Forget Me Not (3 page)

I lie down and push my yearbook away. I’ve cried myself dry, and so with raw eyes I drag the pillow over my head and beg for sleep to take me. I wonder if by accepting that he’ll never come back I have gained the closure I’ve sought after for years. It certainly feels like some form of acceptance. Maybe by reliving this hurt and understanding that he’ll never be a part of my life again, fleeting or not, I can finally let him go.

I drift off, hopeful, but that night I dream about the dangerous blue eyes of Jesse.

Chapter 4

The next few days are spent trying to keep busy so that my thoughts are kept from navigating towards Jesse. With the reunion tomorrow, I find myself upping the efforts. While I’ve distracted myself with yet another busy afternoon at work Benji has enjoyed time with Emma, her husband, Tom, and their daughter, Lily, who also happens to be Benji’s best friend.

Cooking dinner for myself and Benjamin on his return gives me a good excuse to keep busy. He’s full of energy, animatedly informing me of how they spent the day in the park, and how they ate hotdogs for lunch. I suspect a copious amount of candy passed their lips too from the evidence before me. Benji’s been bouncing around the living room for the last twenty minutes, stopping only to demonstrate a cartwheel or karate kick.

He barely touches his lasagna but instead speaks spiritedly about all of the things Tom did with them. His eyes are wide with excitement as he recalls how Tom can lift him above his head and that he can play soccer better than Mommy. I nod and smile encouragingly, but inside my heart wilts. The only father figure Benji’s had in his life is his grandpa. My father is a great dad and grandpa, but it’s not the same.

Benji never seemed to be aware that he didn't have a father in his life until he started kindergarten. Seeing all of the other moms and dads must have had an impact, and eventually he asked about our situation and why he didn't have a daddy. It broke my heart explaining to him that his father’s unable to look after us both right now, but that he loves him very much. I rationalized his absence by saying that I was both Mommy and Daddy, for now. He accepted this as it was all he needed. Since then, he has mentioned his daddy only a handful of times and only in passing. I have never asked Benji about his feelings towards him, believing that there was plenty of time for that. Now, listening to Benji regale so happily about his time spent with someone else’s daddy, I feel like that time is closing in.

Walking him up the stairs to bed I worry that it’ll be a long time before his energy subsides enough for him to sleep, so I sit with him reading story after story.

"Time to sleep now, sweetheart," I wh
isper as I turn out his bedside light.

"I love you, Mommy," he says softly into my ear before turning over. My eyes fill with happy tears and I smile my first genuine smile since the salon.

My bag is packed and sitting by the front door. My dress is suspended from a clothes hanger attached to my curtain pole. Benji's overnight bag is hanging on the coat peg ready for his sleepover at his grandma and grandpa's.

Everything is ready for Friday. Everything, except me.

Evidence of my interrupted sleep bruises my eyes and my usual color seems to have drained from my face. I manage a couple of mouthfuls of toast for breakfast before I give in to my nausea, opting for a quick coffee instead.

Feeling completely uncomfortable in my mind, I seek security in my body and opt for my little Michaela uniform. I dress in my skinny jeans and my Ramones t-shirt before tugging on some black, biker style ankle boots. It’s surprisingly warm outside, considering the rain that’s graced us this last week, but I still wrap myself in a thick cardigan, needing the extra comfort.

My parents collect Benji for a day and night of being spoilt rotten, and after handing over contact details for the hotel and saying my goodbyes they leave me and my nerves to meet Emma for a morning of pre-reunion pampering.

Feigning being relaxed is harder than it looks, but I’m trying. After having my hair cut and styled into long bouncy waves and my nails beautified with a deep burgundy, I’m now getting a lengthy pedicure. Closing my eyes, I roll my head back, yet calm still evades me. When I close my eyes I’m left alone with my thoughts, and that’s not helpful.

Emma is sat next to me, her feet dipped into a foot spa. She looks at me curiously before deciding to bite the bullet.

“So, are you nervous? You seem a lot calmer."

"I think I’m actually quite excited now. I can't remember the last time I got properly dressed up for a night out," I reply, fairly sincerely.

Emma doesn't believe me though. "You’re okay about seeing everyone?
Everyone
?”

"Yes,
everyone,
” I emphasize. “If you’re referring to Jesse, then there really is no need for me to be nervous. He won't be going."

"How do you know that?"

"Because, Em, he’s had more than enough reasons to come back before and he never has. Why would he come back for some stupid school reunion?" 

"Because he’d want to see you," Emma suggests, oblivious to the rhetorical edge implied in my argument.

"Emma, be serious. I’ve never moved and my parents still live in the exact same house. There are many ways he could find me if he wanted too, but he hasn't, and he never will." I allow myself to feel a little proud for being this open to the idea of never seeing Jesse again and it not ending me.

Emma frowns and inches a little closer in her seat. "What if I told you I had some inside information? Evidence that he
will
be in attendance."

My mouth drops, as does my heart. Right on cue, Cassie, I have learnt, interrupts to start work on Emma's nails, effectively cutting her tip in half. My freshly manicured fingers press against my mouth, holding in a million questions. How does Emma know this? Has she spoken to him? Has she seen him? Why’d she wait until now to tell me? The mask of bravado that I’ve been wearing all afternoon is slipping.

"How?" I blurt out. "Have you spoken to him?" My previous anxiety about tomorrow has returned twofold. I want to scream at her for neglecting to tell me sooner, but I’m stopped by her clear apprehension.

"Michaela, breathe," she whispers, holding my gaze. I do as I’m told, taking a deep breath. In and out. In and out. I squeeze my hands between my thighs and the trembles lessen enough for her to carry on. "There's a group on Facebook. It was set up for the reunion, and I saw that..."

"But he isn't on Facebook…" I interrupt.

Emma nods slowly as if talking to a child. "I know, but remember Smithy? Wayne Smith?" She pauses, waiting for a response. I manage a nod. "He was talking about who he’d spoken to about the reunion and Jesse was one of the names he mentioned. I wasn't going to say anything until later." She exhales loudly and I realize that she’s been holding her breath too. "I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything at all."

I look at Cassie and she is most professionally still painting Emma's toenails, appearing oblivious to our conversation and the sudden tension in the air. Okay, her tip is safe.

"No, I'm glad you did. I guess I just thought I’d dealt with it all."

Emma stretches her hand across and leaves it there, palm up. A little calmer now, I lean across and hold it, trying to smile at her.

"Is he friends with Smithy?" I ask.

"I don't think they’re close. I got the impression that they know each other through work." 

"Isn't Smithy a doorman or something? Why would he know Jesse still? Do you think Jesse is a doorman too?"

"I don't know what Jesse does, Mickey. I'm sorry, I should’ve asked."

This is unreal. This is the first snippet of information I’ve learnt about Jesse since his inexplicable disappearance. The first portion of proof that he’s still in existence, confirmation that he is even alive. I can’t deny that the wretched possibility of his death hasn’t haunted me. It would have explained why I could find no trace of him. Now to have some indication of his life after Starling, after me, is overwhelming. I take a moment to absorb this information.

A doorman? It doesn't fit. I guess he had that bad boy thing going for him at school, but that wasn't him. He knew how to defend himself, and he had plenty of practice at home, but he hated it. He hated feeling physical power over someone else. He’d learnt too much compassion for a job like that.

“It’s not your problem, Em,” I sigh.

She shrugs guiltily and I feel terrible for involving her in my drama. Emma must have been dreading telling me. We speak every day and yet we have never spoken about Jesse in this much depth. She daren’t, not when she was witness to the repercussions of his departure.

"Seriously, Em, don’t worry about it. I guess I’ll find out tonight anyway."

I smile again, but it's not real and Emma knows it. She still smiles back out of politeness and we spend the rest of our time here discussing the soaps. 

After Gina’s we head into town for some last minute things, both of us purchasing new makeup and I pick up my camera from work. I take her to Mo's Diner for lunch and relax in our shared memories of the place. She’s careful not to mention Jesse, but instead talks about how she had a major crush on the guy that used to work here, only to see him years later with his arms around another man. We laugh, I mean properly laugh, and I sense that Emma is working hard to dispel any nerves I may still be entertaining. It's not until we are back in the car heading for the hotel that Emma finds the courage to ask me how I am truly feeling.

"Okay,” I answer. “As long as I don't think too much about it." My eyes stay fixed on the road, but I can feel hers burning into me. "What?" I ask in mock annoyance. I look at her to see her squinting curiously.

"Nothing, I’m just trying to work you out. One minute you’re fine, then you’re all knotted up, and then you're fine again."

"I know…It's exhausting!" I giggle, and she responds equally. "Let's just pretend that I’m okay, and then we can deal with what happens if at any point I’m not."

"Okay. Deal." 

"And let's just get
really
drunk."

"Oh, please!"

An hour later and we’re in front of The Worcester Hotel and Bar. It’s a tall grey building with a vague cylindrical statue sitting in its courtyard. The parking lot is full and I find myself searching the cars. Which, if any, of these cars might be Jesse's? They house the possibility of so many lifestyles; different careers, personalities, tastes and paychecks. I don't even know where to begin in guessing which one could belong to him. I don't know him anymore. Years ago I could have written a book about my knowledge of Jesse Jenner. Now, I could barely write a sentence. If I do see him will it be like meeting a complete stranger?

We check in and eagerly make our way to our room. It’s been a while since I stayed somewhere as nice as this. Our room is simple and delicate in design with creams and gold’s cascading down the curtains and over the bedding. There are two single beds on opposite sides of the room with a dressing table between them and a small en suite in the corner. We unpack our belongings and call to check on the children back home. We have a couple of hours before we need to get ready so we decide to just chill out until it’s time to get ready.

This moment, right now, is one of the many moments that I’m thankful for my best friend. Emma has done the impossible and not only made me look beautiful, but instilled a sense of confidence in me. It’s amazing what a talented hand can do. I stand facing the full length mirror and smooth out the non-existent creases of my dress. My hair sits in loose curls at my shoulders and my makeup is the best it has ever been. My eyes are dressed in smoky eye shadow with lashings of mascara, and my skin appears flawless. My lips are nude with just a touch of sheer lip gloss. I thank Emma a million times. I could never have achieved this look myself. I feel ready for anything. Well, almost anything.

Emma looks stunning in her navy dress and her hair falls long and perfectly straight down her back. I manage to take some photos of us before we leave, actually feeling quite comfortable at being one of the subjects of my photography, rather than hiding behind the camera as standard.

Walking with our heads held high we make our way down the corridor to the elevator and out onto the ground level. We cross the marble floor of the foyer to a set of double doors where a silver banner stretches across the door frame. It reads
‘Class of 2002’
.

Chapter 5

Silver features strongly throughout the room. Circular tables covered with white linen are decorated with bunches of black and silver balloons, all adorned with the number ten. Metallic petals of confetti litter the floor and banners of different lengths and sizes border the entire room. The tables are all grouped to the right, just in front of the entrance and the room continues a long way to the left. At the far end of the room is a dance floor but the few people here seem to be in the middle at the bar. My thoughts exactly.

I grip Emma's hand tightly as we make our way to get drinks.

"Shall we just start on the gin already?" I suggest.

She giggles before realizing I am totally serious. "Oh, okay. And tonic?"

"Yeah, of course." I reply, slightly embarrassed by my eagerness.

As I fight the urge to tip the entire drink down my throat, I scan the room. The reunions attendee’s are sparse but the space is slowly filling up. Most people have come in pairs or groups and I gradually relax as I recognize more and more people. We wave shyly at a group of girls sat at one of the tables, but neglect to go and speak to them. Cheerleaders.

We sit ourselves at a large round table and are immediately joined by Sarah and Brett, part of our Mo’s Diner troupe. I begin to relax into the comfortable conversation and as people come and go, catching up and moving on, I find myself actually enjoying the evening.

That said,
I haven't been able to stop looking around for Jesse. It’s quite possible that I look as though I have an extreme nervous tic considering the way I’ve been arching my neck. My attempts have been in vain though, and the fuller the room gets the more difficult my search is becoming. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. My only recollection of Jesse is of an eighteen year old. He could have piled on the pounds or lost his beautiful dark hair. Maybe he is completely unrecognizable from his old self. Perhaps I am looking for a man who isn’t even here. All of this anxiety and fret has probably been for nothing.

As more old friends join our table the conversation flows easy, as does the wine. I’m laughing at something Brett has said when the table is interrupted by a pixie-haired blonde. She’s clutching a guestbook and pen and I recognize her immediately as Lizzie Jenks. She was the school busybody, always the first to know the gossip and the first to pass it on. Everyone takes turns signing and then continue with their conversations. Lizzie squeezes in beside me and hands me the book.

"I thought you’d be here with Jesse," she quips, cutting right to the core.

"No, just Emma. He’s not coming," I reply, writing in the book, trying to be as curt to her as she is to me.

"What do you mean? He
is
here. Look." She snatches back the book and her fingers shuffle through pages, scanning the columns of names with her beady eyes. "Look, here." She points and tilts the book at an angle for me to see.

Jesse Jenner. It's nice to be back
.

"Oh," I breathe. 

Emma must have been listening to our conversation because she grabs my hand and leans forward.

"I need the bathroom. Will you come with me, Michaela?" This isn't a question.

She pulls me gently from my chair and walks us both past the dance floor and towards the toilets, still holding her drink in her other hand. As we move I search every face for steely eyes, every man for signs of a Jesse I once knew, but nothing registers.

Emma has navigated us into the disabled toilets and locked the door behind us. She neatly places her drink on the floor before lowering the lid on the toilet and maneuvering me onto the seat. I’m not entirely sure what she’s doing, but I never argue with Emma.
You don’t argue with Emma.
I wait for an explanation but when nothing comes my eyes glide expectantly to hers. She’s staring at me from underneath a tightly knitted brow. 

“Breathe,” she instructs, adopting her most motherly of tones.

“What?”

“In and out.” Her hands sway backwards and forwards, to and fro, mimicking the air as if conducting a Lamaze class.

“Emma, what’re you doing?”

“Helping you calm…d-down?” she stutters, slowly becoming aware that I am, in fact, calm. “I don’t understand. I thought you’d be freaking out.”

“I think it’s the wine.”

“Ah.” She grins, proudly, I think. I suppose I’ve given her many reasons to expect a full blown Michaela meltdown.

I stand up and place my hands on her shoulders. “I’m fine, really. Nervous? Sure, feel free to give me that glass of vino down there, but I think I’ve got this. I actually really want to see him. Regardless of what happens, or whether he even wants to see me, I need to see him.”

And I really do, but I have to be strong. Jesse’s memory has affected my life and ability to cope for too long. I can’t let his presence demolish the walls that I’ve worked so hard to erect. I won’t allow myself to be weak again.

I just need to keep it real. Stop putting him on a pedestal. All of these years he’s just been a memory that my brain has fabricated into some mythical Adonis; a perfect being that no human could compare to. Now, in that room he drinks and eats with the rest of us mere mortals, because that is what he is. I can’t be victim to my inflated feelings for him anymore.

“I just…be careful.”

I smile gratefully and nod. “I love you.”

“I love you, more than any Jesse fucking Jenner will,” she says, brandishing a mega-watt smile.

I give her a quick squeeze and then turn to check my reflection in the mirror. Emma hands me her lip gloss, which I apply, and sprays me with her perfume. Just as we go to leave she picks up her wine from the floor and hands it to me. I take it from her and down it in one, exhaling to rid my throat from the sharp warmth.

"Let's go," I order.

Emma leads the way as we walk down the corridor to rejoin the party. She reaches back for my hand and I take it with gratitude. We cross the dance floor, which has finally gathered some dancers, and then pass by the bar. My eyes are still searching when Emma stops abruptly. I don’t have time to stop myself before I clumsily walk into her back. That last glass of wine seems to finally be taking effect because I’m momentarily disorientated. I regain some focus and look up to see Emma nod and smile politely towards the bar. As I turn to see the object of her attention, she squeezes my hand and let’s go, all the while studying me intently. It takes me a second to find that her eyes are not the only pair watching me. I will the alcohol induced blurriness to subside as my eyes strain to decipher the features of the man before me.

I know it is him. I feel it is him. But I need to see him.

Standing, he steps through the swarm of people gathered around him. It’s as if a spotlight is cast on him, singling him out amongst the crowd. He walks graciously towards me having grown into his height with broad shoulders that sway ever so slightly. His stride is intent, his piercing eyes focused on me, holding me still as I wait for the inevitable.

"Hi." Oh, he speaks.

I’m too mesmerized by his shy smile to respond immediately. His eyes are so much more prominent without the long hair to frame his face. His hair is now kept short and brushed fashionably to the side. I can’t help but wonder what it feels like.

Several awkward seconds later I manage to whisper, "Hi."

"Fancy seeing you here," he says, his smile stretching wider across perfectly placed dimples.

"I know, right? Do you come here often?" 

"Nah, I was just in the neighborhood." He winks, forcing a goofy giggle from me before I cut myself off and take a much needed breath. In the corner of my eye I see Emma finally edging towards her seat, reluctant to leave us.

"How are you…Michaela?" He speaks my name as if it gives him great relief, but it sounds odd falling from his lips. His words sound formal, but the way that his eyes flicker across my face feels anything but. Under his gaze I feel completely exposed and yet I can’t bear the thought of him looking away.

“Good, I could do with a drink though," I hint, regretting it immediately. Too forward.

"Me too," he laughs. Oh, that laugh. "Shall we?"

He gestures towards the bar and as I comply he rests his hand on the small of my back. The heat is instantaneous and I almost push his hand away for fear of melting into the carpet. He doesn't move his hand until he passes me my drink, more wine, and as much as I long for his touch, I’m glad of the separation so that I can try to think clearly.

We sit at the end of the bar with our backs to the people around us, effectively shutting them out, and lightly discuss the party and hotel. Nothing too pressing, but it's nice to talk pleasantries if only to get used to the sound of his deeper voice and study his grownup face.

How foolish of me to compare Jesse to a mere mortal. My decade old memories must have faded like an old photograph because they haven’t done him justice. I never dreamt it possible that Jesse could be even better looking now than he was ten years ago. I wrongly assumed that his looks had hit their peak at eighteen. I couldn’t have been further from the truth. His face is kissed with a light tan and he has very slight laughter lines to the corners of his enticing eyes. At some point since we last saw each other his facial hair has arrived and he now sports fine designer stubble to go with his designer suit. He is dressed in head to toe black, his pants and jacket hugging snugly, and the top two buttons of his fitted shirt open to reveal a touch of dark chest hair. I swallow hard and look away, feeling myself blushing in the face of his appeal.

"You're looking really good, Mickey," he says, leaning in so that I can hear him over the music.

"You're kind," I reply, but he frowns. Even that doesn't detract from his exquisite beauty.

"You still can't take a compliment."

"Guess not.” I shrug. “Look at you though, wow!"

He smiles, shyly. "It's just me."

"Not
the you
that I remember."

"What do you remember?" he asks, cocking his head inquisitively, looking amused.

"Everything," I retort. My words are heavy with a million meanings and he looks down uncomfortably. He sips his drink several times before continuing with the conversation.

"So, tell me something about yourself. The Michaela of twenty twelve."

He edges closer so that he’s perched on the rim of his stool. Our knees touch and I almost move away, but a moment passes and it starts to feel so natural. It's just Jesse, my mind reassures me. You’ve touched him thousands of times before.

"What do you want to know?" I shrug.

"Anything, everything. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a photographer," I explain, feeling confident in the easy subject matter. "Mainly weddings and bar mitzvahs and such, but I’m trying to branch out.”

“Into music?”

“Hopefully. I’ve done a little, but nothing mainstream.”

"You always said that’s what you’d do. It’s what I imagined you’d do. Well done, not many people can say they stuck true to their ambitions. I bet you’re really great," he says, most genuinely.

"Thanks," I reply, smiling a little proudly. "What about you? You look like you’ve done well for yourself." I gesture my hand up and down his body as if to hint at his expensive clothes.

"Yeah, I guess I’ve done okay." He doesn't sound like he believes himself. "I run a few bars so it pays well, but it can be hard work."

I would never have had him down for a bar manager, but I guess it makes sense. He probably fell into working in a bar when he left Starling. Looking at him now, it doesn’t look like he assists in the manual elements. For someone who scorned me for being unable to take a compliment he seems pretty reserved to discuss his obvious success.

"You’re being modest. Look at you!" I commend, tugging on his collar to highlight my praise further. He takes my hand as if to brush away my compliment, but instead keeps hold of it, and rests both of our hands on his knee.

All of a sudden the connection has stepped up a notch and I feel two things simultaneously. First, my body's reaction to his touch is to instantly heat up; the burn is back and now I ache to be even closer, impossibly closer. Second, my tangled mind unwinds; the only tension left in my body is of the sexual kind. It's as if all I’ve needed is to have this contact to know that everything will be alright.

His thumb traces over my knuckles and I can't help but watch. Jesse’s been back in my life for an hour and yet the years we’ve spent apart are slipping away, fast. I’m a teenager again. I can already sense myself falling and I know that I should stop, but the feel of my hand back in his, where it belongs, is too powerful to deny.

"Tell me more, Mickey. What do you do after work, what do you do to relax?"

It feels weird telling him about myself when I feel like he should already know it all, like we’ve never been apart. But we have, for ten years, and a lot has happened that he doesn't know about, but.

"Well," I hesitate, "I have a six year old son, so he doesn’t really leave a lot of time to relax. An undisturbed bath is the best I can get,” I joke.