Forget Me Not by Julie Soto

24

Elliot

TWO YEARS, NINE MONTHS, ONE WEEK, AND ONE DAY AGO

New Year’s Eve

The night before my mother’s wedding, Ama is up all night.

I know this, because she keeps me up all night.

At two a.m., she turns to me and shakes me awake. “Hey. Hey.”

I rub my face. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m gonna take a bath.”

I stare at her blearily. “Okay.”

“You don’t have a tub,” she says.

“Okay.”

“So, do you want to come with me to my place or stay here?”

I suck in a deep breath and suppress a yawn. “I guess … I can come with you.”

She beams and says, “Good.”

Then she rolls toward me, presses her body against mine, and kisses me so deeply that I’m suddenly very awake. My hand threads into her hair, holding her head in place, and I kiss her back. I indulge in the feeling of her body pressed against my side, the way her hips start to press into me. She whispers against my mouth, “Will you take a bath with me?”

“Will I fit in your tub?” I chuckle.

She reaches down, cups her hand over my groin, and says playfully, “Oh, I’ll make you fit.”

Then she tumbles out of bed and starts dressing and getting what she’ll need for tomorrow. I’m hard as a rock, still trying to get my jeans on by the time she’s ready at the door.

She talks a mile a minute in the truck on the way to her place, walking through the plans for tomorrow and the potential sticky areas. When we reach her house, she’s so focused on the wedding that I start to lose hope that I’ll be having sex or sleeping anytime soon.

But she walks into her house, greets the cat, and starts stripping, all while finishing the list of things to do in the morning. When her jeans are kicked off, she looks at me and says, “Are you gonna take a bath?”

“Uh … sure.” I follow her to the bathroom and strip while she starts the water and complains about the caterer.

“If he rushes my courses again, then that’s the last time I’m using him,” she says, reaching for bath salts. “Do you think he respects me? I don’t think he respects me.”

I nod. I agree. I listen. But I’ve accepted the fact that I just drove fifteen miles at two thirty in the morning to squeeze into this bathtub and listen to Ama wheel-spin. It’s fine. I may fall asleep, slip under, and drown. But it’s fine.

She’s lighting candles, turning off lights, and setting music to play on her phone. But she’s also getting worked up about seating arrangements.

“If I hear from the governor’s assistant one more time about where he’s sitting, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

She points at the tub and I stumble to it, slipping into the warm water, the perfect temperature for dozing off. I lean my head back on the tiles and listen as she rants about one of Mom’s high school friends who didn’t RSVP.

She steps into the tub and sits between my legs, bringing the water dangerously close to the top. She’s still talking a mile a minute when she leans back against my chest and takes one of my hands, bringing it between her thighs.

“Do you—do you want to take a breath?” I stutter out.

“A breath? What do you mean?”

“You can just relax. Let your mind drift.” I let my fingers dance over her core to let her get the message.

She turns over her shoulder to me and says, “This is me relaxing.”

I bite back a smile and say, “Go on.”

The venue coordinator is the next topic for discussion. She leans her head back on my shoulder and vents until she’s gasping, moaning about time frames and condescending emails.

“If she thinks—if she thinks she can steamroll me—then—then—”

When Ama comes on my fingers with a soft groan, it’s the quietest she’s been for the last half hour. I think momentarily that she’s fallen asleep, but then she tilts her face to mine and kisses me.

“Thank you. You always know what I need,” she says.

I push her hair away from her face and ask, “What else do you need? What’s your to-do list?”

She breaks down her worries, her regrets. I don’t comment. I just allow her brain to organize. When she grows quiet, I reach forward and unplug the drain. I wrap her in a towel and carry her to her bedroom. I make sure the alarm is set and the coffee is prepared. When I pull back the covers to slip in next to her, she rolls toward me and says sleepily, “What if I’m forgetting something?”

“You’re not.”

“What if something goes terribly wrong?”

I pull her closer to me, and she lets herself curl into my side. “It won’t. And if it does, you’ll fix it. You’re amazing like that.” I kiss her hair. “AmazingAma.”

She snorts a laugh, and I almost say it. I almost say I love you.

But I don’t know that she wants me to. I think we could be together for forty years with twenty kids, and she still wouldn’t want to hear it. So I hold her until her breathing evens out, and whisper it soundlessly, like a prayer.

My mother’s second wedding is beautiful. And every chance she gets, my mother tells her guests that she owes it all to her wedding planner and her son. The Sutter Club—a members-only event venue for the Sacramento elite—is a common wedding venue, but not like this. This is exceptionally done, and I just know that my mother’s friends will be recommending Laura Gilbert’s wedding planner for years to come.

Ama is stressed until the first dance. When “At Last” plays, I see a visible tension drain from her. She looks at me for what feels like the first time since the bathtub this morning.

Earlier today, Ben and I set up the floral in the ceremony room and the reception room, and then I had to go get showered and dressed, so really, I haven’t seen her. All through cocktail hour and dinner, I’ve had to sit through my mother’s friends asking if I’m seeing anyone and then immediately pulling out their contacts to set me up with someone. And the entire time, I’ve wanted to scream to the entire room that I’m perfectly happy with the perfect person—and she’s right over there. I’m sure I’ll have to put up with a few calls about blind dates in the next month, but I’ll manage.

As the first dance ends, Ama checks in with the DJ and hands the reception to him. I excuse myself from the table I’ve hardly paid any attention to and follow her to the kitchen.

“Amazing,” I tell her, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She beams at me. “You think? It went well, right?”

“Perfectly. I don’t know if you’ve ever done a better job.”

She laughs, a sound like bubbling joy, and says she’ll be right back.

As the reception moves into bittersweet ballads and jazzy up-tempos, I wait for her near the kitchen. When she comes back, “The Way You Look Tonight” is playing, and I turn to her.

“Would you consider it too unprofessional if I asked the wedding planner to dance?”

She bites back a smile and agrees without a second thought.

I take her hand and lead her to the dance floor. I expect her to insist we stay in the shadows, like we have for half a year now, but she lets me put a hand on her waist and hold her palm in my other. She lets me take her into the center, a passing glance away from my mother. And she smiles at me the whole time. I have to focus on the soft look in her eyes and the warmth of her waist to keep myself from saying I love you. I can tell it’s going to get harder and harder as time goes on.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

“Just … how happy I am.”

She snorts, like I’ve taken her by surprise. “I’m happy too.” She seems to think a minute, and then starts fiddling with her clipped bag—which is clearly a fanny pack, no matter which way she cuts it. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Okay.”

She pulls out an envelope, hands it to me, and then places her arms around my neck so we can still dance while I open it. There’s a piece of paper inside. An email exchange.

Dear Ama Torres,

Thank you for reaching out. Yes, we do have a Franklinia that we’re nurturing. It’s not part of the exhibit, but since your friend is such a fan, I would consider allowing him to visit the flower (with supervision) at any point in the future.

Let me know if you ever make it over here, and I’ll happily give you a tour.

Frank Hitchkins,

Arnold Arboretum Manager

Harvard University

I blink down at the words, reading them over and over. When I look up at her, she’s smiling nervously.

“Wanna get away?” she says, laughing. “I was thinking in the fall, when its leaves are red. Harvard’s one of the only arboretums that has the Franklin tree, and I …” She swallows and places one hand on my right forearm, where the tattoo is. “I want you to see it.”

There’s a bubbling inside me. It’s so strong and addictive. I had a good childhood, so it’s not like I’ve never received an excellent present before. But it’s the surprise from someone who knows you on a level no one else will—someone who’s opened up your chest and fit themselves inside.

I look down at the email again. The Franklinia. And she knows it’s my favorite even though I never told her.

I glance at my mother, just a few couples away. She’s beaming at Stefan, in a different way than she looks at anything in her life. It’s something I’ve seen in the mirror a few times over the past six months.

The brewing in my chest rises. My eyes prick and my throat tightens to keep the words inside of me. But I look at her—at her—and I see that she doesn’t need me to say thank you. Because she knows how well her arrow landed.

She smiles softly at me, and says, “I think … I think I may be falling in love with you.”

My heart thumps. I can’t believe she said it first. I can’t believe I have permission to say it.

Her eyes flick up to mine hesitantly, as if she ever needed to doubt I’d say it back.

There’s a flower in my chest, just now starting to meet sunlight, finally blossoming. I can hear my mother laugh at something Stefan says to her, but I can’t take my eyes off Ama. I hear my mother’s happiness in her laughter—I’ve seen it. No one should have to wait for happiness a second longer than they have to.

Mom’s right. If you know it’s forever, why wait?

Ama’s eyes are bright and brown and lovely as I say, “Marry me.”

Those eyes blink once.

My skin buzzes and my chest aches, but I’m not afraid.

She smiles. Breath pushes out of her in a laugh. “What? No.”

I can’t hear it at first with the blood rushing in my ears. But I see her smile fade, and her brows draw together. And the bubbling in my throat turns to bile.

I place my hand on her waist. “Ama—”

“Why would you—” She shakes her head. I see her chest rise and fall rapidly. “I told you I didn’t want to.” Her eyes are accusatory. I feel chastised.

“You … you said you didn’t believe in marriage, but that was before—”

“What? Before you?” She’s squinting at me like I’m nothing.

“Yes,” I fight back. “Yes, before me. Before you gave it a chance.”

“I was never going to give marriage a chance, Elliot. That was never in the cards,” she hisses.

She lifts a hand off my shoulder to rub her brow, and looks around us, as if realizing for the first time we’re in the middle of a wedding.

I want to leave. I want to get out of here and drive my truck into a brick wall, but I know if I leave, I’ll never see her again. I just know it.

“What’s the next step then, Ama?”

She breathes roughly. “What?”

“When you have feelings for someone like you do about me, what do you envision is the next logical step?” I say, trying to keep the sickness in my chest from turning on her. “We continue as we have for the next seventy years? Maybe you move in, but that’s—that’s the end?”

Her nostrils flare at me. “I don’t know! I told you I don’t do relationships—”

“And yet here we are.” She stares at me, like I’ve disappointed her somehow. “I mean, Ama”—a hollow laugh bursts out of me—“you want to merge our businesses, but you don’t want to date me?”

“That’s business, not a marriage proposal, Elliot—”

“You want to go to Napa next month, and Boston next fall, but you ‘don’t want a long-term relationship’?”

Her eyes are wide, mouth open. I see her try to speak. She looks terrified of something.

“I don’t know,” she squeaks out. “I don’t know, Elliot. Everything was going so good. Just as it was. But you knew I didn’t want to get married, and you did this anyway?”

I know she’s right. I know she said it, and I thought it would change. But there’s so much happening in my chest, so much regret, so much I’m losing at this exact moment, that I can’t stop myself trying to turn it back on her.

“And why is that? Because of your mom? Because fourteen times now she’s made bad decisions, and you think that’s just life?” She glares at me, but I can’t stop talking. “Do you really think it’s hereditary, Ama? That if we get married—hell, if you say the word relationship—you’ll open up some kind of door to your own fourteen marriages?”

“No, it’s because marriages end! Relationships end!”

I shake my head and correct her, “Can end. May end. And because you don’t want us to end, you don’t even want a beginning?” Softly, I ask, “Ama, if we’re not in a relationship by now—what are we?”

She bites her lip, and a tear breaks past her eyelashes. “I don’t know … I don’t know what I’m doing. This was a mistake.”

I feel her step back, and I follow her, tightening my grip on her waist. The physical sensation of her pulling away from me triggers the realization that she’s doing it internally as well.

“Ama, wait.”

Her lips press together, and her eyes are shining with tears. I feel her body trembling and I realize how badly I just fucked this.

“I love you,” I tell her. “I’ve loved you. I can’t imagine losing this, but I only wanted more—for a second. That’s all it was,” I say, as if I hadn’t been wanting more for six months. Longer. I squeeze her waist. “I jumped the gun. I never thought I’d hear you say ‘I love you,’ and then you did. It made me think I could have everything, but I moved too fast, okay? Let’s forget this.”

“You can’t unsay it,” she whispers.

“Watch me. It’s unsaid, okay?”

“I’ll always know what you want, and what I can’t give you,” she says, and a tear tumbles down her cheek.

“That’s bullshit. I want you to give up your damn cat, and you won’t do it, so we already have these problems—”

“Don’t try to joke about this,” she hisses.

There’s a flash of light next to us, and we both turn to see the wedding photographer, taking the picture of the couple behind us. As he turns to us, she puts her hands on my shoulders and looks past my ear. There’s a flash.

I’m staring at her, memorizing her. My palm sweeps over her hip, pulling her closer to me by the small of her back. She allows it.

“It never happened,” I say in her ear. “You’ll never hear about it again.”

She’s quiet. And then she shakes her head softly. “I should have never gotten involved with you.”

It hits me like a bullet between the eyes. I clench my teeth to keep from screaming at her.

“We’re coworkers in this industry,” she continues, whispering into my collar. “It’s completely unprofessional. I always do this.”

I scoff, and it’s meaner than I’d like. “You always get involved in half-year relationships with your vendors?”

She shifts back, and I let her. She looks defeated. “I confuse business and fun. I make a mess.”

Fire scratches at my throat. “Is that Whitney talking?”

“She’s right. I’ll never—I’ll never survive in this industry if I can’t be professional.”

“Great. So we’re breaking up because you want to be a better wedding planner.”

Her eyes turn to ice. “We’re breaking up because you proposed. And because I never should have fucked you in the first place. This whole thing is a mistake.”

This time when she steps back, she slips out of my arms. I try to make my fingers reach for her, but they don’t.

“I have to check on the kitchen cleanup,” she mutters. When she turns on her heel, she snakes into the crowd and disappears.

I’m left with an email in one hand and the memory of her warmth in the other.

I stuff the paper in my pocket and walk the opposite direction.