Page 64 of Forget Me Not

I singlehandedly wrecked my entire life today. And I’m not even sure why I did it. Everything was just crashing down around me all at once and all I could think was I wanted out. Out from the chaos and the rubble. I needed to break free, to breathe. Now that I’m here, alone, air seems a lot less important.

My stomach growls and I feel faint. The idea of food makes me want to start running away again, but frankly, given the total energy drain this day has proven to be, I think I need it if I want to keep from passing out. And, since I’ve done everything in my power to make sure no one will ever find me if I black out, clobber my head on the way down and bleed to death on my living room floor, I should probably take the necessary steps to prevent that from happening.

Listless and with minimal conscious thought involved, I made it to my fridge much like I imagined I got home, on autopilot. There’s a pizza box in there. Pizza seems easy enough.

My mind hazy with images of Reed and Gun overlapping and my vision blurry from the subsequent stream of never-ending tears, I shuffle my feet over the hardwood, making my way to the oven in slow motion. I drop the door and prepare to reach in for the cookie sheet I know Gun keeps in here. I stop. The pizza box slides from my hand, box cracking open, leftover slices sliding out onto the floor. I barely notice. My eyes are glued to the oven, unable to see anything except the stack of pancakes staring back at me.

“I need to get out of here.” And there’s only one place left to go.

***

“Cooper?” Mags draws back in surprise as soon as she sees me. She’s got paint on her pants and her long hair flares red in the sunlight, showing off a dye job she hasn’t kept up on in at least three months. Same old Mags.

“I need...” What do I need? It seemed so obvious when I walked out of the house last night that this was the only place on earth I wanted to be.

“To come home?” she offers, smiling sadly.

Tears push their way to the surface yet again. I fight them back to no avail. They’re coming. They’re rolling. They’re out of control. Just like everything else in my life.

“Yes, please,” I mumble, just as she steps out, wrapping both arms around me in the sort of hug that almost makes you believe all will be well in the end.

“I have cake,” she whispers in my ear and I smile involuntarily. Same old Mags.

“I could eat cake,” I admit, giving in to the grin on my face. “I could eat a lot of it.”

She pinches my waist, smirking. “Indeed you could. Thank God, I made frosting. Good grief, girl. Haven’t you heard? Curves are in!” She practically pushes me inside her house, guiding me straight to the kitchen. I could have found it on my own. I never lived here, but I have made the occasional visit since she moved.

“I have curves,” I insist.

“Frowns don’t count.” She ushers me straight to the barstool closest to the end and leaves me there to get settled while she busies herself with dessert.

I could continue to argue with her about my weight and whether or not I’m the stick figure she makes me out to be, I’m not. I know I’m not. Well, I’m not completely. I have curves, they’re just notsupercurvy. Not like I haven’t tried. I’ve had my share of ice cream and cookie dough depressions. All it ever did was make me hyper though. Super pumped while you’re mega mopey is not a pretty combo.

Besides, she’s not really picking on my weight. Just making me think about trivial shit that means nothing to either of us so I’m distracted long enough to stop crying while she piles on the cake for me.

“Try this,” she says, handing me a spoon essentially coated in chocolate.

“OHMAGAWD,” I moan, sucking it clean.

“Right?” She doesn’t bother with a spoon herself, just sticks her finger straight in the bowl. “Chocolate cream cheese ganache. Just made it, that’s why it’s still gooey.”

“Can I have the bowl?” I ask, sort of joking. I’ll totally eat the whole thing though if she takes me seriously.

“You look like you need it.” She sighs dramatically, handing it over. “Now, tell mewhyyou need it.”

“I screwed up,” I say, my mouth all gummy with melted ganache.

“I figured as much.” She pulls a barstool up beside me and climbs into it. “Care to be more specific?”

I hold the spoon in my mouth far longer than necessary. “Nu-uh.”

“More fun for me,” she announces, coming back at my bowl with her finger. “I get to guess.”

I watch her slurp chocolate from her finger, her dramatic thinking face already in action. “Here goes: You spent seven years pining for something only to find out you already had it, and to punish yourself for being so oblivious all this time, you’ve given it up now that you could have it and actually appreciate it.”

I almost drop my spoon. Speechless.

She shrugs. “B called. After Ed called him. Who talked to Gun.”

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