Forget Me Not by Julie Soto
14
Ama
MAY
Ijerk awake from a very pleasant dream. Elliot and I were back at the Old Sugar Mill for the Robinson wedding. But instead of me getting him off, he’d gone to his knees faster than a bullet. My fingers are still clenched around the bedsheets that I had been substituting for his hair.
I slap my cheeks with both hands, then rub my eyes. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen or heard from him in three weeks. Reintroducing him to my life in such a stressful situation like the Jackie and Hazel wedding really didn’t give me time to process my emotions. Or my libido.
I always thought he was attractive. Even when I was twenty and following Whitney like a puppy. He would unpack all the centerpieces while his dad chatted with everybody, and sometimes I’d get in his way on purpose just to force him to say “Excuse me.” I didn’t know him well enough back then to know those words aren’t in his vocabulary. He usually just said “Move.”
But now—being near him again, hearing his voice, smelling his aftershave or body wash or whatever—it feels like it did back then. He was back in my life for a handful of weeks and then gone again. And it will never be the same, clearly. I’ll have to live with the fact that I’ll never feel his fingers in my hair again, and that there’s ink on his skin that my mouth will never touch.
None of this is helpful, I remind myself. I see him again this morning, and the spectrum of horny to mournful is an absurd way to start the day. I throw back the covers and jump in a cold shower.
Today is venue day. I have a few of my top vendors meeting me first at Jackie’s parents’ house, where the brunch is planned, then to the Firehouse Restaurant in Old Sacramento, where the rehearsal dinner will be, and then a quick stop at the reception venue just for me and George from Michelangelo’s Event Rental. No need to scare the others away with the state of the building.
I got the permits settled with Hal already. The only thing he’s giving me trouble on is blocking off the street around the park, but I’ll work it out.
I’m getting in my car when my phone rings, so I pop in my Bluetooth and answer.
“Hi, Honey Bear,” Mom’s voice sings, soft and sweet.
“Hey! How’s it going?”
I can already tell what this is, seeing as the shit show that was Easter at her husband’s house still has me reeling.
“So I just wanted to let you know that me and Carl aren’t gonna work out.”
As I back out of my driveway, I slip into a script I’ve perfected over the years. “What? Oh, no. Mom, that’s too bad. What happened?”
“You know, something just wasn’t right. I was struggling to see it, but I feel a lot better now that we’ve talked it out.”
“He was one of the good ones, but ya know what? So are you,” I say by rote.
“Yeah, yeah.” Her voice is a bit wistful. “And Jake really liked you, too. He said he’d like to help with more weddings if you ever need him.”
“Sure,” I say, rolling my eyes. He’ll go in the Rolodex with the rest of the stepsibs.
“So, listen,” she says, “I’m moving out today, just taking a few things. Can I come over for a couple days until I can find a new place?”
I take a deep breath. This is the pattern. Mom moves in with me for a week. Mom buys a new house. Mom meets a new man and abandons said house. Mom marries new man and sells house. Mom divorces new man. Mom moves in with me. Et cetera. On and on.
“Of course. I’m swamped today, but I’ll be home around dinner. We can do Chinese together.”
“I’d love that. I’m going to come by in about an hour. I have my key,” she says.
“Awesome. Don’t … clean my room. And when you ignore me and do clean my room, don’t hide my vibrator again.”
“I didn’t hide it, Ama. I put it in the closet where no guests could be offended—”
“Okay, please don’t touch my sex toys, love you, bye!”
I hang up on her. Cynthia Jones, the woman who needs no vibrator. Because she’s been with a man for ninety percent of her adult life. And a new man at that, so there’s no space to get bored with a person.
I pop in to see Mr. Kwon at J Street Donuts, and he plies me with a baker’s dozen before the door swings closed.
Jackie’s parents live about twenty minutes from the Rose Garden in a rather classy borough of Sacramento called Carmichael. I pull up to a lavish two-story and remind myself to ask Jackie what her parents do. Yowza.
Her mother, Kim, drags me into a deep hug and complains about processed sugar as she selects a Boston cream. Jackie greets me in the kitchen.
“Beautiful house, girl! You grew up here?” I select a donut hole and lean on the kitchen island.
“Yes! But I’m sure it’s nothing compared to where you grew up, Miss St. Joseph’s.”
I shrug. My childhood home wasn’t anything like this, but it was nice. Kim sneaks another donut as she takes my elbow and thanks me for everything.
“Jacqueline is absolutely enamored with you,” Kim says with a smile. “I hope you don’t mind, but I just have one teeny, tiny request?”
“Of course. Please!”
Kim places a hand over her heart. “We have a family heirloom that I’d love incorporated somewhere. It’s a tub that I was thinking could be used as a basin of sorts?”
Jackie pipes up, “I think maybe the reception? We fill it with ice and place the drinks in it?”
“That sounds … so much classier than a plastic barrel. You’re on.” I laugh. “Hazel was already talking to me about craft beer bottles, so maybe we display them in the basin.”
Kim claps her hands together and looks like she might almost cry. “That would make me so happy. My father passed just a few years back.”
I squeeze her hand and let her tell me a few stories about him. When the oven dings, Kim goes to grab the cinnamon rolls she went to the trouble of making. I turn to Jackie.
“Okay, walk me through what we’re thinking before everyone gets here.”
I ignore the stab of anxiety in my chest when I remember Elliot is part of that everyone and follow Jackie back to the entry hall.
“I was thinking we station everything in the living-slash-dining room because we have French doors that open up,” Jackie says, leading me into a room with tall ceilings and furniture that looks like it just had the plastic taken off.
“Wow. Gorgeous.” My eyes drift over the brick fireplace and the perfectly primped throw pillows. The French doors do indeed open into the formal dining room, which in turn connects to the kitchen. “You’re spot on. Long table down the center of these two rooms.”
As we’re talking parking and number of people, there’s a knock on the front door, and it swings open hesitantly. I see his large hand curled around the door and look away into the dining room before the rest of him appears.
Ten minutes early, just as his father taught him.
Jackie leaves my side to greet him. I can hear Kim asking after his mother, and before he can even respond, she’s steering him around the house, talking about where she would like flowers.
Jackie comes back to me, shaking her head playfully. “Whatever she’s asking for, give her half,” she says. “Okay, where were we?”
“I’m loving your mother’s taste. The flow in here is great. I just need to speak with the rental company about what to bring in.”
Elliot chuckles at something, and my attention is stolen. Kim is walking him through the full tour, and I can finally see him over Jackie’s shoulder. He smiles so rarely. It’s been forever since I’ve seen it, and I ache for it to be directed at me. I clear my head and move to the back window to see what options there are for the backyard.
Jackie sidles up to me. “So … are you dating?”
My head snaps to her so fast I can hear a crack. “Us? No. God, no.” I laugh manically. “Why—why would you say … Nope. Not us.”
Jackie blinks at me, her mouth opening. “Uh, no, I mean—are you dating. Like as in the concept of the word.”
My shoulders droop with the loss of adrenaline, and I rub my brow in embarrassment.
She says, “But if that’s where your mind goes, then I’d be super on board with that. He’s single—”
“Sorry. I’m …” I wave my hand, searching for which neurosis to blame this on. “Tense, I guess. Uh, no, I’m not dating right now.”
“Bad breakup?” she guesses.
I give her a half smile. “Something like that. I don’t do long-term relationships.”
“Well, ya know something that could help with that ‘tension,’” she says joshingly, and I follow her eyes as they comically slide to Elliot listening intently to her mother go on about chrysanthemums versus carnations. He feels our gaze and glances over. I snap my eyes away, and Jackie waves. “Sorry, if I’m being ridiculous. Hay and I have a bet on when you two will bone.”
Lovely. My abject horror and petrified silence over the past few months has been mistaken for flirtation. I hum weakly. “You will both lose. I guarantee it.”
“Not your type?”
My very unhelpful brain supplies memories of my dream this morning, with my knee over his shoulder and my back against the brick wall of the Old Sugar Mill. And then, not to be outdone, my very real memories surface—crushed rose petals sticking to my skin, leaves in his hair, his tongue everywhere.
“I don’t have a type,” I say perkily, turning on my heel and ending the conversation. It’s inappropriate anyway. If Elliot or Kim notice the flush to my cheeks, they don’t say anything.
After George from Michelangelo’s has seen the layout of the house, and I’ve heard some thoughts from both him and Elliot as to what they can offer, we leave the Nguyen home, and jump in our cars, heading to the Firehouse Restaurant. I offer to drive Jackie, and I can tell she’s looking for a good reason to put me and Elliot in the same car again, but she just can’t find one.
George has done one event at the Firehouse and knows the basics of what the restaurant will provide. Elliot has dropped off centerpieces before, but not worked installations. He’s ready with his measuring tape for doorways and corners.
I love a cut-and-dried rehearsal dinner. Fewer guests, fewer once-in-a-lifetime moments, more alcohol. In fact, both the brunch at the Nguyens’ and the rehearsal dinner are shaping up to be lovely because they do not include Hazel’s agent’s list, which is already giving me a headache, despite my excitement at the possibility of meeting Anya Taylor-Joy.
The rose wall Elliot is building for the reception will be brought here the day before, and he’ll bring in centerpieces. George will bring in black and gold balloons and signage. It’s easy.
Now comes the hard part.
We’re standing in the parking lot of the restaurant when I turn to Elliot. “Okay, the three of us are headed to the building on Twenty-First to show George what we’re working with.” I blink against the sunlight, bringing my hand up to my eyes. “So you’re free to go. I know you’ve seen it.”
“Oh, but you’re welcome to stay with us!” Jackie adds helpfully.
“Uh, yes, of course. You’re welcome to come. But I know you’re busy.” I move to the cars before Jackie can wheedle him any further. “George, do you want to drive together? Parking’s a little rough, and I can drop you back here after.”
“Yeah, I’ll come,” a deep voice says, cutting off George’s response.
My keys fumble in my fingers, scratching the car door. I glance over at Elliot. He’s shrugging with his hands in his pockets. Jackie looks like she’s going to burst. George has his mouth open like he’s ready to respond, if only someone will pay attention to him again.
“Great! Awesome.” I sound like a cartoon mouse. My keys finally open my car door, and I watch in horror as George and Elliot try to out-gentleman each other for the front seat. George is a rounder man, but Elliot has longer legs, so really it was going to be fifty-fifty. George takes the front, Jackie slips in the back seat on the passenger side, and I see Elliot reaching for the door behind me.
George and Jackie are talking about radio stations, and I’m just waiting for the fourth click of a buckle so I can get this the fuck over with. I can see the edge of his jaw in my side mirror.
“Whoa, you got a lotta lights on your dash!”
Shut the fuck up, George.My eyes squeeze closed, hoping I can just laugh and say, Yeah! Crazy!
“Are you fucking serious?” his voice comes from behind me, and I can feel him sitting forward, looking over my shoulder. The hair on my neck doesn’t know we’re in trouble, so it stands on end when he says, “What the hell, Ama?”
I put the car in reverse, and back out of the parking lot. “The shop says there’s nothing they can do!” I squeak in the I’m only a girl! voice I use to get out of things.
Jackie is laughing at me, but in every glimpse I get of Elliot in the rearview, his eyes are glaring into the back of my skull. George is quite offended to hear that a shop told me they couldn’t do anything and wants to know which shop it was, because he’d like to avoid it.
We get to the building without dying in a fiery wreck, thank you very much, and aside from the way someone refuses to look at me again, it goes smoothly inside. George is very worried when he first sees the state of the place, but I tell him the plan about the permitting and the health inspections, and he’s starting to smile by the time we leave. He does the same thing Elliot did and quietly makes sure I know about the bats.
The hard thing about today is that while this is the first time I’ve had to be in his presence in several weeks, it’s also the last time we’ll need to see each other for almost two months. Now we just go our own ways for a while. It’s May, and the wedding is in October. As I drive the four of us back to the restaurant parking lot, I can’t help but check my mirrors more often than necessary, searching his stoic face for some sign of life.
He doesn’t say goodbye once we’re back to the cars, and I’m still firming things up with a very talkative George when his truck starts. He pulls out of the parking lot as I’m settling Jackie and me back in my car to drive her home. And then he’s gone. I don’t know why he came to the building on Twenty-First again when all he did was scowl.
If all goes well, that’s the last I’ll see of him for a while. I feel like an addict, starting to mourn him even as his scent lingers in my car.
I have an upcoming wedding that I know he’d be perfect for, but I’m afraid to ask him about it. Are we back to partnering on weddings after this one? Or is Jackie and Hazel’s wedding just special circumstances forcing us together? And which would I prefer? I know I’m at my absolute best when working with him, and I’d like to say the same goes for him, but that doesn’t mean it’s worth it.
We can’t go back to before—not even before the sex. Because there was always sex between us, even in those months when he refused to make a move. It was my mistake thinking there could only be sex between us.
I don’t know if there’s a future where we can work together while forgetting the rest of it.
I just know I don’t want this wedding to be over anytime soon.