Forget Me Not

by Julie Soto

“If anyone can convince someone that first marriages don’t matter, it’s the daughter of Cynthia Jones Rutherford Reed Dyer Lee Torres—” “I can’t believe you still have it memorized.” “Smith Smith Nelson Jaswal Matthews Andrews Evans Benjamin…plus three.”

Dropping the phone onto the coffee table—his coffee table—she gesticulates in a panic, mouthing, What do I do?! I don’t respond. I can’t respond. I stare at the phone. Then Mar takes off her shoes and walks them across the hardwood, like a Foley artist from the 1920s. She leans away from the phone and says, “Ama, call for you.”

I wonder if she’ll look up The Language of Flowers and figure out I just told her, You are immature and I resent you. Go away.

I don’t care that they have one thousand times the followers or likes; it’s that they deserve them. My skin is buzzing with inspiration and jealousy.

“You think my mother named me Amalgamation?” I shrug. “There are so few A-M-A words in the world. Amaranth?” “You are conveniently forgetting amazing. What is Amaranth?”

“Are you like a Ben Franklin fanboy? Or…?” My eyes snap to her. “What the fuck is a Ben Franklin fanboy?”

“Sacrifice?” a deep voice resonates. His hands are hard at work at a bouquet without our notice. “He didn’t want her, so she carved herself into something he liked, something he wanted.”

Maybe the lift in her vowels says she can’t wait to see me again. Maybe I’m not imagining the hum of sweet-talk pouring out of her smiling lips.

As the bride tells me how much she hates baby’s breath and can we find an alternative in the chandelier, my eyes catch on Ama as she looks me dead in the eye, parts her dark, full lips, and slips the long donut between them slowly—way more of it than necessary.

“Sir, I’m sure she’s not dead, but she needs your help. Can you follow instructions?” I’m thinking of Mrs. Tarico in third grade, who told me I have a terrible time following instructions. “No. Probably not.”

When the nurses ask me to fill out forms for her, I can’t explain that I only just started touching her tits and I’m not really her boyfriend, so I spend twenty minutes in her purse, looking for information.

There’s no formality here for ending a conversation in a hospital after your mouth has given the girl you like anaphylactic shock, so— “Elliot, would you like to join us for lunch?” Cynthia asks with the sparkle of grandchildren in her eye.

“Is that some designer shit? Is that why it doesn’t get messed up when I’m kissing you?” “It’s Hazel Renee,” she says simply. As if that answers it. “I don’t give a fuck who it is. I want you to look debauched when I’m debauching you.”

“When do I get to see another one?” I wet my lips. “You’ll have to take me to dinner first.”

I told Bea that the florist meet was probably not going to be re-created and offered her other vendors instead. But now… Now someone is coming at Elliot with a powder brush, claiming he’s “shiny.” “Get the fuck away from me,” he says, as politely as he possibly can.

“You can help me set up sparklers,” she says in a silky voice, as if sparklers means something else entirely. “Is it really setting up sparklers? Because you know how I feel about you needing an assistant—” “I mean, come back and I’ll fuck you in your truck.”

“I don’t let go of things so easily.” I feel my pulse in my throat, but I force myself to speak around it. I can tell this is the all-or-nothing moment, and I need her to know I’m all in. “If you want to move forward with whatever this is between us, you don’t have to worry about me backing out. You may think everything ends one day, but you haven’t had ‘everything’ with me.”

If she hadn’t just said that she’s not a relationship person, I would probably tell her I love her right now, as our sweat dries with dirt and roses. Because I think I do. I’ve never wanted someone like this—their body, their conversation, their mind—

They’re getting along like gasoline and a box of matches, and I’m over here sweating.

“I love you,” I tell her. “I’ve loved you. I can’t imagine losing this, but I only wanted more—for a second. That’s all it was,” I say, as if I hadn’t been wanting more for six months.

“You are more important than the wedding, Ama.” He’s wrong, but it still fills my chest with butterflies and my head with lovely thoughts.

“If I’m going to be the wedding planner today, I need the wedding planner Bluetooth.”

“That’s not how it works,” he says. “There is no falling out of love for people like you and me.” I hold my breath. My skin buzzes. “I see how you are with Hazel,” he says. “Trust me, I know that when you’re in love with a person who’s that dedicated to their career, sometimes you don’t feel like you come first.”

“And if it ever ends, Jackie?” He lowers his voice. “You’re still counting away. The months since. The exact days since. Like a tally of moments you’ve spent not being important to them. But don’t ever think you’ll wake up and not be in love with her.”

“It’s…I just wanted you to know that you won’t fall out of love,” he says. “It’s been years, and I can still tell you the number of days since she last needed me. Since I last held her through the night.”

Her eyes meet mine, and I know she’s remembering the same. I don’t look away, trying to show her that I kept it for the memories of her. That I could never get rid of a piece of her.

“It’s…It was never about extinction. The tattoos…” He blows out his air. “They’re ones that I—that I can’t have. Ones that can’t be used in arrangements, can’t be kept in the shop.” He looks up to me. “Ones that are likely to disappear before I can love them.”

you—” “I’m just so mad that you thought you could walk in here, propose, and tell me you love me.” He smiles, his nose brushing against my cheek.