Forgotten: A Novel (28 page)

“I thought it was time.”

“Time for what?”

“For this.” He brings his fingers to my chin and lifts my face up. His eyes are full of the night we spent together.

“Dominic, I—”

“Shh.” He moves toward me. In the movies, this moment always happens slowly, but here, in real time, his lips are on mine in an instant.

An instant later, something is vibrating between us. We break apart.

“I feel like we’ve been here before,” Dominic says, his lips inches from mine.

“I don’t have my phone with me.”

His jacket shakes and he reaches into his pocket with a sheepish expression. It’s quickly replaced when we both see who’s calling. Emily.

“This isn’t what you think,” he says quickly.

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

His phone buzzes again in his hand, insistent. Emily’s calling. Pick up, pick up, pick up. So much for her “Because I want Dominic to be happy” speech. And she’d seemed so sincere.

“Answer your phone.”

He gives me a desperate look and turns away, bringing the phone to his ear as he walks off the dance floor. I think I hear him say, “I can’t hear you,” but I can’t be sure.

I feel a surge of immature rage. God, fucking, shit. Can’t anything go right for me, for once? Can’t anything be simple? Here I am, in the middle of this ridiculous romantic moment, and then,
poof,
it’s gone. My leading man is off talking to his ex-fiancée, and I’m left in a white dress (okay, off-white, but still), surrounded by twirling couples while the band plays a pretty song. David Gray’s “Ain’t No Love,” to be precise. I
love
that goddamn song. Or at least I did. Now it’s just going to be the song where I realized things were never going to work out with Dominic, no matter how much I might want them to.

Well, at least I don’t have to wait here for him like an idiot. In fact, I don’t have to stay at all. My speech is over, TPC’s commitment to staffing the legal clinic has been announced, and Stephanie and I. William are dancing closer every second.

I think my work here is done.

I leave the ballroom and walk toward the coat check, pulling off my shoe to retrieve the ticket hidden in the toe. There’s no one on the other side of the counter. Instead, there’s a small sign that reads:
BACK IN 10 MINUTES.
I have no idea if the sign was put up nine minutes ago or one. Ten minutes seems like an awfully long time to wait, and kind of antithetical to slinking out of here sight unseen.

I try the door next to the counter that leads into the cloakroom. It’s locked. Of course. I knew I should’ve learned how to pick a lock at some point in my life. I’ve even got a few bobby pins in my hair, for all I know what to do with them.

Well, you know what? Fuck it. I give a quick glance over my shoulder and hoist myself onto the counter. My silk dress is slippery, and I suspect this is going to leave a mark. I bring my legs up and spin, intending to turn myself around so I can land on my feet. But instead, I misjudge the distance and the force of my spin, and slide. I land hard on my ass, my feet in the air above me.

“That looked like it hurt,” Dominic says, leaning over the counter.

Why hasn’t teleportation been invented yet? Society clearly needs to devote way more resources to figuring that out than it has up to now. Because if we had, I could press my handy little transporter button, which I’d wear around my neck at all times in case of emergencies like this one. One push and I’d be gone. Like magic.

I put my hands on the floor and prop myself up. The whole back of my body is throbbing. “I’ve got an alcohol cushion.”

He smiles. “You want a hand up?”

“I got it.” This time.

I climb gingerly to my feet and walk toward the rows of coats. If you were coat 8456, where would you be?

“Where are you going?” Dominic calls after me.

“To get my coat.” My voice is muffled by the rows of furs and cashmere.

I think I spy my coat wedged into the corner. The first three numbers on the tag match the little yellow ticket in my hand, but the last number’s been torn off. It looks like mine, but what the hell do I know? I’ve had too much to drink, my backside is throbbing, and this coat is black. It’ll do.

I yank it off the hook and start to put it on.

“Let me help you with that,” Dominic says behind me, holding it for me like my grandfather used to do.

I slip my arms into the holes. It feels alien and big. I turn to face him. “Thanks.”

He looks amused. “Are you sure that’s your coat?”

“Of course it is.” I try to button it up, but my fingers aren’t working very well. Dominic brushes my hands away and takes over. He buttons each button deliberately, working his way up to the button just below my chin. And of course, my stupid brain kicks out another memory of our night together, of me unbuttoning his shirt just as deliberately and kissing the flesh I exposed.

“There you go,” Dominic says.

I look at him, and I have to ask. “What are you really doing here, Dominic? Why do you keep showing up?”

“I . . . I want to come back to the apartment.”

“Is that what this is about? Someplace to live?”

“Come on, Emma, you know that’s not what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know what you mean unless you say it. What do you want to say?”

His hand brushes my cheek. “I wanted to tell you I made a mistake.”

I look away. “You already told me that.”

“No, Emma. I mean it was a mistake for me to say what I did after we spent the night together. I was a jerk.”

“And?”

He gives a small laugh. “You’re going to make this as difficult as you can for me, huh?”

“Damn right.”

“How come?”

“Because I don’t understand why this is the first real conversation we’ve had since we slept together.”

Now it’s his turn to look away. “It’s Emily.”

My heart sinks. “You’re back together.”

“No!”

“Then what?”

“Don’t you remember what I was doing when we met?”

“Moving into my apartment?”

“So you kept saying. But why, Emma?”

“Because you were moving out of your place with Emily.”

“Right. My life was falling apart.”

“So was mine.”

“I know. I was right there as it was happening.”

“You were.”

“Everything was messed up, and I didn’t know what I was feeling. I only knew that being around you made things . . . better. And then it didn’t anymore.”

“Oh, okay.”

“No, Emma, no.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to stay, forcing me to stand and take it, whatever it is. “What I mean is that everything that happened to me, and to you, caught up with me after the night we spent together.”

“I see.”

“Is that what you felt?”

“No.”

The left corner of his mouth twitches. “Want to enlighten me?”

Part of me does and part of me doesn’t. But what the hell? I don’t know how this is going to end. I only know what I felt. What I feel.

“I felt overwhelmed too, but mostly, I felt like . . . I finally had something that was mine. Something that didn’t have anything to do with who I was before I went away, or what I was. And it didn’t have anything to do with what I was going through either, though you were a big part of that. I was just . . . happy, and nervous, and hopeful. That’s what I was feeling. And then—”

“I ruined it.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I suppose it’s too much to ask . . .”

“To ask what?”

“For what I want.”

“Do you know? Do you really know?”

He smiles down at me. “Yes.”

I look at him shyly. “It’s me, right?”

“Emma, do you seriously think I would’ve gone through all this to tell you I was picking someone else?”

“I was just checking.”

He pulls me toward him. “I don’t want you to doubt me.” He starts to kiss me in that soft, slow way I remember from the night we spent together. My body remembers too, only it’s covered by this enormous coat, a wall between us. I don’t want any walls between us anymore.

We break apart. “Okay, I believe you,” I say.

He pulls me toward him again, tightly, holding me close, swaying me to the music seeping in from far away. “Thank you for getting your firm to buy my photographs.”

“You’re welcome.”

He smiles and we move toward each other again, kissing more urgently, kissing full of possibilities, kissing full of future. When we break apart my face is hot and the coat feels like a blanket.

“Maybe we should take this coat off, whoever’s it is.”

“But the sign says she’ll be back in ten minutes.”

He gives me a devilish look. “I’m willing to risk it if you are.”

I lean toward him, an answer on my lips. Something starts to vibrate.

“Are you going to get that?” I ask.

“Not a chance.”

Acknowledgments

As always I’d like to thank my earliest readers, especially Katie, Amy, and my mom, for important plot suggestions when I was straying off course.

My friends for their support and encouragement, especially Tasha, Phyllis, Janet, and Tanya. And for their advice, support, and inspiration, the members of the Fiction Writer’s Co-Op, Nadia Lakdhari and Shawn Klomparens.

Agent extraordinaire Abigail Koons, and the whole team at Park Literary. I couldn’t ask for better representation, or friends.

My editors at HarperCollins Canada, Jennifer Lambert and Jane Warren. My editors at HarperCollins U.S., Stephanie Meyers and Emily Krump. And all of those in production, design, and marketing who make sure my words are correct, nice to read, and well covered.

My family, Mom, Dad, Cam, Mike, and David, for bringing the love.

And to my readers, without whom I would have no reason to do this.

About the Author

CATHERINE MCKENZIE was born and raised in Montreal, Quebec, where she now practices law. An avid runner, skier, and reader, she has also taught part-time at McGill University’s Faculty of Law.

www.catherinemckenzie.com

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Praise for
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“A compelling, fast-paced read.”

—
Globe and Mail
(Toronto)

“In Kate Sandford, Catherine McKenzie has created a 21st-century Bridget Jones—dark and delicate, broken yet strong.
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is all at once comic, heartbreaking, and life-affirming.”

—Tish Cohen, author of
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and
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“
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—Holly Kennedy, author of
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. Filled with brutal honesty and wry humor,
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is a story for anyone who has ever woken up hungover and thought, ‘Do I have a problem? Yes—I need to find a greasy breakfast.’ And by that I mean everyone I know.”

—Leah McLaren, author of
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, Catherine McKenzie taps into both the ridiculous and sublime elements of the world her characters inhabit, and, more importantly, points out how those are often exactly the same. A thoroughly engaging debut.”

—David Sprague, contributor to
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the
Village Voice,
and
Rolling Stone

“[A] charming debut. . . . With fresh, fast-paced storytelling and a personable, self-deprecating protagonist, McKenzie whirls a perfectly indulgent tale.”

—
Publishers Weekly

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—
Booklist

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—
New York Journal of Books

“If
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and
High Fidelity
had a literary baby, the result would be
Spin
. A funny heroine and plentiful music references make this book a standout. McKenzie’s tale of girls gone wild and gone to rehab is ripped straight from the latest tabloid headlines and will keep readers intrigued to the very last page.”

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RT Book Reviews
(top pick)

“The characters are easily imagined and well thought out. . . . Making her U.S. debut, Canadian author McKenzie introduces a modern literary heroine who will remind readers of Sophie Kinsella’s ‘Shopaholic’ protagonist: flawed but compelling . . . compulsively readable. ”

—
Library Journal

“McKenzie’s deliciously tart sense of humor and her tough yet tender heroine are as refreshing as a perfectly mixed mimosa.”

—
Chicago Tribune

Praise for
Arranged

“Who says chicklit has to end with a wedding? Canadian author Catherine McKenzie’s new book,
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—
Chatelaine,
January 2011

“Catherine McKenzie brings a smart twist to marriage and relationships in her second novel, the story of unlucky-in-love Anne Blythe.
Arranged
is crafted with pathos and subtle humor, and through it McKenzie’s heroine learns—the hard way—that the happiest endings are often the ones least expected.”

—Shawn Klomparens, author of
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and
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“Catherine McKenzie’s
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is a satisfying and entertaining romance that puts a very contemporary twist on old-fashioned ideas about marriage. I inhaled it in an afternoon, rooting for its heroine to find the love she longs for.”

—Leah Stewart, author of
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“A novel that explores what happens when what you think you want collides with what you really need. Catherine McKenzie’s
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is a rare book: smart, funny, honest, and absorbing.”

—Therese Walsh, author of
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figured out, time and again, Catherine McKenzie delivers the flawless, unexpected twist that keeps you glued to the book.”

—Cathy Marie Buchanan, author of
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