Page 2 of Forget Me Not
I bite the inside of my lip, gnawing hard on a chunk of raised flesh. Then I sit up, head swimming from the sudden movement.
Of course I’m coming
I finally respond.
Getting in the shower now.
Studying my toes, dirt and hot water swirling fast down the drain, it’s hard not to reflect on the irony of it all. On my attempted rinsing of sins, that frenzied cleansing. Ten whole years spent clawing my way into the investigative unit atThe New York Journal—a form of atonement, no doubt; a therapist’s dream—and the fact that it took ten seconds for me to flush it all away.
All that progress just suddenly gone, slipped straight through my fingers before vanishing completely like the water beneath me.
I’m on the sidewalk thirty minutes later, a cotton dress grazing my knees and strands of wet hair still stuck to my neck. My skin feels slick, a thin film of sweat dampening everything. Growing up in the South, you’d think I’d be used to the summer heat, the general state of discomfort for six months of each year, but July in New York is its own brand of unbearable. I keep my head down as I walk, eyes on my feet as I sidestep the drunken stumblers, the glammed-up girls heading out for a night of indulgence. Narrow heels navigating the sidewalk grates enveloped in clouds of lavender deodorant and honey perfume.
I pass a few bars bulging at the seams, restaurants with diners sitting close over quivering wicks, before finally ducking into the dark entrance of Vern’s, a grungy little tavern I know Ryan only picked due to its proximity to my apartment, the minimal effort it would require for me to come.
Which, of course, makes me feel infinitely worse for forgetting.
I step inside, feeling my eyes adjust to the dark before I take a deep breath, the sour smell of spilt beer mixing with the stink of too many people in too small of a space. Then I scan the room slowly, taking in the cheap fluorescent lights hanging from strings on the ceiling, wet napkins stuck to the wood of the bar. There are dollar bills tacked to every inch of the wall, edges curling from the eternal damp. This isn’t Ryan’s usual scene, a nonchalance so deliberate it feels manufactured.
Like this whole party is his attempt at downplaying it all, the promotion I had been working toward for years being handed to him instead of to me.
I wander in further, ignoring the prying eyes of all my old colleagues. I return a couple sad smiles, keeping my chin parallel to the ground, before finally catching a glimpse of him from across the room, rolled-up sleeves revealing the veins in his forearms. His shirt is untucked, collar yawning wide enough to expose the nominalhair on his chest, and I let myself simply watch for a second. Watch the way he rests his weight onto the edge of the bar, fingers in the air as he attempts to get the bartender’s attention.
The way he dips his other hand into his pocket and checks his phone, the subtle disappointment as he slips it back in.
I run a hand through my hair, a half-hearted attempt at composing myself before sidling up beside him and sliding my way onto the stool by his side.
“Hey,” I say, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Sorry I’m late.”
Ryan turns toward me, finally, relief and surprise in equal measure. He didn’t actually think I’d show up.
“There she is,” he says, a pep in his voice as I avert my eyes, pulling my own phone out of my pocket and placing it face up on the bar. There’s a moment of silence between us, a handful of seconds when both of us are clearly trying to decide what to say next.
“Thank you for coming,” he says at last, and I watch as he starts to pick at a coaster, the cheap cardboard kind that begins to disintegrate once it gets wet.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I respond, even though, half an hour ago, that’s exactly what I was trying to do.
The bartender appears with a bottle of beer and Ryan pulls it toward himself, ordering another one for me. Then he turns in my direction again, a new expression in his eyes like he’s about to come clean with something important, something he’s been steeling himself to say, but just as his lips begin to part, a headline uncurls across a grid of TVs. Our noses turning like a pack of bloodhounds picking up scent.
BOYFRIEND FOUND GUILTY IN MURDER OF EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL
I hear awhoopfrom across the room before vaguely registering a second body as it appears beside us, the slap of a hand againstRyan’s broad shoulder. Then there’s a murmur of cheers, a round of shots, and I attempt to smile through it all, attempt to soften the perpetually sharp lines of my face, though I’m sure he can tell my expression is strained.
“So, regale me with tales about the life of the liberated,” he says at last, turning toward me once we’re alone again. “Still everything you hoped it would be?”
“Everything and more,” I lie, nodding at the bartender once she arrives with my drink. “Hours are good, the flexibility is nice.”
“No more meddling cubemates and cold pot coffee.”
“Yeah, that last guy was a real prick.”
Ryan chuckles, shakes his head.
“Working on anything interesting?”
I chew on my lip, not sure how to reveal that I’ve been working on absolutely nothing since the last time we talked. That after putting in a whole decade atThe Journalonly to be passed over for a promotion I was sure would be mine, I had quit in favor of freelance and was secretly starting to think I’d made a mistake. A few weeks of reflection had made me realize I had done it in haste, a bitter distaste for my boss mixing with a profound exhaustion at having spent the last ten years working the police blotter. My stories amounting to nothing more than a summarization of the most mundane murders, the way they usually are.
Another gas station robbery, another pistol-whipped kid just trying to buy drugs.
