Page 47 of Forgotten
Ford punches my shoulder lightly. “Fuck off. You’re impossible. I was ten years old,” he says, unclenching his fist and rubbing my shoulder softly, although he did not hurt me in the first place.
“You meant to say I’m unpossible, surely,” I tease him and he scoffs.
“I hate you. Go have fun, I’ll get drinks.”
“Gin Tonic, please,” I remind him and he purses his lips in disgust. With a final air kiss, I leave him at the bar and venture back in the crowd. When I don’t find any of Ford’s friends, I shrug to myself. Change of plans, then.
???
“You smoke?”
Much later, Ford finds me outside the pub and hands me a glass of water.
Good question. No, I don’t smoke regularly. But yes, I smoke every time Morgan, Preston and I go out and I get a little too overwhelmed. I’m not ready to admit how much I love the ritual, how freeing it is to know that for the duration of a cigarette there is nothing else that matters around me. Unless, of course, Ford is present. Then there is no amount of nicotine that can distractme.
“I don’t think Vicky likes me.” I change the subject as I unintentionally focus on his lips.
“She likes literally no one, it’s not personal.”
“Literally? Like, literally no one?” I tease him. It gets right under his skin and he sighs, exasperated.
“Piss off! You and your stupid English lessons.” His eyes are red, his hair messier than usual. I wonder how much Ford’s been drinking tonight.
“Okay, okay, sorry. I’ll stop. Has she ever murdered someone? Vicky?” I hope she hasn’t but if she had, I wouldn’t be surprised.
“You know what, I ask myself that often.”
Fair enough.
And speaking of the devil, Vicky joins us then. “Ashley and Ashford. Exactly the people I was looking for.” She steals a sip from Ford’s drink and grabs the cigarette from my fingers. She takes a long drag and then kills it in a nearby ashtray without asking if I was done with it. With the greenest most judgemental stare I have ever seen, she studies Ford and me.
“So, how did you two meet?” she asks and it’s my favourite story to tell.
I start from the beginning, with those blue skates that I did not get for Christmas in the winter of 2002.
Around 1:00 a.m. Ford decides it is time to take me home. He’s unstable on his feet and messes up his address twice while trying to give it to the taxi driver. Vicky walks out of the club and wishes us goodnight, before turning around and going back inside. I’m dying to ask Ford more about her, but I bite my tongue.
When we finally make it back to Ford’s room, we brush our teeth, get into our pyjamas and lay on thefloor. For a moment I consider asking Ford to borrow a sweater, anything that will cover my scarred arms. But I don’t. I smooth the wrinkles of my t-shirt and rest my arms on my chest, where my heart is thrumming a nervous, guilty rhythm.
Ford finds his guitar and begins strumming a tune I don’t know. For some reason, the notes almost make mecry.
“I sort of shagged your friend in the bathroom of the pub,” I blurt out, and the air between us smells like spiritsand cigarettes.
“Ash! Who was it, Adam?”
I’m glad the darkness hides my blush when I confess I don’t even remember the name. I describe a tall man with broad shoulders and a shaved head, dark skin and full lips and at the last second, I recall a small scar on hischin.
Ford hums in recognition of his friend Adam from rugby. Soft notes fill the room, and I finally feel like I can breathe again. Ford is here, music is playing and I’mhome.
“I saw you coming out of the loo together. How was it?” Ford asks.
“Hum. We kissed. He was very high. I was a bit tipsy. What do you want to know?”
“Everything, I guess.”
“I mean, it was just a blowjob. Sex with men is simple. It makes me less scared,” I admit.
Boys are basic, they are always open for a blowjob. Bad day? Blowjob. Happy, sad, celebrating, grieving? Blowjob any day of the week.
