Page 42 of Forgotten
“You’re very opinionated when it comes to kissing, Ford.”
I don’t mean to blush but it happens anyway. I hide it behind the black mug, pretending to care about the dark liquid.
“I am?”
Ash chuckles, crossing his legs and looking in the distance. Maybe he’s searching for the person that I was before the accident.
“‘Less cigarettes, less coffee.’You said. You were withholding sex. It was a tragedy.”
I believe him. No matter how sexy having a cigarette glued to his lips made Ash, I’ve always openly disapproved of his nasty habit. And yet. Something else gets my attention. The thought of Ash and I having sex is like caffeine. Cortisol shoots through my veins, and my heart quickens, my temperature rises. Shifting on the chair, I lean forward to place the mug on the table. My hands are shaking.
“That’s your coffee mug,” Ash mentions as calmly as possible. “You only use it for coffee.”
I gaze at Ashley but his blue eyes are closed now and the light breeze is blowing his hair everywhere. Instinctively I check my wrist for a hair elastic but instead I only find the soft brace, reminding me that I have no idea what I would have done had I even found an elastic there.
“Do I drink coffee often?” I ask, wanting to know just how precisely Ash has me memorised.
“Ever since I got us the espresso machine. I couldn’t bear the granulated coffee anymore,” Ash explains.
I stare at him, wondering how much of Ash I have lost. How many insignificant details 2024 me knows about Ashley Bergman. Now I only have one question, though. I ask it before I lose courage. “Do you kiss me when I drink coffee?”
Ash’s eyes snap open and he focuses on me. “Ford. I’d kiss you if you had shit in your mouth.”
“Fucking hell. Ash.” I pretend to gag and make a move to stand but Ash grabs my arm, pulling me down.
“Sorry, you’re right, that was gross. Your one truth for my one truth?”
“Coffee is nasty. Are you sure I actually drink this shit?” I say.
Dropping back onto the chair, I listen to one of the few sounds I’m sure I will never forget: Ash’s laugh. It makes his head tilt back and his eyes crinkle in a young and carefree expression. I have seen this laugh before and I have known Ash long enough to recognise when he’s being fake, polite. Something inside of me wants to roar with how real this laugh is. Clutching at his chest with one hand, Ash sinks lower in the chair and his long legs stretch before him. He’s wearing a wrinkled white t-shirt and a pair of green pants that somehow matches the green mug he is holding. He’s not wearing shoes but is wearing a pair of grey socks. Ash is always wearing socks.
My fingers ache to reach for him and feel the muscle of his thigh, smooth the folds of his shirt and tuck the messy strands back behind his ears. We’re not even close, yet Ash is everywhere, all I can see and breathe.
I lean closer, needing to cut the space between us. Without looking at Ash, I breathe, “And now?”
“What now?”
“Would you kiss me, now?
“Ford.” It’s a whisper but a faint light sparkles in Ash’s eyes as he looks up to me. He runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it but it does nearly nothing. It falls right back in place, all over his forehead and cheeks. It makes me smile but my lower lip is shaking, and I briefly fear he won’t do it.
How wrong I am. Straightening his back, Ash stands up and moves to kneel before me. We’re not eye to eye and it’s weird having to look down to see him. It’s usually the other way around.
Slowly, Ash cups my face in his hands and angles his chin up. Then it all happens too quickly. Our noses are brushing and Ash’s impossibly close, and finally there’s no distance left between us. His mouth tastes like coffee and like cigarettes but I quickly find that I don’t care.
All that matters is Ash: the smell of his skin, the firm fingers on my jaw, my neck. The tongue he pushes inside my mouth possessively. My left arm is heavy when I force it up on Ash’s shoulders, and I sigh in relief the moment my hand can grab a hold of his long hair. I gather as much as I can without actually pulling and Ash pants against my lips. I hug my right arm to my chest, hating the distance that the sling forces between Ash and me. I need another good arm to keep him close, to make sure he stays here, knelt before me to touch and care forand kiss. And kiss once more. I wish it’d never end. I wish I’d never forgotten.
It’s the only kiss we share that day.
After we make our way back into the kitchen I feel sweaty and feverish. When I admit that I cannot make it back upstairs, Ash offers to bring a mattress downstairs so we can camp in the living-room. I almost accept, before we both share a look and realise the bathroom is upstairs: stairs can’t be avoided. Ash jokes I can go in the garden if I need to and I shove him away. My indignation only draws him closer and the internal battle is written all over his face.
I hope he will give in, hug me and peck my lips again.
It would be much easier, waking up to a relationship that only requires one to say yes. Instead, Ash is letting me choose this. He steps back putting some distance between us, and his expression turns serious again, something I hardly find fitting on him.
“Why don’t you take a nap on the couch, then?” he suggests and I am happy to lay down and forget about forgetting for a while.
That’s how we spend our first full days at home, together. I walk around the house, trying to remember. When I don’t, Ash is there to catch me every time.
