Forgotten

Page 31

I hear the sink running in the kitchen; she must be getting a glass of water. Glancing at the clock, I wonder whether my mom will think it’s weird if I’m asleep just after nine. Maybe. But I have no other way to get rid of her quickly, so I bolt across the room and throw myself under the covers. I try to breathe easier and look peaceful, even though my heart is racing.
Mom’s footsteps are growing louder, and with only seconds left, I whisper a barely audible “shhh” to Luke.
I can’t believe there’s a boy in my closet right now! What am I thinking?
No time to ponder my stupidity. The door opens slowly and I freeze. I’m facing the wall, but I keep my eyes closed anyway, just in case she rushes over to check whether I’m faking.
Highly unlikely.
“Night, London, I love you.” My mom’s whispered words float through the night air so softly that they’re barely there. Is this her nightly ritual? I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt at the deceit that’s happening under her nose.
Then again, she’s been deceiving me for years.
After the door quietly taps the frame and I hear my mom slowly release the handle; after her footsteps disappear into her own room; after the water rushes to wash toothpaste and face soap down the drain; after the TV in her room sounds; after that, I wait five more excruciatingly long minutes.
And then I tiptoe to the closet.
“Hi,” I whisper to Luke. It’s pitch-black. I can’t see anything.
From the back corner of the closet comes his smooth voice.
“Hi.”
I hear him climb to his feet and watch his perfect self materialize from the darkness.
Instead of stopping, Luke walks until his warm body is pressing against mine in the closet doorway.
“Hi,” he says again, even smoother this time, if that’s possible, before planting a long and borderline inappropriate kiss on my lips.
Perhaps we’re both charged by the exhilaration of being bad, or maybe it’s the pitch-blackness that drives us, but soon enough we’re on the floor of my walk-in and a few articles of clothing aren’t exactly where they should be.
I stick to my earlier promise of not doing… that. But for at least an hour, maybe more, Luke makes it very, very difficult.
“I have to go to sleep,” I say when my breathing has finally slowed to the point that I can speak. I’m lying on Luke’s bare chest, which is strangely comfortable, considering it’s hard as a rock.
“I know,” he says softly, leaning down to kiss the top of my head before beginning to untangle his longer limbs from mine.
“Where’s my shirt?” I ask, surprisingly at ease being literally and emotionally exposed to him.
“Here you go,” he says, tossing it my way.
Once we’re both dressed, Luke in what he wore this evening and me in pajamas, we walk toward my bed.
“Sleep here with me, okay?” I say.
“I think I’ll take the floor in the closet,” he says, adding, “just in case.”
“No, she won’t come in,” I promise, without really knowing whether we’ll be caught.
“How about this: I’ll lie here until you fall asleep, then I’ll go in the closet so she doesn’t find me in the morning.”
Too tired to argue, and anxious to be out before my memory resets at 4:33, I climb back in bed. This time, I scoot close to the wall and leave half the bed for Luke. He joins me under the covers and immediately we’re snapped together like Legos.
“Crap,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
“I need to write a note. I need to write this down or I’ll forget.”
“Yes, please do,” Luke says. “I don’t want you to freak out again and make me explain things to your mom.”
“Very funny,” I say, elbowing him. He laughs quietly and I do, too, remembering the note from the day after our first date. Luke read that note and many of the others earlier tonight.
“Hmm, just a sec,” Luke says, reaching his outside arm toward the nightstand and retrieving my cell phone. He frees his other arm from under me, quickly types a message, and hits send. Immediately, my phone buzzes to alert me that I have a new text.
“What does it say?” I ask after Luke sets the phone back next to the bed.
“The boy in the closet is your boyfriend. He loves you and will tell you all about last night.”
“Cute,” I say, feeling my eyelids droop and sleep approach. “Don’t forget to tell me about the last hour in the closet.”
“I’ll re-create it for you tomorrow,” Luke says, pulling me closer and breathing in my hair. “I really do, you know.”
“Do what?” I ask in a sleepy haze.
“I really do love you, London.”
“I love you, too, Luke.”
32
The text said there was a boy in my closet, but all I found is this note.
Dear London,
You snore.
I heard your mom leave, so I escaped. I’ll come back in a while with coffee and officially announce my presence. If she comes back, you might want to tell her I’m coming so she knows we’re okay.
Read up… all of your notes are under your bed.
You were too tired to write a note last night but here are the highlights (I’ll fill in the holes later):
—I begged your forgiveness (you’ll read about why)
—Thankfully, you forgave me
—We spent hours reading your notes— you said that was a great way for me to get to know the real you
—As previously mentioned, you snore… and talk in your sleep
—I promised to reenact certain… other things
Last night was amazing. I wish you could remember it, but I’ll do my best to remind you. Oh, and PS—you are the best kisser ever.
Love,
Luke
“Aren’t we happy this morning?” my mom says when she returns from the grocery store and sees my permagrin. I stuff a bite of a bagel into my mouth, but it doesn’t help, so I just shrug in response.
“Dare I ask?” she says, which is really asking, isn’t it? Mom pours herself some coffee and leans against the counter, gazing at me, mug in hand.
“Luke and I made up,” I say matter-of-factly, once I’ve swallowed the biggest bite imaginable.
“Ahh, I see,” she says with a knowing look.
“He’s coming over this morning,” I add, gesturing to my outfit as if it needed explanation. Every Saturday I can remember is spent in pajamas, until noon at least. “We’re going to hang out today.”
I think I see a touch of hurt flash across my mother’s eyes, but in an instant, it’s gone.
“That’s great, London,” she says, pushing off the countertop and topping off her cup. “Maybe I’ll go into the office and catch up on some work, then.”
“Sounds good,” I say, thrilled that Luke and I might be alone in the house for a while. The notes I read painted a picture of a boy so appealing that I find myself wanting to be unsupervised. Except, of course, that he lied to me, but his note said we made up. I’ll count on him to walk me through the evening minute by minute.
As if on cue, the doorbell rings, and I practically run to the entryway to answer it. Flinging it open, I nearly gasp at the boy standing there in the bright sun.