Forget (Changing Colors Book 1)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  Forget (Changing Colors, Part One)

  Copyright © 2015, N.A. Alcorn

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notice

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter is not appropriate for minors. Please note this novel contains profanity and explicit sexual situations.

  Cover Image: Shutterstock

  Cover design: Melissa Gill—MG Book Covers & Designs

  Editor: Claire Allmendinger—Bare Naked Words

  Formatting: Stacey Blake—Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  My Grandmother’s Letter

  Track 1: Orange Sky (6:09)

  Track 2: A Certain Shade Of Green-Acoustic Version (3:28 )

  Track 3: Blue Jeans (4:21 )

  Track 4: Black Magic Woman (2:54 )

  Track 5: Blue and Yellow (3:21 )

  Track 6: La Vie En Rose (3:01)

  Track 7: Blackbird (4:24)

  Track 8: Crimson and Clover (5:32)

  The Past: One Last Conversation

  Track 9: Fields of Gold (3:38)

  Track 10: Black Heart Inertia (4:24)

  Track 11: Heart of Gold (3:10)

  Track 12: Pink (3:54)

  The Past: Heart Smiles

  Track 13: Yellow (4:15)

  The Past: The Very Last Time

  Track 14: Heart of Gold (3:10)

  Track 15: Mellow Yellow (3:10)

  Track 16: True Colors (4:06)

  Track 17: Shades of Cool (5:28)

  Track 18: The Violet Hour (3:21)

  Track 19: Black (5:36)

  Blur (Changing Colors, Part Two)

  Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other N.A. Alcorn Books

  To Donut Sticks,

  Husband of mine, you’re the best inspiration. Thank you for always supporting me. Thank you for believing in me, especially during the times when I had a hard time believing in myself.

  And most of all, thank you for loving me.

  Dear Brooke,

  The first words are the hardest to write, so here goes nothing . . .

  It’s taken weeks for me to find the strength to put pen to paper. I hate the idea of you reading this and feeling like I’m saying goodbye. Because I’m not. This is not goodbye, Brooke. This is just see you soon, okay?

  I’m writing this letter on heart-shaped, pink construction paper because it makes me smile and smiling through these tears is the only way I’ll finish. Plus, it’s my secret way of reminding you to see . . . La vie en rose.

  (I’ll give you a minute to roll your eyes.)

  I even tried to use purple crayon, but who in the hell can write a letter in crayon? Once you pass the age of ten, writing legibly in crayon is impossible. So you’ll have to deal with purple pen instead.

  I can still see you sitting in my kitchen, ten years old and focused on making fifteen construction paper hearts before dinner. “I want to make people’s hearts smile,” you said.

  I never forgot that. How could I? Even after all of the horrible things you’d been through, your big heart was still intact. It proves you’re strong, Brooke. So very strong.

  And now, I need you to find that strength because the day is coming soon, the day where we can’t be together anymore, at least not like we’re used to. I know it’s going to hurt like hell. And, believe me, I wish I could change it. I wish I could shoulder the pain for you, but we’re going to have to make the best of it. Instead of being sad, I want you to focus on keeping me in that big heart of yours. That way I can always be there when you need me. Always. No matter the time or place, I’ll be there forever.

  And since I know how much you love lists, here are a few things I want you to know and remember.

  Millie’s Do’s, Don’t’s, and Everything In Between:

  I wanted to re-name you Lilah Belle, a beautiful name for a beautiful girl with the biggest heart I’ve ever known. That heart of yours is your very best quality. Remember that. I know it will get you in trouble sometimes, but don’t ever lose that infinite kindness. The world needs all the love that Brooke Sawyer can give.

  Don’t marry anyone named Walter. It’s a long story, and the details are not important. Just trust me on this. Stay far away from men with that name.

  Never let a man take you on a date to a buffet dinner.

  If a woman seems like she’s trying too hard to be your new best friend, she probably is, and there’s probably ulterior motives behind it. (And she’s most likely a bitch.)

  Screw the never wear white after Labor Day rule. White is gorgeous, wear it whenever the hell you want.

  Diamonds are not a girl’s best friend. Mascara and lip gloss are. Always keep those two things in your purse.

  And if a man offers you diamonds, accept them, because diamonds are a girl’s really, really good friend, which isn’t too far off from a best friend.

  Stop wearing your gorgeous curls straight all the time. Believe me, if you had pin-straight hair like me, you’d understand.

  Find something to laugh about every day.

  And when your grandmother buys you a plane ticket to Paris . . . Get. On. The. Plane.

  I will never regret the day I came back from Paris, for the second time, because I wanted you and Ember to live with me. I know this is news to you, but I have a feeling one day you’ll hear the whole story, and I don’t want you to feel like I missed out on something.

  I didn’t miss out on anything.

  I loved every second of watching my adorable granddaughters grow up and change into the beautiful women that you’ve become. I savored every second that I got to see your smiling faces in the morning and sing you to sleep with French renditions of lullabies at night. Those were the highlights of my day. And I consider myself lucky that I had all of those mornings and nights with you.

  By the time you read this, you’ll already know about the blue-ribbon box filled with treasures. And yes, I’m leaving my pretty necklace to you. I hope you wear it. I hope it brings you all of the magic you believed it held. Some days, I’d take that necklace off just so that I could watch you sneak into my bedroom and try it on in front of the mirror. It filled your eyes with daydreams, and I hope it’ll still give you those happy thoughts. That necklace meant the world to me, and I guess it’s time I finally give in and tell you why.

  You were right all along, Lilah Belle—a beautiful French man gave me that necklace. He was the love of my life, and even though our love affair was short-lived, I have no regrets. We had the kind of love that sta
ys inside of your heart for a lifetime. It was the kind of love, that even though it pains you to walk away, you know you’re lucky for being able to experience it, even if it’s just one day. And, believe me, I was one lucky bitch.

  Our love affair began with a meet-cute.

  Yes, a meet-cute.

  (I’ll give you another minute for an eye roll.)

  The only way to tell you this story is to give you all the little details.

  Consider this a Millie Short.

  An American Girl in Paris

  I had only been in Paris for a few months, a young American girl who’d spend her days aimlessly walking the beautiful streets in her free time. There I stood, inside the gardens of Jardin Des Plantes, on an April spring day. The clouds became overcast and eventually opened up, letting the rain fall from the sky at a double-quick pace.

  I was miles away from shelter. I fought the wind, desperately trying to open my umbrella, but it wouldn’t open. I stomped my feet in frustration, and probably mumbled a few curse words under my breath as the rain continued to drench my clothes. With my white blouse clinging to my skin and strands of wet hair sticking to my face, I was nothing short of wet and waterlogged.

  The wind won that day. It swept the ratty pink umbrella out of my hands and carried it across a patch of blue forget-me-nots, slamming into a young man’s face. And when I say slammed, I mean SLAMMED . . . the cracking sound it made could have been heard in China. The tip of the umbrella left an open gash above his right eye.

  His hands covered his face as he cursed, “Merde! Merde! Merde!”

  I ran across the gardens like an idiot, through the flowers and past the sign that prohibited people from walking there. I was in a complete panic that my umbrella had just poked some guy’s eye out. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” I profusely apologized.

  He looked up at me, his head tilting to the side.

  “Shit . . . I mean . . . Je suis. . . . Je suis tellement désolé” My French pretty much sucked at that point in my life. When I look back, it’s ironic that I plotted and saved for my secret trip to Paris for all those years, but never really thought about learning the language.

  “You’re American, yes?” he questioned but didn’t give me time to answer. “I should have known it was an American’s umbrella that nearly cracked my skull open.”

  I had the urge to smack him, but that quickly turned to shock when his eyes raked over my face, then my blouse, and then my legs. (And just FYI I was one hot piece of ass back then.)

  His eyes met mine, and he looked so damn playful. He had a mischievous smirk etched on his handsome face. It was like he wanted me to know his thoughts weren’t appropriate. I couldn’t believe his audacity. He was mocking me one minute, and then his eyes shamelessly flirted with my body the next.

  But God, he was gorgeous, downright sinful in appearance. He had the clearest blue eyes and the strongest jaw line I’d ever seen on a man.

  He removed his hand from the opened gash above his eyes, and blood dripped down his face at an alarming pace. I didn’t hide the shock well. It was really deep and looked terrible.

  “Well, pretty American girl who cannot control her umbrella, once we remove the forget-me-not petals that are stuck to your sandals,” he said, glancing down at my feet. “You’re going to accompany me on a quick trip to the hospital.”

  And that was how I met Christophe.

  (Just FYI, I know what you’re thinking right now, and I agree—I should have been a writer.)

  My umbrella brought Christophe and I together and left him with a small silver scar above his right eye. It was the most ridiculous meet-cute in the history of meet-cutes.

  If you don’t know what a meet-cute is (and I’ll be highly disappointed in you if you don’t) just think of every romantic movie you’ve ever watched, and remember that perfect moment when the two characters meet in the most unlikely, adorably awkward circumstances.

  While you’re scoffing at the whole meet-cute sentiment, remember that one of your favorite movies has one. The Breakfast Club. Detention is what put Claire and John in the most improbable circumstance of actually having a conversation with each other. And yes, I remember that damn movie. How could I not? You only watched it a hundred times.

  So back to my original point. Christophe is the one who gave me the necklace. “Ne m’oubliez pas,” he said. ‘Do not forget me.’ And I didn’t, I could never forget him. I know you have your doubts, but in my heart, I know that someday you’ll find that kind of love. And when you do, honey, I hope you get to keep it for a lifetime.

  Now, for the good stuff . . .

  Put the necklace on. Open the envelope inside the box that says, PARIS. There’s a plane ticket waiting for you at the airport. Your hotel is already booked. And inside that envelope is your Paris Bucket List.

  This, Lilah Belle, is my last dying request, so you can’t say no.

  You HAVE to go. (Yes, I’m playing the last dying request card. Deal with it.)

  I don’t mean go to Paris in weeks or months or next year. I mean the day after my funeral. This is your time to spread your wings and fly. This is your time to live. This is your time to celebrate life—yours, and mine—instead of mourning my physical absence.

  Because we both know, I’ll always be with you.

  Just think of it as a long-distance relationship. You’re on Earth, and I’m probably somewhere in the Paris version of Heaven, drinking espresso and smoking cigarettes. (No use giving them up in the after-life when I managed to get cancer without smoking them in the real one.)

  Our new “Millie (the best grandmother in the world) is in the afterlife, but still by my side” version of time together starts now. It starts with packing your bags, getting on the plane, and checking off each experience on the Paris Bucket List. It starts with seeing Paris through fresh eyes and experiencing all of the things that changed my life while being open to letting new experiences change yours.

  One last thing, remember the journal you wrote in when you first came to live with me? The one Annie encouraged you to use? Well, the notebook inside the box is for you to try your hand at journaling again. When you were a kid, I know you were holding back, but now, I think you need this. Please use it. Write about anything you want—your thoughts, Paris, life, hot French men.

  I hope this will become a cathartic outlet, a private space to free your mind and heart of all the pain that stole your innocence at such a young age. You’re a fighter, Brooke. Your strength is one of the best things about you, but I want you to remember, it’s also okay to be vulnerable. You don’t always have to fight everyone else’s battles.

  It’s okay to do things just for you sometimes.

  No regrets, remember?

  It’s time to start using that rusty French of yours.

  Je vous promets que vous ne regretterez pas cette. (I promise you will not regret this.)

  Je t’aime, Lilah Belle. (I love you)

  Avec Amour (All my love),

  Millie

  P.S. I hope one day, you’ll try your hand at performing again. I know you have a fantastic career helping other artists produce amazing music, but you’re far too talented to waste that beautiful voice. The world needs to hear you sing.

  One Day After Millie’s Funeral

  THE MINUTE I STEP into my room—inside the luxurious Le Bristol Hotel—I leave my suitcase by the door and slide off my flats. I walk through the room, if you could even call it that; the damn thing looks more like a mission statement. Gorgeous, old world décor, with whimsical Parisian paintings accent the space. Everywhere I glance, I find something more beautiful, more ornate than the next.

  I’m convinced my grandmother lost her mind when she planned this trip. I know she had quite the inheritance from her family, but I had no idea her bank account had this kind of cash flow. Between the first class flight, the sleek town car escort waiting for me at the airport, and the five-star hotel accommodations, I’m beyond overwhelmed.

  I p
ull my cell phone out of my back pocket, sending a quick text to my sister Ember, telling her I made it to Paris, to give my nephew Teddy a kiss for me, and I’ll call her tomorrow.

  Jamie is the next person on my text message list. I’m here. Safe and sound.

  He has been my best friend since we were kids. Ember and I had moved in with Millie during the middle of the school year. I was in the fourth grade, the new girl who didn’t know a soul, and Jamie was the only kid who took the time to be nice to me. He even offered me his Twinkie at lunch. Needless to say, our best friend status was sealed that day. We stayed attached at the hip until I went to college at NYU, and even then, we remained close, often visiting each other over holidays and weekends.

  There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for Jamie. Our history is deep-rooted, ingrained inside of each of us. I know his pain, and he knows mine. I keep his secrets, and he keeps mine. He has trusted me with the darkest, most painful parts of his life, and holding onto that trust will always be a priority. I won’t hurt him.

  Our relationship is complicated . . .

  See, when someone I love confides in me, not only do I keep their secret, but I bury it deep. I bury it until I can’t remember which is the truth and which is the lie.

  Bottom line, the best way to keep a secret is to pretend there isn’t one.

  And that’s exactly what Jamie and I do.

  My phone pings with his quick response.

  ‘Paris better treat my best girl well.’

  ‘Millie spared no expense. The bed in my hotel room is HUGE. And the Jacuzzi tub could fit every past and current band member of Nine Inch Nails, plus Trent Reznor’s wife.’

  ‘Damn, a bath tub that could fit . . . 25 . . . no, 26 people?’

  ‘Bingo.’

  ‘I’ll be in meetings all day, but I’ll call you tonight to see how your first day in Paris went.’

  ‘Meetings? With who?’

  ‘Mind your own business, nosey girl. You’re on vacation. Four weeks off and no time to worry about the random bullshit happening back home.’

  ‘Why do you get to have all the fun?’