Forget Me Not,Mr. Carter
VERA
The bell above the door jingled, signaling the last customer of the afternoon was gone. I slumped against the counter, the familiar ache in my feet finally getting a vote. The air smelled like stale coffee grounds and lemon spray, the scent of my life.
“You’re dead on your feet, kid,” Mrs. Thompson’s voice cut through the quiet. She was wiping down the espresso machine, her movements efficient and practiced. “Go on, get out of here. Ray’s been blowing up my phone all day, says he has to talk to you. Something about needing his ego checked by the only person who’ll do it.”
A real smile, the first all day, touched my lips. “His ego doesn’t need checking, it needs its own zip code.”
As if on cue, my phone buzzed on the counter. Mrs. Thompson’s face lit up. “Speak of the devil! Put him on speaker!”
I swiped to answer and Ray’s voice, loud and full of that infectious energy, filled the empty café. “V! You watching the news? Tell me you’re watching the news!”
“The only thing I’m watching is this mug I still have to scrub,” I said, playing along.
“They just announced it! We’re in! Preliminary stage for the nationals! Can you believe it? Little old me, from Hartford, playing at MetLife!”
Mrs. Thompson let out a whoop, clutching her chest. “That’s my boy! I knew it! I knew they’d see what you could do!”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Thompson,” I teased, feeling a genuine warmth spread through me. “I’ve seen the gossip blogs. You’re bagging supermodels and pop stars left and right. You sure you have time to focus on football?”
He laughed, a rich, easy sound. “What can I say, Hayes? The talent on the pitch is just a preview of the main event. It’s a curse, really.”
I rolled my eyes, but I was still smiling. “How’s the big city treating you, besides your exploding ego?”
“It’s good, it’s good. Busy. Hey, how’s Matty? She still giving her professors nightmares with her debate skills?”
I glanced at Mrs. Thompson, who was beaming with pride. “Probably. She’s got her final year comms project presentation tomorrow. She’s been locked in her dorm room for days prepping. You know how she gets.”
What I didn’t say was that I knew exactly how Matty got, especially when the topic of conversation was Ray Thompson. The huge, pathetic, secretly-pined-for-years crush she’d deny to her grave. Some secrets weren’t mine to tell.
We chatted for a few more minutes before he had to run to a team meeting. After we hung up, Mrs. Thompson squeezed my shoulder. “He always calls you first, you know.” She then disappeared into the back kitchen, humming to herself.
The quiet of the café settled back over me. For the first time all day, a sense of calm washed through me. Maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad. I could go home, order cheap takeout, and actually conquer that towering Theatre History textbook. Professor Davies’ paper was my ticket to a grade that could actually get me a decent agent. For a glorious second, I could almost picture it: me, my laptop, a blanket fort of highlighters and notes. A normal night. A quiet night. My night.
Pulling my worn textbook from my backpack, I flipped it open right there on the counter. I could get a head start before I even left. I took a deep breath, the promise of productivity feeling like a lifeline.
And that’s when my phone buzzed again. Not a call. A text.
A text from Brett.
The book in front of me might as well have vanished. My stomach did a nauseating flip-flop. The warmth from the call with Ray, the little spark of hope for a peaceful evening—it all vanished, replaced by a cold drip of anxiety.
Brett: My bar. 9 tonight. Don’t be late. And for god’s sake, don’t embarrass me like last time.
Last time. When I’d been tired from a double shift and hadn’t laughed loud enough at one of his investor’s stupid jokes. When I’d apparently looked “bored” and “uninterested.” The lecture in the car afterward had been a special kind of hell.
I bit my lip, my thumb hovering over the screen. This was my grade. My future. I summoned a shred of the courage I used on stage.
Taking a shaky breath, I typed back.
Me: Hey. I really need to study tonight. Big paper due tomorrow. Can I take a raincheck?
The response was immediate. The three little dots bounced with furious energy.
Brett: Seriously, Vera? You’re going to try that with me? Don’t. Wear the black dress.
The command was absolute. A shiver ran down my spine. It wasn’t a request. It was a summons. The tiny hope of a normal night shattered into a million pieces.
And I knew I’d go. Because Brett wasn’t just my boyfriend. He was the reason my brother, Jett, was still getting his medications. The reason he’d had his last two surgeries. The money I made here at the café? It barely covered my crappy studio apartment and ramen noodles. It sure as hell didn’t cover six-figure medical bills.
I thought about my stepmother, Eleanor. The day after my dad’s funeral, she’d looked me dead in the eye and said, “The life your father provided for you is over, Veronica. It’s time you learned to stand on your own two feet.” Then she’d changed the locks. My own father, a millionaire, had left me nothing but his “stubborn spirit,” according to her. He’d left everything to her and my perfect stepsister, Clarissa.
I was counting the days until I graduated. Until I could land a real acting role, become the actress my mom had dreamed of being before she died. Then I could pay Brett back every single cent. Then I could be free.
My phone vibrated in my hand again, startling me. This time, it wasn’t a text. It was a call.
The screen flashed with a number I knew by heart. Saint Jude’s Hospital.
My blood ran cold. The paper, Brett, my rent… it all faded into static.
“You gonna get that, Vera?” Mrs. Thompson called from the kitchen. “Everything okay?”
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I just stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Mrs. Thompson poked her head out, her smile fading when she saw my face. Her eyes dropped to the phone in my hand, and understanding dawned. Her voice was soft, worried.
“Vera? Honey… is it… is it about Jett?”
