Forget (Changing Colors Book 1)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  ‘You made me watch it like a thousand times in eighth grade. Terrible or not, it’s forever branded into my brain.’

  I laugh, typing out another response.

  ‘You’re welcome. And why is your dad in London?’

  ‘Meetings. I think he’s hell bent on world domination . . . ’

  Jamie’s dad had acquired three small labels under the Wallace & Wright name in the last year. The man is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to business.

  ‘What label is he trying to take over this time?’

  ‘Trio’

  ‘Trio Records?

  They’re huge in the UK. Think they’ll go for it?’

  ‘Alistair is nothing if not manipulative.’

  He’s right. If Alistair wants something, he’ll do everything to get it, without caring who or what he has to destroy in the process.

  ‘So true. How is the (thing I’m not supposed to ask but I’m going to anyways) going?’

  ‘It’s only been a month, but I’m feeling better already.’

  My heart feels a thousand times lighter.

  ‘I’m so glad to hear that.’

  ‘What would I do without you?’

  ‘Be miserable. Drown yourself in Netflix marathons . . .Kidding. You’d be fine, but slightly less awesome because you wouldn’t have all those kick-ass movie quotes memorized.’

  ‘As if. I’m heading to a meeting. Chat later?’

  I need to talk to him. Not through text, but on the phone. I need to hear his voice when I tell him what’s been going on in Paris. I know he’ll understand. God, I hope he’ll understand.

  ‘Yeah. There’s something I need to talk to you about, but I don’t want to do it through text.’

  ‘Everything okay?’

  I want to say, no, it’s not, I think I’ve fallen in love with someone. I think I might fuck up everything, but I don’t.

  ‘Yes. Everything’s good.’

  ‘Okay, let’s make a phone date soon. Time zones are a pain in the ass. Love you, baby girl.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  Normally, I’d throw on a pair of Chucks, t-shirt, and jeans, but since I’ll be meeting Dylan’s father, I re-think the kicked-back, relaxed look. I toss on last night’s clothes, and head downstairs to grab a bite to eat, before heading back to my hotel where I can shower and find a more suitable outfit.

  The pastries are on the counter, beckoning me like little treats sent straight from the devil. I pour a glass of orange juice, rest my hip against the counter, and find a piece of paper laid out on the island with Dylan’s handwriting.

  Since your French isn’t very good . . . appalling, to be honest, I think these should help. Oh, and eat the banana. Surely, a woman that demands a minimum of five orgasms a day could use the extra potassium.

  “Quelle heure est-il ?” What time is it?

  “Où se trouve le métro?” Where is the métro ?

  “S’il vous plaît, Monsieur Dylan, je veux un autre orgasme.” Please, Sir Dylan, I want another orgasm

  An unpeeled banana sits at the bottom of the note. My final French lesson of the day is written across it in black ink.

  One side is French, “Je veux vos jolies lèvres autour de mon sexe, Little Wing.”

  And on the other side is the English translation, “I want your pretty lips wrapped around my cock, Little Wing.”

  I remember Dylan saying he misses the notes his mom used to write on his bananas. He took that memory and turned it into an entirely erotic and inappropriate gesture. I unpeel the banana and take a picture of myself—mouth around it, a half-grin on my wide-opened lips—and send it to him. I add, “Mmmmmm Potassium makes me moan too,” for good measure.

  Au Fait is a little busier than I expected for a weekday afternoon. Dylan is behind the bar talking with a young bartender I’ve never met before. I walk towards them, nervous butterflies filling my belly. Of course, I’m nervous about seeing what Alexandre has for me, but I think I’m more nervous about the fact that I’m meeting Dylan’s dad. It’s not like I have the best relationship with my mother and father. Let the record show, parent charmer I am not.

  Dylan spots me, a giant grin consuming his face. He moves from behind the bar and lifts me up in a giant bear hug. I yelp, completely caught off guard by his affectionate gesture. I’m all sorts of discombobulated today.

  “I missed you,” he says, setting me back on my feet. “I ordered some food. I hope fish and chips are okay, yeah?” He gestures for me to sit down.

  “Sure.”

  “Everything all right?” He slides my bar stool closer to his.

  “Sure.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure.” Jesus, I’m a regular chatterbox. Did I mention that meeting Dylan’s dad is making me a little anxious?

  He presses a soft kiss behind my ear. “Everything will be fine, love.”

  “Definitely,” I respond, forcing a smile on my face.

  “Okay . . . no, that’s not gonna work.” He motions towards the young bartender. “Jules, what’s the strongest drink you can make?”

  Jules eyes light up. “I’ve got this great drink that’s a mix between an Electric Punch and a Glowing Dildo. I’ve been calling it Electric Neon Boner Party.”

  “Sounds lovely!” Dylan taps his hand against the bar. “Go ahead and make her a double, yeah?”

  Make her a double? “What the hell?” I glare at Dylan.

  Jules gets to work on mixing the drink, and in no time at all, I’m facing a glass full of straight up liquor. Lovely? Yeah, not so much.

  Dylan turns towards me, expression careful. “Don’t get mad, but I’m quite positive you need a little something to take the edge off.”

  I continue to glare, anger rising. “A little something? You just ordered me a Glowing Boner or whatever the fuck it’s called.” I throw my hands up in the air, ignoring the fact that I’m probably making a scene. “The splash of sour mix he added is the only thing that isn’t liquor. I’m not sure whether to throw it at you or light it on fire and use it as a bottle rocket.”

  He bites his cheek, visibly amused by my anger. “Brooke, I love every single one of your gorgeous smiles, believe me, I do, but the one you just flashed a minute ago, well it was more, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, but it was more ‘serial killer meets her first victim’ than anything else . . . And the thumbs up didn’t help your cause.”

  “I gave you a thumbs up?”

  He nods.

  “Jesus,” I mumble. “By all means, give me a double Boner Disco.”

  “Electric Neon Boner Party,” Jules corrects.

  I discreetly roll my eyes and take a few sips from the straw. God forbid, I use the wrong name for a drink that’s sole purpose is to make people forget their own names.

  Dylan is chuckling beside me. “Not gonna lie, mate, but I think I like Brooke’s name for it better. Boner Disco has quite the ring.”

  I feel slightly calmer after gagging a quarter of the drink down. The sour mix did nothing to tame the burn. “Sorry, I was a little pissy before,” I apologize, feeling guilty about my outburst. I’m blaming it on the nerves.

  “No apology necessary. It made my day hearing you say the words fuck and boner in the same breath,” he chuckles into my ear.

  “Pervert,” I mouth, grinning.

  He winks. “Only for you, the queen, and your perfect little toes.”

  An older gentleman with pepper-grey hair walks out from the back room. Even if he wasn’t heading towards us with a giant grin plastered across his face, I’d still know, without a doubt, that it’s Alexandre Bissette.

  “Pop, I’d like you to meet Brooke,” Dylan introduces. “Brooke, this is Alexandre.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” he offers. “And I have to say, she’s far more beautiful than you led on.” A mischievous grin covers his mouth. It reminds me so much of his oldest son. Their resemblance is uncanny—same green eyes, strong jaw, and dimple indented into t
heir right cheek. Dylan definitely takes after his father.

  “Ignore him,” Dylan says quietly towards me, but loud enough for his father to hear. “He’s old and often conjures up pretend conversations in his senile brain. We’ve been looking into nursing homes . . . it’s all quite sad.”

  “Senile?” Alexandre questions with a chuckle. “I’m as fit as a fiddle. Your mum has zero complaints.”

  Dylan groans, and I giggle. Watching the exchange between father and son, I decide the playful personality must be genetic.

  Good-humored teasing, and thankfully, not-so-awkward pleasantries aside, we move into a booth tucked away in the corner. Alexandre sits across from us. Dylan’s jean-clad thigh is pressed against my leg. His hand covers my bare knee, rubbing reassuring circles against my skin. After, rummaging through my suitcase like a madwoman, I’d settled on a short-sleeve, white and navy blue wrap dress that ties at the side. The breezy cotton material paired with simple flats equals the perfect outfit choice for this warm summer day in June.

  I decide it’s an extra perfect choice in attire when I rub my clammy palms across my dress. The whole idea of talking with Alexandre about my grandmother has my anxiety increasing by the minute. When put in stressful situations, I swear I could challenge a horse to a perspiration battle.

  “Hey,” Dylan whispers in my ear, hand still rubbing those gentle circles on my knee.

  I tilt my head, questioning him with my eyes. Surely, he’s not going to order me another Boner Disco. I left the first one at the bar for a reason.

  “I forgot to tell you how bloody gorgeous you look today.” He leans back, eyes softening as they lock with mine.

  “Thanks.” Nerves are forgotten, blush taking their place. It’s inevitable when he’s looking at me like that.

  Our meals are dropped off at the table, and Alexandre keeps me entertained with stories of Dylan growing up—prankster, heartbreaker, but all-around a good kid. I’m not surprised by any of it. He asks me about Millie and my sister Ember, while Dylan tries to distract me with smiles and winks when in all actuality, he’s stealing bites of food off my plate. It’s adorable, and intimate and makes my belly warm with affection. The uncertainty I felt prior to meeting his dad is long gone.

  “I’m so sorry about Millie,” Alexandre says, his hand patting mine in a sweet gesture. “I loved that woman from the second I met her.”

  “When did you meet her?”

  “I’d say it was about seventeen years ago.”

  I calculate the dates in my head. That would have put me at nine years old. Around the time Ember and I were put in foster care. I didn’t know Millie was in Paris then.

  Dylan’s grip on my knee grows tighter. I wonder if he’s calculated the dates too . . .

  “She was a pistol. So full of life. Anyone that met her loved her.”

  I nod, blinking back the tears threatening to fill my eyes.

  He sets two envelopes on the table and slides one across to me. “She wanted you to have these.”

  I open it, finding several old photographs inside. They’re pictures of a young Millie, fresh-faced and gorgeous. All of them were taken in Paris.

  “Millie was beautiful,” he says, watching me look through the photographs. “It was obvious why Dylan’s great uncle was so in love with her.”

  “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Little Wing,” Dylan muses over my shoulder.

  “Is this Christophe?” I hold up one of the photos. A handsome man has his arm around my grandmother. They’re smiling at each other.

  Alexandre nods.

  “Wow,” I say, fixated on the affectionate eyes they have for each other. “They look so in love.”

  “They were quite in love,” he agrees. “Honestly, I don’t think that love ever lessened.”

  “After the second time Millie came to Paris . . . did they . . . did they ever see each other again?”

  “They had lost touch, but I managed to contact her when Christophe became ill. She was with him until he took his last breath.” Alexandre’s voice hints at sadness.

  I’m overwhelmed with emotion as I think about how their love story played out. There are so many details I don’t know, but a lot of them I’m starting to piece together. I have a feeling the reason she came back from Paris seventeen years ago had everything to do with Ember and me. My heart wants to break in half and grow ten sizes bigger simultaneously.

  “When did Christophe pass away?”

  “About six years ago.”

  I was at NYU with Lindsay and Ember would have been in high school. How didn’t I know about any of this?

  “Well, I think I better get back to it before Jules runs this pub into the ground,” Alexandre says, sliding out of the booth. I glance around and notice that the lunch crowd has dwindled, and Jules is pretty much twiddling his thumbs behind the bar. I’d say Alexandre has sensed my quiet mood, and I’m more than thankful for his tact.

  “Brooke, it really was a pleasure. I hope to see you again very soon.”

  “Me too, Mr. Bissette.”

  “Please, no Mr. Bissette business. I’m far too young for that.” He winks. God, he really does remind me so much of Dylan.

  I smile up at him. “Alexandre, thank you so much for this. It really meant a lot.”

  He offers a soft smile, sliding the other envelope in front of me. “This is also for you, but she wanted me to tell you not to open it until you’re ready.”

  Speechless, I stare down at a white envelope with Lilah Belle written across the top in Millie’s handwriting.

  God, I miss her.

  It’s funny how throughout our lives we save our moments, placing them inside our mental scrapbook, and no matter how many scrapbooks full of memories we amass, none will mean more than the moments we wish we had back.

  I want my moments with Millie back.

  I want them back so badly that my bones ache. The conversation with Alexandre, the photos of Millie, and the letter I’m not ready to open, have my body screaming for a darkroom and a bed. I’m dreadfully tired. The gravity weighing down on my heart is why I tell Dylan I’d rather go back to my hotel and take a nap then attempt to check off another item on Millie’s bucket list.

  He senses my mood, doesn’t try to change my mind, and goes back to the hotel with me.

  I crawl under the covers. He lies beside me.

  I cry quietly into my pillow. He holds me in his arms the entire time.

  And that’s how I fall asleep, inside Dylan’s comforting embrace.

  MILLIE DIED TODAY.

  It wasn’t dramatic like you’d see in the movies. It was quiet, peaceful even.

  When she took her last breath, she was surrounded by the people that loved her most.

  A thunderstorm had passed through Laurel Canyon, and the lingering smell of fresh rain filtered through the cracked window of the guest bedroom. Ember and I sat on either side of her bed, holding her hands. My best friends Lindsay and Jamie each whispered “I love you” into Millie’s ear and kissed her cheek one last time.

  Teddy refused to leave his great-grandmother’s side. He sat quietly in my sister’s lap while we all said our last good-byes.

  After Ember and I hugged each other tightly, she took Teddy out of the room, afraid that it was too much for his little heart. It took me a while to find the strength to leave the bedside. I stood by the window, taking in the small bits of sunshine that were filtering in through the clouds. I pictured Millie sitting in her chair under the big oak tree. I pictured her laughing and smiling and singing along to her favorite French song.

  One lone daisy rested inside the blue vase by her bed. I picked it up, snapped off the stem, and slid the yellow flower behind her ear. Even in death, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever known.

  I curled up next to Millie, holding her hand close to my heart, and let my tears drench the pillowcase, as I lay beside her for the very last time.

  I made my way up to Millie’s bedroom, the one tha
t had been empty for nearly a year since cancer had made her weak and incapable of walking up steps. My fingers flipped through the neat rows of album covers resting inside an antique trunk in front of the bed. I picked up Millie’s favorite record, sliding the shiny, round disc out of its sleeve. Holding it by the edges, just like she taught me, I placed it on her prized Studebaker wooden turntable.

  I slid the box out from under her bed. Lilah Belle. My name was written in her signature print on a white envelope nestled underneath a pale blue ribbon. I held the box in one hand and wrapped myself up in a soft rose-colored afghan with the other. I nestled into Millie’s old side of the bed. Even though it had been months since she’d been in her upstairs room, I could still smell remnants of her lavender perfume.

  Once the stylus dropped, the rich sounds of Edith Piaf’s beautiful voice singing Non, Je ne Regrette Rien filled the room.

  The intricate design of the afghan caught my eye, flooding memories of my grandmother crocheting when I was a little girl. The song, the blanket, her room, it had me thinking about so many things. I wanted to keep my promises to Millie. I wanted to be able to mimic her sentiments on the past, on her life. Regret nothing.

  And I wanted to go back in time and have one last day with her.

  But I couldn’t.

  She was gone, and all I had left were my memories, her material things, and the unopened box resting heavily in my hands.

  Dear Lilah Belle,

  This journal is for me. These words are for me. Millie was right, this is cathartic, and it’s something I should have done a long time ago. From here on out, this journal will start with “Dear Lilah Belle.”

  Dylan insisted I show him the bucket list. I gave in and for the past week we’ve been moving full speed ahead. The man is determined. We’ve checked off nearly everything that’s left. Hell, he’s started adding his own items.

  He even took it upon himself to cross off number nineteen . . . Kiss a French Man.

  The argument that followed consisted of me saying he doesn’t count because he’s more English than French, and I need to explore Paris on my own so I can make sure I’ve explored number nineteen to the best of my abilities.