Read Forget for Free Online Page B

modern-day throwback to Woodstock.
    ‘I know. I’m a little creeped out myself.’
    ‘Don’t sweat it. You look gorgeous. You’re the classy version of our mother. Beautiful, healthy, and drug-free. LOL.’
    I laugh, which probably seems like an inappropriate reaction, but in order to survive the kind of childhood Ember and I had, finding humor was and still is a necessity.
    ‘Drug-free AND zero male suitors in my bed. I’m like the anti-Cassidy Sawyer . . . ’
    ‘Chastity Sawyer.’
    ‘Haha! Exactly. God, I love you.’
    I think of a question that’s been bugging me, and send another text.
    ‘Be honest. Are you mad I’m here and you’re not? I feel bad leaving you and Teddy just days after . . . ’
    ‘Millie tried to get me to go, too, but I refused. I promised her I’d visit Paris once Teddy was a little older and I felt better about leaving him. Plus, I think you needed to experience it by yourself for the first time, without the accompaniment of a precocious 4 yr old. And I love you, more. Kiss Paris for me ;)’

    Once I reach the 10th Arrondissement, my feet explore Canal Saint-Martin for a good hour. I notice more Parisians than tourists along its arched bridges and concrete banks. Perfect weather has brought a decent amount of foot traffic, but despite the crowd, the area still appears charming and calm. Chic streets are speckled with cafés, high-fashion boutiques, and scholarly bookshops. I find myself loving the trendy and creative vibe flowing throughout. It might be my favorite part of Paris.
    My phone vibrates against my hip. I pull it out of my messenger bag and see another text from Lindsay. Get a tattoo. Apparently, she’s bored in Milan’s airport while waiting for her flight back to New York. She’s been sending me messages all afternoon. Each one highlighting the infamous bucket list she created for me back in college. Nearly everything on that stupid list is beyond outrageous.
    ‘Nope. There is nothing I love enough to brand on my body.’
    ‘There has to be something you can think of!’
    I walked inside of Au Fait as I read the text, laughing quietly to myself. Only a few patrons fill the rustic joint. Dark, wood paneling, British flags, and sports memorabilia accentuate the very pub-like feel. And rows and rows of liquor bottles sit behind the sprawling bar. There’s a small, makeshift stage and beside it sits a wall made entirely of a chalkboard—crazy sayings and drawings cover it from ceiling to floor.
    My ass finds a spot at the bar, and while the bartender has his back to me, I respond to Lindsay’s text.
    ‘NOTHING. Absolutely nothing. So get the idea out of your head.’
    ‘You’re a whore.’
    I laugh a little too loud.
    The bartender is looking at me, and I’m faced with another handsome man within Paris’s city limits. His eyes are alight with curiosity and for some odd reason the sense of déjà vu smacks me in the face. “I’ll only serve you once you show I.D. and tell me what you’re laughing about.” His English brogue fills my ears.
    Does every hot guy in Paris have an English accent?
    I tilt my head in amusement. “I.D.? Isn’t the legal drinking age sixteen in Paris?”
    He slings a towel over his shoulder and rests his elbows on the bar. “That’s for beer and wine, love. It’s eighteen for liquor.”
    “You think I look younger than eighteen?” I almost snort in laughter— almost —thank God, I hold it back. My first day in Paris used up enough awkwardness to last a year. “And who says I want liquor?”
    “I’m just trying to play it safe, love,” he answers, shoulders shrugging and smirk flashing. “I can’t have seventeen-year-old tourists coming in here and risking our liquor license.”
    He’s so full of shit. I roll my eyes, grabbing my California license from my wallet. My hand slides it across the bar in a smug fashion.
    “Brooke Sawyer, twenty-six.” He glances at me then back at the license. “An organ donor from