Forgotten: A Novel

by Catherine McKenzie

  Craig arrives solo about fifteen minutes later. He keeps his distance, mixing with lawyers from the corporate department while I try to concentrate on the I’m-sure-they’re-hilarious stories being told by I. William in a loud voice. When I glance toward his side of the room, I catch Craig watching me. He looks away before I can be sure, but he seems sad, wistful.

  Part of me wants to march the drink I’m nursing across the room and throw it in his face, but all that would do is waste a good drink. Besides, I’ve never been about big, dramatic gestures in my personal life. I leave those for the courtroom.

  When the I.B. start talking about moving to a different venue, I decide to head home, thoughts of slumping into bed and pulling the covers over my head forefront in my mind. As I take off my coat in the entryway, I hear the sound of voices in the distance.

  “Hello?”

  “We’re in here,” Dominic answers from the kitchen.

  We? Oh, right. I invited Stephanie over for dinner. At eight. I check my watch. It’s eight thirty. Damn.

  “Be there in a sec.”

  I go to my room and change into comfy clothes (black leggings and a bright green hoodie that called to me from the teen section despite Dominic’s warnings), the next best thing to hiding in bed. I pull my hair back into a ponytail, apply some Chap Stick, and go to the kitchen.

  Stephanie’s perched on the counter next to the stove wearing a black one-piece flight suit that has a silver zipper running up the middle. She’s wearing sparkly silver eye shadow and her cheeks are flushed like they get when she’s speaking passionately about something. Dominic’s leaning against the fridge wearing jeans and the old fisherman’s sweater I wore for a couple of days. There’s a pizza crust full of tomato sauce and chopped-up sausage on the counter.

  “Yeah, totally,” Stephanie says, her legs dangling off the counter. “She always does that.”

  “Any idea why?” Dominic says.

  “I always do what?”

  Stephanie turns toward me with a wide grin. “You always sneak up on people when they’re dissecting your personality.”

  “I was hardly sneaking. I called out ‘Hello’ and everything.”

  Dominic bends his head toward the pizza, applying pieces of fresh mozzarella. “We weren’t really talking about you.”

  “Nice try, Dominic, but Stephanie always tells the absolute truth.”

  “It’s true. I cannot tell a lie.”

  “How . . . unfortunate.”

  “How annoying is more like it. What aspect of my scintillating personality were you guys dissecting, anyway?”

  “How you’re generally always on time,” Stephanie says. “Where were you, anyway?”

  “The Initial Brigade organized some drinks after work. I lost track of time. Sorry.”

  “What’s the Initial Brigade?” Dominic asks.

  “These guys at work.”

  “I see.” He adds circles of green pepper on top of the cheese.

  “Those guys are a bunch of tools,” Stephanie says.

  “They’re not that bad.”

  “They’re personality-defective. Which gives me an idea.”

  I shake my head. “Here we go.”

  Dominic looks up. “Here we go what?”

  “Stephanie makes a living coming up with ideas.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a real job.”

  “It’s not,” Stephanie replies. “But the pay is fabulous.”

  We laugh, but she’s telling the truth. Stephanie’s made a small fortune coming up with ideas for a technology company with a fruity logo, a television studio, and more than one bestselling, but writer’s-blocked, author. Of course, not all her ideas have panned out, particularly when she keeps them for herself. She’s great with ideas but terrible at business, and the last time I checked she’d lost all the fruit money on an ill-advised investment in a microbrewery.

  “What’s your idea?”

  “Book dating.”

  “What’s that?”

  She tucks her hands under her thighs. “I’m thinking about adapting the software I wrote for that arranged-marriage service to books. You know, you take the personality test, and instead of matching you to a man, it matches you to books.”

  Dominic gives her a sharp look. “An arranged-what service?”

  “Arranged marriage.”

  “That exists? For normal people?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s crazy.” He slips the pizza into the oven and sets the timer for thirty minutes.

  “But what does that have to do with the Initial Brigade?” I ask.

  “Oh, I was just thinking that those guys are like the guy the heroine starts out with in a romantic comedy, but he isn’t the real guy, you know?”

  “The way your brain works sometimes freaks me out.” A thought pops into my own brain. “Hey, we should give Dominic that personality test.”

  “Yeah, that’d be fun.”

  Dominic’s whole aspect says no fucking way. “Forget it.”

  I lay my hand on his shoulder. “Oh, come on. Don’t you want to know what kind of woman you should be looking for?”

  “Or book?” Stephanie adds.

  Dominic’s cell phone starts to vibrate insistently on the counter.

  “Saved by the bell.” He picks it up and holds it to his ear.

  “Momentary reprieve,” I warn him.

  “Hello?”

  An indistinct, high voice says something in reply to his greeting, and Dominic’s face contorts in pain, like he’s been punched in the stomach.

  “No.” Pause. “I said no.” Pause. “Because I don’t want to hear it.”

  He clicks the phone off and slams it onto the counter. His left hand is shaking and there’s a vein pulsing in his temple.

  “What was that all about?”

  Instead of answering me, he raises his right hand and punches it hard into the kitchen cabinets. Wham!

  He winces in pain as blood appears on his knuckles. “Motherfucker!”

  He goes to the sink and turns on the cold water, placing his hand underneath it. I follow him to inspect the damage. The blood is flowing freely from his knuckles. The water in the sink is turning pink.

  “Do you want me to take a look at that?”

  “No,” Stephanie says. “He wants to feel every second of it.”

  Dominic’s mouth twists. “Truth telling and perceptive. Quite the combo.”

  “You have no idea.” I grab a tea towel and turn off the water. “Here, give me your hand.” I wrap his dripping hand in the towel. “Sit down and hold it tight. I’ll be right back.”

  “Hurry back, Nurse Emma,” Stephanie calls after me. “I think the patient might faint.”

  I start to giggle at the thought as I sprint toward my room. I duck under the bed and pull out my suitcase. In one of the zippered pockets my hand grazes against what I’m looking for—a travel first-aid kit I bought to take with me to Africa. It’s full of alcohol swabs and bandages—the only first aid I didn’t need.

  When I get back to the kitchen, Dominic’s sitting at the kitchen table looking pale. Stephanie is pouring him a drink from a fresh bottle of Scotch.

  I pull up a chair and sit down in front of him. “You’re not going to pass out, are you?”

  He grimaces. “No.”

  Stephanie sets a tumbler on the table. “Here’s your medicine.”

  “Thanks.” Dominic drains it in one large gulp. He shivers and places the glass down. “Get on with it, woman.”

  “You might want to be a little nicer to me, given what I’m about to do.”

  “Maybe.”

  He extends his hand. The ends of the tea towel are loose. His cuts have stopped bleeding, but his knuckles look red and ugly. I unzip the first-aid kit and pull out
a couple of packages of antiseptic wipes. I rip them open and take his hand in mine. It feels cold and damp, the skin wrinkled from the water. His green eyes watch me steadily.

  “This might sting a little.”

  I swab the top of his knuckles. His hand twitches and he sucks in his breath. He picks up his glass with his free hand and waves it back and forth. “More medicine, please.”

  Stephanie laughs. “Coming right up.”

  She pours him several generous fingers, which he drains in two swallows.

  “That’s the ticket.”

  “Ready?”

  Our eyes meet. His look a little soft around the edges. “Ready.”

  I wipe the rest of the blood off his knuckles. When I’m done, he stares at his angry, red hand with disgust.

  “How the hell am I going to hold my camera?”

  “I’m sure it’ll be better in a couple of days.”

  “That doesn’t help me much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to Ireland tomorrow to finish the shoot for my show.”

  “You are?”

  “I didn’t tell you?”

  I pick up the roll of white bandage, untucking the end with the carefulness of a drunk. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No big deal.” I take his hand in mine and start to wind the bandage around it. “Was it Emily who called?”

  He nods.

  “What did she want?”

  “To dig the knife in a little deeper.”

  The tone of his voice drives my eyes down. I concentrate on wrapping his hand, trying to be as gentle as possible. As his hand warms in mine, I can feel the tension slowly seeping out of him, his fingers growing supple. When I run out of bandage, I secure the end with the clear tacky tape from the kit.

  The whole thing is strangely intimate. When I glance up at Dominic, he has a different look in his eyes, one that reminds me of those moments when we were dancing at New Year’s before Craig-of-the-perfect-timing called.

  I can feel the heat rise in my face. “All better?”

  He flexes his fingers but lets his hand rest in mine. “Right as rain.”

  I give his hand a gentle pat and let go. “You should keep that elevated for a bit, in case it starts bleeding again.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  I stand up and catch Stephanie watching me thoughtfully. I have to admit, I kind of forgot she was here.

  “I should be going,” she says.

  “What? No. We were going to have dinner.”

  “We can do that anytime. You have a patient to take care of. Night, Dominic.”

  “Night,” he replies, still looking at me with that same heat.

  I tear my eyes away and walk with Stephanie to the front door.

  “Just friends, huh?” she mutters.

  “Shut it.”

  Stephanie slips into her oversized puffy coat. “How did the rest of your day go?”

  “Craig came to see me.”

  “And what did he want?”

  “Who cares? Sophie can have him.”

  “Seriously. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to go.”

  “Whatever.” She plops her fuzzy hat onto her head. “Call me with the details.”

  Before I can ask her what she means, she turns the lock and darts out into the black night. Cold air floods through the door. My teeth chatter as I watch her walk down the front steps. When she reaches the street safely, I close the door, locking it tight.

  I sense Dominic’s presence behind me an instant before he rests his hands on my shoulders. They feel heavier than Craig’s. More substantial, somehow.

  “Emma,” he says, his voice a request.

  I know what he’s asking, and despite the chill of the entranceway, I can feel my body respond, the warmth spreading from where his thumb is brushing the edge of my neck.

  Dominic takes a step closer, placing his hands on my waist. The bandage catches on the edge of skin between the top of my leggings and my sweatshirt. I close my eyes and lean against him. His arms slip around me as he rests his head on my shoulder. He turns his mouth toward my neck, his breath replacing his thumb’s caress.

  And God, it feels good to lean on a man, to feel wanted, present, the focus of his thoughts. Even if it’s because of loneliness or loss or a smashed hand against a hard surface. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.

  His lips touch my neck, his tongue probing lightly. I pivot and Dominic’s mouth is there to meet mine. It feels softer than I would have thought, and his kisses are soft too. His mouth tastes like Scotch, and feels familiar, like somewhere I’ve been before. I twine my arms around his neck and press myself to him. I can smell the aloe and spice of his shampoo, mixed in with the Bactine. He smells clean and dangerous.

  We kiss and kiss, and I revel in the feel of his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. My mouth is absorbed, my lips are molded, my breath is stolen.

  Dominic pulls me closer. His mouth travels along my jaw to my neck. I want his lips, his tongue, his teeth on every part of my skin. I want to feel every inch of his skin against mine. I’m one big pulse, my heart one big thud.

  He moves his mouth to my ear, his breath hot against its edge. And now I’m gripped with fear that he’s going to say something that will break this ridiculous spell we’ve placed ourselves under.

  “Shh,” I whisper against his neck, bringing my finger to his mouth to smother his potential words before they ruin everything.

  And because this moment is perfect, because he is perfect in this moment, instead of speaking, he takes my fingers into his mouth, and a groan of pleasure escapes me. He swallows my moan with his mouth. We kiss and kiss and kiss until my legs are shaking. His hands roam under my shirt, sliding up my back and down, applying gentle pressure.

  Dominic scoops me up like I’m weightless. I open my eyes and look at him. His eyes are dark, his skin is flushed. I place my hands on the side of his face and lean into his mouth as he carries me to the bedroom.

  We don’t say a word.

  Chapter 16: That Was an Invalid Response

  I awake at seven, naked and alone, to the sound of a truck backing up.

  My first thought is, I must be dreaming. But the space next to me feels empty and cold, and even my fuzzy morning brain knows that if this were a dream, there’d be a man lying next to me.

  I concentrate, listening for the sounds of teeth brushing or coffee making, but there’s nothing. Dominic’s gone and I’m alone.

  Even though I shouldn’t be surprised—he told me yesterday he was leaving for Ireland in the morning, right?—this has never happened to me before. I’ve never slept with a man and woken up to find him gone the morning after our first time together. And let me tell you, if you’ve never experienced this particular situation, it feels about as shitty as you’d expect it to feel.

  And it doesn’t help that last night was amazing in a way first-time-together sex usually isn’t. There wasn’t any of that usual awkwardness of sweaters getting stuck on heads or elbows or hair getting pulled. It was all a seamless flow of hands and skin and lips and tongues.

  The things Dominic did to me with his tongue . . .

  I turn toward his pillow, half expecting to find a note, or at least a depression that confirms I wasn’t dreaming, but it’s empty. The taut pillowcase stretches across it without betraying any evidence he was ever here.

  My body bears the evidence, though.

  Maybe I should think about something else.

  I wrap the sheet around me and put a tentative foot on the floor. It creaks under my weight, and I stop, frozen, as the report echoes around the room.

  Why am I being cautious in my own apartment, like there’s someone sick who�
��s sleeping in the room, a light sleeper? There’s no one here, Emma. He’s gone.

  I stand up properly and walk to the door, the sheet trailing behind me like a train. Dominic’s door is ajar across the hall. Small particles of dust float in a sunbeam, like it’s been days, weeks, since he was here, instead of hours, maybe only minutes.

  I cross the hall. His bed is made with square hospital corners, and there’s a navy blanket folded at the end of it. The clutter is missing from the dresser, like it was from mine the night I came home. His boxes are lined up neatly under the window. Again, there’s no note.

  I finally find it in the kitchen, sitting propped against the salt and pepper shakers. I pick it up as I sit down, tucking the sheet under me. I stare at my name on the folded piece of paper, trying to decipher whether this note will make me more or less angry. But the neat block letters written in a blue ballpoint pen don’t contain a clue.

  I unfold it.

  Emma, I’m sorry for leaving like this, but I have an early flight. I’ll call you when I get in. Dominic.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but these simple words don’t relieve the achy feeling in my chest.

  I let the note fall to the table and head to the coffee machine. There’s a half-eaten pizza sitting next to it, its cheese congealed into an off-white mass. I pick up the pizza and put it in the trash. The swinging lid rocks back and forth, squeaking, then settles into place.

  Last night, after, as we lay breathing into the silence, Dominic remembered the pizza in the oven and skittered naked across the floor to rescue it. I followed him with his T-shirt and boxers. We ate the slightly burned pie with silly grins on our faces, letting the cheese burn our tongues. After a couple of slices, we ended up back in each other’s arms, our stomachs forgotten.

  I really should think about something else.

  If only my brain came with an off switch.

  When I get in, the office is full of the usual hustle and bustle of phones ringing, emails pinging, and the clatter of fingers on keyboards. I walk toward the Ejector with the loose-limbed feeling I always associate with great sex, only this time, instead of having a happy glow on my face, I feel furtive and slightly guilty.