. That I can never ask which extinct flower lives on his skin.

I swallow down this ache in my throat, agreeing with them that it’s time to go. I feel empty. I wish I’d never known.

I’m digging through my bag for the key to lock up, and there’s a touch to my elbow. My head snaps to the side, and it’s Elliot’s fingers stopping me. He lets Hazel and Jackie walk out into the sunlight, before tilting his head back to the ceiling. I wait, hanging on a string for him. For whatever he’d need to say to me in private.

“You’ll need to do something about the bats,” he says.

I stare at where he’s staring. And yep. Those are bats. I take a deep breath and thank him.

Forget tattoos and feather-light fingertips on my elbow.

I have my work cut out for me.