Page 40 of Forgotten
We kiss for the rest of the night, and Ford tells me about his life in Sheffield, where uni is great and thepeople are reeeally great until Sydney tentatively approaches our table with a glass of water.
“My dad’s here,” he announces.
There is no trace of the Ireland-chicken-girl beside him, no Darshi either. Looking around, I notice the pub is pretty much empty.
Holding a pile of presents, Sydney turns to Ford, “We’ll give you a ride too if you promise to take care of this mess.”
The mess is me and I smile proudly, feeling weightless. Ford helps me up and takes the pile of presents from Sydney, and the next thing I know I’m vomiting on the empty street and Sydney’s dad is wishing me a very happy birthday, Ashley Bergman.
I fall asleep to a glass of water and I wake up to a glassof water.
Ford greets me with a knowing grin and jumps on the bed next to me, making it bounce. The motion makes my stomach wobble and I remember the party, the vomiting, Ford tucking me into bed with the recommendation to drink this water. The kissing.
“Good morning,” I tell him as I carefully sit up.
I’m expecting nausea and more vomit and taking a deep breath I prepare myself. Instead, my stomach has never been calmer. My mind is clear, clean.
“How did you sleep?”
Small talk has never been Ford’s strength. I know he’s dying to ask me about last night and that he wants to discuss the kiss. I know he has no idea how to ask about it. But instead of helping him out as I usuallywould, I decide to humour him. Only because I’m still struggling to believe he is actually here. “I slept well. You?”
“Your couch is incredibly comfortable.”
I lay back down on my bed. “My entire family is away, you could have picked from four different beds. Or you could have slept here. You know, with me.”
With a shrug, Ford lays down next to me. My bed is not as big as his and living so close to each other, I can count on one hand the times we actually have spent the night together. It’s always been easier to just go back to our own homes.
Side by side, we stare at the ceiling until my eyes close again and for a while, I doze off to the rhythm of Ford’s heartbeat.
I stir back awake at the sound of Ford’s voice and I turn to look at him.
“Do you remember anything about last night?” he asks me, and I’ve read enough books, seen enough films to know this is when I lie, when I say “no, I don’t remember” and we move on with our lives.
We’d move on to who we were before I decided I wanted to kiss my best friend for real and to who Ford was before he let me kiss him again.
But I can’t do that. Not when kissing Ford is everything I want to do even now; not when his eyes are sparkling with something new and looking darker than ever.
So, I slowly nod. “I remember,” I say in a low voice, and then, because I’m a mess, I add, “but I’m open to forgetting if that’s what you want.”
Throwing an arm over his face, Ford hides himself from me. The only thing I can see is the short stubble that was not there last night, the curly red hair cut short and the soft curve of his bicep. I follow the harsh curve of his Adam’s apple and the idea of sinking my teeth in the golden flesh crosses my mind but I don’t move.
Finally, Ford sighs. “Whatever makes us stay friends, Ash.”
I have no idea what it means, but then Ford looks at me and there is only one dimple on his left cheek. I want to tell him that I want to kiss him again, I have wanted to kiss him a lot since that first time. I wanted to kiss him when he turned eighteen and fell from a tree whilst trying to pick cherries. I wanted to kiss him when he graduated high school and had a party at his house with all of his mates and invited me even though I had no business being there, but Ford still wanted me present. I wanted to kiss him when he left for Sheffield with his dad driving the car and his mom and her new boyfriend in the back, all waving at me. I wanted to kiss him last night and I did, and now kissing him is everything I want to do until I die.
But staring at Ford, I realise that I cannot promise him that if I keep kissing him, I will continue to be his friend. I try to imagine my future, what city I would live in, what career I could pursue. I try to imagine an apartment, a pet, a family but my imagination is notworking. It’s never working. I can never see past today, past this week. Sometimes I think I’m destined to die young, if I cannot see myself past the present.
There is only one thing I can see and that thing is Ford. He’s been there since I was a child and has been by my side through it all. That is the only future I see, one where Ford is my best friend.
I don’t ask him what he wants. The idea that Ford might want me back never even occurs to me. I just turned eighteen and I think I can read Ford’s mind, but I am so, so wrong.
“Okay then. I want to be your best friend forever,” I tell him, hoping he wants the same thing.
Luckily, he does. Lifting his forearm, he holds his open hand at me and waits until I squeeze it.
“Best friends.”
“Best friends,” I confirm, letting go of his hand.
