Forget Me Not by Julie Soto

20

Elliot

THREE YEARS, TWO MONTHS, AND FIVE DAYS AGO

She didn’t talk to me for a week after our date. And when she saw me on the weekend for the Wilmot wedding, she kept it businesslike, unfortunately.

I posted a picture yesterday of the beginnings of a rose wall. It’s only four feet by eight feet, and there’s really no room for lettering, but I at least added a B for Blooming. She hasn’t liked the picture yet.

It feels like there’s this game we’re playing, and I have no clue who’s winning, but it can’t possibly be me. It’s already August. The end of wedding season is coming soon, and I’ll be seeing less and less of her until it picks up again. That is, if she decides to continue contracting me.

We have a location meet on Friday, and my plan is to ask her on a second date. If she says no, then at least I’ll know for sure where we stand.

I’m in the back room trying to clean up the worktable from the mess of roses I’ve made. The phone rings at the front, and I hate that I’m hoping it’s her.

“Hello.”

“Elliot. Whitney Harrison. How are you?” Her saccharine-sweet voice pierces my ears, and I tap the volume button on the phone to try to dampen it.

“Good. Hi, Whitney.”

“Listen, one of my social media assistants just showed me your rose wall. My god, it’s beautiful! I didn’t even know you were working with custom installations!”

“Yeah, thanks. It’s pretty new. Just something I’m trying.”

“Well, it’s wonderful,” she says, and I can hear her typing. “I’m looking for a piece like that myself. I was going to talk to Briar Rose Designs about it, but I’d love to work with you. You know how well your dad and I got on.”

She says it like they were in diapers together, when in reality, my dad tolerated her at best. She was the top wedding business in town, so the only thing to do was work with her. Dad gave her a discount to entice her to keep coming back.

“Sure,” I say. “Do you want to come in and take a look? I only have that one piece done right now.”

“Yes, let’s set up for next week? I’ll email you, and if you can quote me for a wall ten feet across? And itemize the add-ons, will you? By letter, by rose colors—the good stuff.”

I bite my tongue from telling her I have a four-foot-wide piece that has a B and that’s it. If she does want one, I’ll figure it out, I guess.

“Sure.” Her fingernails clacking in the background make me think of how they used to dig into Ama’s arm, and I say, “And just so you’re aware, this installation business is considered independent from Blooming. They’ll be invoiced separately and the normal discounts won’t apply.”

She stops typing, and I smile.

“Of course. Understandable, Elliot. I’ll email you!”

She hangs up before either of us has a chance to say goodbye.

I might have lost business, but at least I don’t have to give Whitney that bullshit discount on things I’m making by hand.

The door swings open, and as I grunt a hello, I see Ama on my welcome mat. I clear my throat and lean forward on the counter.

“You here about the rose wall?” I ask.

She opens her mouth and pauses. “Did you post a rose wall?”

With little ceremony, she drops off her purse near the register and walks straight into the back room. I clench my jaw at the intrusion, but then I hear her gasp.

“Oh, wow. This is great!”

I follow her back and lean in the doorway. “I just wanted to try it.”

“Are you going to make the rest of Blooming? The other letters?”

I shrug. “I could, but to be honest, this was a lot. Time and money.” She barely seems to hear me, just reaches out to run her fingers over the petals.

There’s a clawing in my chest, and I feel like a toddler about to start screaming about absolutely nothing.

“What brings you by?” My voice is gruff, and she turns at the sound of it.

“Um …” She presses a hip against my worktable. “Are you seeing other people?”

The question knocks me off my feet. “Am I seeing other people?”

“Yeah.”

“‘Other people’ implies that I’m seeing an existing someone. And I haven’t seen you in two weeks,” I mumble. I know I sound immature, but I can’t help it.

Her lips twitch. “Well, I’m here now. Seeing you. Being seen.”

She steps forward, and before I can remember that tantrum I wanted to have, her arms wind over my shoulders, and she presses up to her toes. Her lips are warm and full, and her chest pushes against me. My hands slide to her hips, and even though I know we should talk, I lose myself for a moment in her mouth, her body.

“So,” she whispers against my lips. “Are you seeing other people?”

I blink down at her. “Am I seeing other people?”

“That’s what you said before.”

“Because I still can’t believe it’s a question.”

She swallows and looks at my collar. “Because … it’s a stupid thing to ask when we weren’t exclusive? Or …?” Her lashes flutter when she looks up at me.

I feel like a lot hinges on my answer. Like suddenly what I have to say about this strange relationship we have is going to affect the future of it. I bite the inside of my cheek, searching for the right words.

“I don’t even know what this is,” I say honestly. “We see each other once a week maybe, and we fuck, I’ve taken you to dinner, but I’m just …” I swallow. “I feel like I’m just waiting for you to tell me the rules. I’ll keep playing even if you never do, but—but no, I don’t sleep with other people when I’m … doing whatever this is.”

The unclear intensity in her gaze makes me squirm. I feel like I need to keep talking in her silence, but I know it’s her turn.

“The ‘rules,’ huh?” She smiles ruefully at my shoulder. Eventually she takes a deep breath and meets my gaze. “My mom gets married a lot. Like, a lot a lot. The wedding you did in April was her fourteenth.”

I feel like my eyes shouldn’t bug out of my head, so I force them not to. “Okay.”

“She’s never not had a man in her life, from the moment I was born,” she continues. “And she makes it down the aisle every time. Fourteen fiancés, fourteen weddings. I asked her once when I was a kid if she ever got scared about saying I do like the movies show, but she said never. She said, ‘Love is like the wind. It will come and go. Weddings are just a party.’”

She grins at the memory. I’m still reeling a bit, but I’m listening.

“You know, it’s not really the fourteen weddings that are important. I guess I’m talking about the divorces. Fourteen times now, she’s called it quits with someone who meant a lot to her. Who she loved. And I really believe that she did love some of them,” she says. “It’s not like my mom was fine after every divorce, ready for the next guy. She was in pain a lot. Days where I didn’t think she’d ever eat or get out of bed. She always told me that marriage was worth it, but I don’t think it is.”

She catches herself, like coming out of a trance of memories, and looks up at me. “So I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t see the point of commitments that end. I don’t date,” she says. “Not long-term anyway. I do … what we’re doing now. A little bit here, a little bit there. But I don’t do commitments.” She laughs lightly. “I’m well aware where that stems from, of course, but I’ve seen too many men make promises to my mom—to me—that got broken when things got hard. There was this one stepdad, Warner, who I grew really attached to. My mom was with him for five years. I was ten when they broke up, but he promised me we’d still see each other.” She shakes her head. “I asked my mom about him all the time, but I never saw him again.”

She pauses, pursing her lips together in thought. My throat is tight, and my hands are still on her hips, but they feel cold. It sounds like she’s letting me down easy, and maybe I should pull my hands away, but then she places hers on my forearms.

“I know it’s weird that I’m a wedding planner who doesn’t believe marriage works, but that’s exactly it. Weddings are just a party to me. Marriages are things that end. And I don’t think love should lead to a commitment when the emotion is so fluid and fickle for everybody.”

“Not for everybody,” I whisper. She blinks up at me, and I take my chance, hoping she’ll give me a try. Because I’m pretty sure I’d never lose my grasp on her if given the opportunity. “Not everyone is fickle about it.”

She bites back a grin. “Is that so?” Her arms wind up around my neck.

I nod solemnly. “I don’t let go of things so easily.” I feel my pulse in my throat, but I force myself to speak around it. I can tell this is the all-or-nothing moment, and I need her to know I’m all in. “If you want to move forward with whatever this is between us, you don’t have to worry about me backing out. You may think everything ends one day, but you haven’t had ‘everything’ with me.”

I watch her take a slow, deep breath, her gaze casting over my face. I’m hanging on the edge of a cliff, waiting for her. Always waiting for her.

Finally, a teasing smile tugs at her lips. “So the rules of the game?” Her fingers run from my ear down to my collar and my heart thumps. “I came here today because I missed you, and the sudden realization that I may not be the only person you’re seeing … actually made me mad.” She laughs. “And that never happens. So, Rule #1—We’re not seeing other people. Rule #2—I want to see you more than once a week.” She pauses and looks at me intently. The smile melts from her face. “But I don’t want to call it a relationship. Rule #3.”

I feel something wilt inside me, but I focus on what I hope is the unsaid yet at the end of the sentence. It sounds like she wants exclusivity and more time together without labeling it. I can do that. Aside from Mom, there’s no one in my life I could introduce her to as “my girlfriend” anyway.

“No labels?” I add helpfully.

She grins. “Labels have expiration dates.”

What I’m hearing is that she doesn’t want this thing between us to end. That excites me. The idea that she wants to look into the future and still see me is intoxicating. It whispers promises into my chest that she’s making clear she won’t voice aloud.

“And the last rule of the game?” She steps into me, and her grin turns mischievous. “Your tattoos. I have an all-consuming need to see all six of them.”

I hum. “My pants would have to come off for that.”

“What a shame.” She pops my top button, and I grab her hands.

“I’m going to flip the sign and lock the door. Give me just a second.”

She calls after me, “Don’t want to play it fast and loose, Mr. Bloom?”

I throw up the BACK IN 15 sign and lock the dead bolt. With a flick of my fingers, I push the phone off the hook as I return to the back room.

She’s sitting at the head of my worktable, kicking her legs innocently. I haven’t had a chance to clean it up yet from the rose wall and a few other projects, so she’s sitting next to potting dirt and running stray petals through her fingertips. She taps the edge of the table near her knee. “Did you do this?”

I look down and see my initials carved into the corner of the table, where I’d sat doing homework when I was a kid. “Yeah.”

“You’re a rebel. Defacing property?”

“Mm-hmm.” I come closer, slipping easily into the space between her knees. She’s wearing a dress, like she always does, and I push it up her thighs as I press my mouth to hers. Still holding the rose petal, her hands cover my cheeks and jaw. She tries to force me to kiss her differently—harder, faster—but I rub my thumbs over her thighs and keep it slow.

Her hands continue their path down my buttons, and soon she’s pushing my shirt off my shoulders and shoving up my undershirt. Once it’s off, she runs her palms over the violet on my ribs. My breath is coming quickly by the time she kisses over my jaw, down my neck, and travels past my chest to my ribs. The first swipe of her tongue over the purple petals makes my stomach tighten. She kisses it, and sweet little moans pop out of her throat.

I pull her face back to mine and let my tongue sweep through her mouth. My arm snakes around her waist, dragging her closer to the edge of the table. She helps me tug her dress from under her and toss it off and into a corner. My hands want to be everywhere at once.

“You know this is the first time we’ve gotten this undressed?” She laughs.

“I’m well aware,” I mutter, staring at the lace over her breasts, the small slip of it between her legs. I attach my lips to her neck and track my hands over her skin. Her hands are in my hair, and her knees tighten around my hips when I suck on her throat. My fingers tug down the lace over one breast, and air whines out of her lungs as my thumb passes over her nipple.

She’s tugging at the button on my jeans, but I pull her away. “Wait.”

She huffs. “I can’t.”

I kiss her firmly, and then push her to lie back. She tears her bra off with greedy fingers and easily opens her legs to me. There are rose petals scattered everywhere, potting dirt unswept, but she stretches her muscles and invites me to press my mouth to her skin.

I lean over her, kissing just below her breast and trailing down. Her fingers slide into my hair and push me lower. I’m sucking at the skin between her belly button and her underwear when she sits up on one elbow and says, “Please, Elliot. Please, faster.”

I look up at her, the planes of her naked body between us. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a few months, so if you could be patient, that’d be great.”

She groans and drops back to the table, her hands scrabbling at her face and neck.

I switch to kissing the inside of her thigh, and she reaches up, behind her head, and I watch her fingers tangle in the rosebuds on the table. They crumble in her fingertips, flower petals bursting.

I push her panties to the side and taste her, my tongue slipping slowly over her center.

She chokes out a moan, and her knees come up to bracket my ears. I push them open again, holding them down to the table, and when I flick my tongue over her clit, her hips jerk. She mutters incoherent things as my mouth gets to know her. She tastes perfect. My lips latch over her, and I suck.

A long groan pushes out of her throat, and her hands tug at my hair again. I can smell the earth and roses under her fingernails. It mingles with her scent into something I could bottle. Her thighs start shaking under my hands, and I push them upward, opening her. She’s cussing and yelling at me and talking to herself. I glance up at her, and she’s watching me. There’s soil and rose petals stuck to her skin. One pink petal is placed perfectly next to her nipple, and I groan at the sight.

My lips and tongue suck at her clit, and her hips jerk against my face, begging me for more.

My hand leaves her thigh, and I slip one finger against her entrance. The sounds she makes are feral as I push inside of her. She comes instantly, fluttering around my finger, hands holding my face against her. She squeals, and I’ll never forget the sound, the smell.

I keep sucking as her hips relax. Tiny tremors seize her every so often, and she can’t catch her breath.

“Elliot,” she says, her voice almost gone. “Please.”

I slip from her and unzip my jeans. She sits up in a flash, scooting closer to the edge of the table and dragging my mouth to her. She kisses me like she’s searching for the taste of her. I pull myself out of my boxer briefs, and she stops me.

“Off,” she rasps. “Take them off.”

She wants to see the tattoos.

I toe off my shoes and push my jeans to the floor. Her eyes pass my cock and land on the red flower on my right thigh. “What is it?” she pants.

“St. Helena mountain bush. It went extinct only twenty years ago.”

Her fingers wrap around my cock, pumping me. She whispers against my lips, “Where’s the final one?”

I take her hand off me so I can turn, showing her the side of my calf. “Valerianella affinis.”

She licks her lips, and before she can ask me questions about it, I drag her mouth back to mine. I pull her knees around my waist and line my cock up to enter her. I push in slowly, and she still tightens like she’s suddenly on the edge again. With shallow thrusts, I move inside of her. Her breasts press against my chest, and I can feel the dirt and roses between us, mixing into the sweat.

“Fuck,” she moans against me.

I tug her knee up, and push in further.

“Oh fuck!”

We’re panting into each other’s mouths as I bottom out inside of her over and over. My hand falls to her breast, and it fills my palm.

“Vietnamese orchid, Benjamin Franklin tree, kadupul,” she says against my jaw. “Cry violet, St. Helena … and Valer—Valerianella—”

“Affinis. Yes.” I kiss her cheek. My hips have started to jerk. I let my fingers start to rub her clit.

“Vietnamese. Franklin”—she pauses to moan, and I can see her eyes rolling back—“cry violet and kadupul. St. Helena, Valerianella affinis—”

“And amaryllis,” I hum into her ear.

She tightens. I feel her stop breathing. She chokes, drawing a ragged breath. There’s no room inside of her, but I fuck her like I belong there.

“Amaryllis. Ama.” I pant. “Ama.”

Her fingernails are scratching patterns into my back. She’s barely making any sound, and then she’s gasping for breath. She yelps in small uneven patterns, and her walls flutter over and over.

I wrap my arm around her waist, melding her to me. There’s nowhere for me to go, but I grind against her, murmuring her name into her neck until I come. The pleasure blinds me. I think I bite down on her skin. My hips are still jerking against her, searching for more.

When I can breathe again, I pull back to look at her. She’s wrung out entirely. Her eyes are heavy, and her chest rises and falls. Her tits are covered in flower petals and soil, her nipples tight and begging for more attention.

She pants against my face, and her hands drag over my hair, my cheeks.

“You’re fucking incredible,” she wheezes, and I feel my chest inflate at the praise.

I’m opening my mouth to say something back to her when a harsh knock sounds at the front door.

I glare over my shoulder in the general direction of the front. “I put a sign up. I guess it should have said, ‘Getting Laid, Back in an Hour.’”

She laughs through her thin breathing and pulls my face back. Her mouth moves sensuously over mine. If she hadn’t just said that she’s not a relationship person, I would probably tell her I love her right now, as our sweat dries with dirt and roses.

Because I think I do. I’ve never wanted someone like this—their body, their conversation, their mind—

My phone rings from my jeans pocket. I frown down at our rumpled clothes on the ground. When I locate it, my phone screen flashes mom at me.

I wince and answer it. “Mom?” Ama’s brows jump to her hairline.

“Where are you? Why is the shop closed?”

Human language evaporates from my brain. “I—I … what?” I gesture to Ama to get dressed and grab my underwear.

“The shop is closed,” she says slowly. “What’s wrong?”

“Right. I’m not feeling well. So, yeah. I closed the shop.” My jeans sound too loud as I fumble my legs into them.

“Your truck is here,” she says, voice flat.

“I’m at Rite Aid. Getting medicine.”

“Sweetheart”—her voice changes from suspicious to motherly in an instant—“what kind of medicine? I have a whole pharmacy in my purse.”

“No, it’s fine.” I leave my undershirt on the floor and grab my button-up. Ama is only in her bra and underwear. “I’m just going to go home.”

“Let me drive you. I’ll meet you in your parking lot.”

My head doesn’t work anymore when I say, “No. No, that’s okay. It’s a head cold or something. And I’m—” I cram one boot back on. “I’m already back. Coming in the back door.”

Ama looks at me like I’m a nutcase, and I probably am because Mom says, “I didn’t even see you cross the street. You honestly didn’t see me at the front door?”

I can’t get my heel in my other boot, so I just limp out of the back room, pointing to Ama to slip out the back door to the parking lot.

“Here I am,” I say loudly. Mom hears me through the phone and from inside the shop and turns around, hanging up.

I unbolt the door and open it, and Mom looks me over like she knows I’ve been fucking someone on Dad’s old worktable. Her hand comes to my forehead immediately, pressing her fingertips all over my neck and cheeks.

“You look terrible.”

“Right. I know.”

“And you’re covered in dirt.”

“Flowers,” I say, as if it explains it away.

I may just pass out and add to this whole sickness scheme.

She pushes past me into the shop, and I’m hoping I just heard the back door shut.

“Elliot, you need a second clerk. When you get sick like this, you can’t just shut down the store.”

“You’re right. Yep. What brings you by?”

I almost applaud myself for changing the subject until I see Ama’s purse on the counter. I sidestep around my mother and block her view with my back as I drop it behind the register.

“Well, I have some news, but I think we could wait until you’re feeling better.”

My mother is not one to wait for “news.” She interrupted one of my birthday parties once to announce that her bill had been signed. I watch her push her black hair over one ear and smile at me.

“What’s the news? You can tell me,” I say.

Just then, the shop door yanks open, Dad’s bell rings, and Ama steps in with a wide smile. Blood drains from my face.

“Elliot, just the man I wanted to see!” she says, in a false chipper tone. “Oh, sorry.” She pretends to spot my mother. “I didn’t see you had a client. I’ll wait over here!”

As she turns to look at the orchids along the far wall, I see there’s dirt smeared over her neck, and a rose petal stuck in her hair.

And so does my mother.

So that’s how I’ll shuffle off this mortal coil.

My mother turns to me slowly, brows raised. When I can think of absolutely nothing to say, she prompts, “Elliot, introduce me to your friend.”

I clear my throat, but it still rasps. “Ama, this is my mother.”

Ama spins around, looking innocently surprised. “Oh, Senator Gilbert! It’s an honor to meet you.” They shake hands, and all I can think is that there’s probably dirt under her nails too.

“Ama is a wedding planner,” I say. “She used to work under Whitney Harrison. We work together a lot. She knew Dad.”

It’s like diarrhea.

My mother smiles at her. “That’s lovely. What kind of weddings do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

To her credit, Ama falls easily into business, telling my mother exactly what her style is and what she brings to her clients. Mom asks about a specific wedding she went to last year and guesses correctly that it was Ama’s design.

They’re getting along like gasoline and a box of matches, and I’m over here sweating.

“Well, I just wanted to stop by and ask Elliot if I left my purse here yesterday,” Ama says confidently.

“You did.” I grab it from behind the counter.

“Silly me!” Ama takes it from me. “It was wonderful to meet you, Senator. Elliot, I’ll see you this weekend—for the Bigg-Mosby wedding,” she rushes to add.

When she’s gone through the front door, I busy myself clicking things on the computer.

“She’s very sweet,” Mom says. “Pretty.”

“Is she? Sure. Maybe. Short.”

“Elliot, she took her car keys out of that purse on her way out the door. That’s not something she’d forget yesterday.”

I press my lips together and bite down on my tongue.

“So,” Mom starts slowly, “I guess you don’t have to mention girlfriends to me, but—”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I hurry out, remembering how Ama didn’t want that. “But … I do feel strongly about her.”

A smile spreads over Mom’s face. “Well, then I’m glad I met her. Could I maybe meet her again sometime?”

I nod, mortification flushing my cheeks. “Sure. What’s your news?”

Mom pivots like she does when she debates: new topic, new energy, new smile. She moves closer to the counter and clears her throat.

“Stefan proposed. Last night.”

I’m surprised to hear it, even though I knew this was coming. “That’s great. Congratulations, Mom,” I say with a real smile.

Stefan is great. Last month, he asked me for my blessing, and I was happy to give it. They’ve been together for two years. Their first date was two nights before my dad died, and I really appreciated Stefan sticking around for all of it.

“You can be uncomfortable, if you’d like,” Mom says.

I roll my eyes. That’s how she was growing up too. You can throw a tantrum, if you’d like. You can fail biology, if it makes you happy.

“I’m not uncomfortable. I do like him.”

“Good,” she says. Then softly, “No one should have to wait for happiness a second longer than they have to.” She smiles and pivots again. “Will Blooming do our wedding?”

“Of course.” I pull up the calendar. “Do you have any details yet?”

“I’d like to get it done before the end of the year,” she says matter-of-factly. Get it done. “Maybe December?”

“It’s quick, but it’s fine for me,” I say.

“Should I hire Ama?”

My gaze jumps to her to see if she’s serious. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

She laughs. “Why? Wouldn’t it be great for her business?”

“She literally just told you what she does. Weddings for politicians at the Sutter Club wasn’t one of them.”

“Her style sounds lovely.” She plucks imaginary lint off her blouse. “And she worked under that pretentious bitch, so I’m sure she knows the Sutter Club already.”

Mom never liked that Whitney talked Dad into that discount. That, and before Ama, Whitney had absolutely no taste in her designs and used to steamroll Dad into really tacky arrangements instead of taking his advice.

I sigh. “If you think it’s a good idea, then I’m sure Ama would appreciate the opportunity.”

There’s a sparkle in my mother’s eyes when she grins at me and says, “I’d love her number.”