Forget You, Ethan
a novel
WHITNEY G.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the author.
Cover design by Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Forget You, Ethan
PROLOGUE
Back Then: 7½ Years Old
Track 1. This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things (4:00)
Track 2. So It Goes... (4:23)
Track 3. Should’ve Said No (2:41)
Track 4. Bad Blood (3:22)
Back Then: 9 ½ Years Old
Track 5. Gorgeous (3:12)
Track 6. Tell Me Why (5:01)
Track 7. Getaway Car (4:16)
Back Then: 15 ½ Years Old
Track 8. ...Ready for It? (3:11)
Track 9. Don’t Blame Me (4:25)
Back Then: 16 Years Old
Track 10. Style (3:59)
Track 11. Sparks Fly (2:42)
Back Then: 16 ½ Years Old
Track 12. Mine (1:57)
Track 13. Dancing With Our Hands Tied (4:49)
Track 14. Dress (2:14)
Track 14A. Reputation (2:18)
Track 15. Delicate (3:27)
Back Then: 17 Years Old
Track 16. King of My Heart (3:30)
Track 17. End Game (3:37)
Track 18. Don’t Blame Me (4:27)
Back Then: 18 Years Old
Back Then: 18 Years Old
Track 19. Call It What You Want (3:22)
Track 20. I Know Places (1:13)
Track 21. I Did Something Bad (4:09)
Track 22. Shake It Off (2:22)
Track 23. Wildest Dreams (2:09)
Track 24. Mean (3:47)
Track 25. Look What You Made Me Do (0:20)
Back Then: 18 Years Old
Track 26. Welcome to New York (3:04)
Track 27. All You Had To Do Was Stay (4:10)
At Sea: First Week Gone
At Sea: Three Weeks Gone
At Sea: Six Weeks Gone
Track 28. I Almost Do (3:11)
Track 29. Breathe (2:39)
Track 29A. Begin Again (1:39)
Back Then: 18 1/2 Years Old
Track 30. This Love (3:53)
Track 31. How You Get The Girl (2:46)
Forget You, Rachel
For those of us who grew up during a time when it took more than a click of a button for someone to be your friend, a time when the internet was still in dial-up mode, and a time when we thought everything would remain the same ...
ALSO BY WHITNEY G.:
SERIES & STANDALONES:
STEAMY COFFEE READS Collection
Naughty Boss
Dirty Doctor
Cocky Client
Filthy Lawyer
REASONABLE DOUBT SERIES
Reasonable Doubt #1
Reasonable Doubt #2
Reasonable Doubt #3
FALLING FOR MR. STATHAM Series
Resisting the Boss
Loving the Boss
THE ONE WEEK SERIES
On a Tuesday
On a Wednesday
On a Thursday
On a Friday
On a Saturday
On a Sunday
On a Monday
Sincerely, Carter
Forget You, Ethan
Turbulence
Over Us, Over You
Two Weeks’ Notice
The Layover
PROLOGUE
Rachel
THE FIRST LETTER I ever wrote was addressed to a boy in my first-grade class. His name was Nate Cloud, and even at six years old, my crush on him (and his light blue overalls) was overwhelming. My words were written in bright green crayon as a simple, “Do you like me? Circle yes or no.”
That asshole circled no.
The second letter I wrote was to a girl in my library class. Her name was Ashley Donovan, and I desperately wanted to be her best friend. I wrote a full three lines telling her all the things we had in common—all the things that would make us the perfect set of friends. (Pink jelly sandals, a Barbie Dream House, and a collection of bright Beanie Babies.) My words were written on notebook paper, with a final question that read, “Will you please be my best friend? Circle yes or yes.”
She didn’t circle either one.
She created her own option: NO.
I made it through first and second grade with a broken heart and zero friends, so I kept the rest of my letters to myself.
Until I met the boy who lived on my brand-new street, the boy who became my first best friend.
For all of three seconds.
He was the worst person I’d ever met in my life, and the very moment he quoted some bullshit about “keeping [his] friends close and [his] enemies closer,” all while throwing me off my bike and kicking me to the ground, I was convinced that the word “friend” would never be a part of my vocabulary. I thought I’d never find someone who loved letters as much as me.
That is, until he became the first person in my life to ever write me back.
Not just once.
Not just twice.
Always.
Even though we hated each other down to our marrow, and we could never get along for more than twenty minutes at a time, we always wrote back...
Back Then: 7½ Years Old
Ethan
I COULD’VE SWORN THAT my new neighbor was supposed to be a boy...
That’s what my parents told me when the house down the street from us finally sold. They said, “Oh, they seem like such a nice family! They even have a son for you to meet. How nice will that be?”
It would’ve been very nice because every family on our street was full of stupid girls. Not a single one of those girls liked me, and I didn’t like any of them either.
So, when my dad came into my room today and told me to get dressed to meet the neighbors, I was shocked when he took my action figures and returned them to my nightstand.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Rachel probably won’t want to see those.”
“Rachel? Who is Rachel?” I asked.
“Your new neighbor down the street.” He smiled so easily, as if those five words didn’t ruin any hopes I had of finally having a friend in this neighborhood. It was bad enough that we lived in the suburbs and it took half an hour to get to anywhere decent like the movies or the skate park. But now, the last house on our block housed the worst thing on the planet. A girl. Again.
Groaning, I slipped headphones and a CD player into my backpack—ready to tune out everything as soon as my parents talked about the boring stuff. I made my way downstairs and grabbed my mom’s usual “Meet the New Neighbors” cake off the counter. I followed her and my dad out the front door and down the sidewalk—rolling my eyes at the Cramer twins who were playing in their front yard.
“Hello, Mr. & Mrs. Wyatt!” They waved. “Hello, Ethan!”
“Don’t wave at me,” I said.
“Ethan ...” My mom narrowed her eyes at me. “Be nice.”
“Hello, Clara. Hello, Joan.” I forced myself to smile. The second my mom turned her back, they flipped their middle fingers up at me. I happily returned the favor.
Ugh.
When we made
it to the new neighbors’ house, a red-headed woman and her husband stepped out and smiled at us.
“Wow! I wasn’t expecting you to really bake us a cake!” The woman looked surprised. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had something home-made.”
She bought it at the store. It’s not home-made.
As they ushered us inside, I hoped that their usual new neighbor conversation wouldn’t last as long as it usually did. They always talked about the same exact thing with every new family. Are the schools here as good as they say? What do kids do around here for fun? How cute would it be if our kids became friends?
“Well, look at you!” The woman bent down to my level. “I waved at you the other day when you were playing in your yard, but I don’t think you saw me. I’m Mrs. Dawson. What’s your name?”
“Ethan Wyatt,” I said.
“Well, Ethan Wyatt, I have a daughter named Rachel Dawson who looks like she’s about your age. Let me guess. You’re seven, right?”
“Seven and a half.”
“She says the same thing.” She laughed and pointed to the staircase. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself to her while I pour your parents a glass of wine? It’s the first room on the left.”
“No, that’s okay.” I shrugged. “I don’t want to meet another girl. I’ve met enough of those already.”
“Ethan Wyatt.” My mother warned under her breath. “Go say hello to Rachel, now.”
I rolled my eyes and took my time walking up the steps, stopping when I saw the posters in the hallway. They were all superheroes and artists. Superheroes and artists that I liked.
Maybe she has a brother after all.
I knocked on the Spiderman that covered the bedroom door, and a girl with uneven bangs and ugly freckles opened it.
“My mom said you were a cute boy.” She crossed her arms. “She lied.”
“Like you can talk.” I scoffed. “You look like a Raggedy-Ann doll, and your hair looks like you cut it yourself. With a broken razor.”
“I did cut it myself.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “And I did use a razor.”
I glared at her, and she glared right back at me.
I contemplated knocking some of her stuff over or pushing her to the floor to show her who ran this block, but the huge Jurassic Park poster on her wall caught my attention. Beneath it, on her dresser, she had a collection of Star Wars action figures and a massive stack of comic books.
“Do you have an older brother?” I forgot why I was mad at her. “Is that why you have all this stuff?”
“No, this stuff is all mine.” She flopped onto her bed. “All the girls at my old school thought I was weird, but I don’t care. Superheroes beat Barbie any day. You have a sister?”
“Nope. I’m an only child.”
“Me, too.” She looked me over, and then she let out a breath. “Is this a good neighborhood?”
“It’s a boring one,” I said, stepping closer to her second set of comic books. “You’ll have no problem making friends, though. Every family on this block and the next has daughters.”
“I noticed.” She groaned. “I met some twins yesterday, and they invited me to play dress-up and tea this weekend.”
“See? You’re going to be best friends with the Cramer twins before you know it.”
“I hate playing dress up.” She scrunched up her face. “I hate tea, too. I’ll just pretend to be sick.”
I smiled. Maybe Rachel wasn’t so bad after all. Well, she was still a girl, but maybe she was a cool girl. For now.
“It was nice meeting you, Rachel.” I headed to the door once I heard my mom call my name.
“Wait.” She pointed to my headphones. “What are you listening to?”
“Good music, trust me, I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Try me.” She tossed me a box of CDs, so I pulled my CD keeper from my backpack and tossed it to her. I flipped through all her cases and felt my eyes widening as I read the names of each artist. With the exception of a few terrible pop bands, she listened to almost every artist I did.
“I guess your taste isn’t that bad.” She returned my CDs, and I returned hers. “And you know, neither are you. Do your parents let you use the internet?”
“Yes and no,” I admitted. “My parents always check the computer before and after I use it, so I don’t really use it.”
“Okay, well ...” She pulled out a note card and scribbled her full name and address. “I prefer writing letters anyway.”
“You want me to write you a letter from right down the street?”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re right down the street,” I said, laughing. “I’m always outside. Just come by if your parents let you. Besides, from the looks of things on your corkboard, it looks like you can barely spell. ‘Forget’ is spelled with an ‘e,’ not an ‘i.’ It clearly would be unfair for me to expect you to write a decent letter if you can’t get a simple word like that right.”
“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine.”
“Fine.” I walked to the hallway, but before I could set my foot on the first step, I felt her pressing her hands against my back. Felt her pushing me forward, and before I knew it, I was tumbling down the steps. Hard.
What the ...
I held back a cry when I hit the bottom and looked up the steps for an explanation, but all she did was cross her arms.
“I changed my mind,” she said. “I don’t like you and I don’t want to be your friend. Besides, the word ‘forget’ is spelled exactly how I spelled it, so maybe you need to get your eyes checked or learn how to read. Take that, Ethan.”
“I don’t want to be your friend either.” I glared at her as I stood to my feet, knowing that I should’ve never trusted a stupid girl. “Forget you, Rachel.”
Track 1. This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things (4:00)
Ethan
Present Day
I STILL HATE RACHEL Dawson...
I looked over the most recent letter she’d sent me from her “Semester at Sea” program, and I still couldn’t bring myself to write her back. It’d been three months since our last exchange, and my blood was boiling like I was reading her words for the first time.
Dear Ethan,
I’m pretty sure your girlfriend is cheating on you. Like, all the SIGNS are there, and they were there eight letters ago. As a person who honestly loves seeing you miserable, I can’t say that this makes me happy. (Only because I don’t like cheaters, though. If you were upset about anything else, I’d be laughing my ass off right now.)
Maybe she’s just not impressed with all those accolades you LOVE to throw in my face all the time: The fact that you were Mr. Popular in high school for three years in a row (I still believe you stuffed the ballot box, and it was high school. Time to let that shit go.) The fact you drive a classic blue convertible (What the hell does that have to do with anything? Like, ever?) And the fact that you’re supposedly “running shit on SBU’s campus.” (I’ve been on this ship for three years, and none of the students who do single semesters have any idea who you are when I ask. No. One.)
Thank you for the unwanted advice about MY boyfriend, but seeing as though I know what it takes to make a relationship work, I don’t need it.
Forget You,
Rachel
PS—Maybe you’re not as good at sex as you thought you were? (That’s probably it. I can send you some ‘How to’ books on that topic if you like. Let me know!)
I reread her letter one last time, putting it away in my glovebox. Then I looked up at my girlfriend’s windows for the second hour in a row, watching her grind against one of my closest friends.
I was supposed to be surprising her with a “four-month anniversary” gift right now since she’d thrown not-so-subtle hints all week, but after watching her get pounded by someone else, I knew I was returning everything to the store the second I broke up with her. Today.
I can’t believe Rachel was right
about this shit.
Not wanting to wait for them to finish, I stepped out of my car and walked to her front door. I used the key she gave me months ago, the one labeled “Ethan and Lisa forever,” and walked into the living room.
“Ohhhh god!” She moaned. “Oh god, yes!”
“Yeah?” My friend, Brody, slapped her ass. “Is this what you like?”
“Yeah, she loves that position,” I said, and he immediately stilled. His eyes went wide, and all the color left Lisa’s face.
He pulled out of her, quickly moving away. Then he stared at me in shock for several seconds before picking up his jeans and rushing to the bathroom.
Lisa stood in front of me, stark naked and red. Keeping her eyes on mine, she walked over to the couch.
She bit her lip, looking as if she was searching for the right thing to say.
“Hi, Ethan,” she said, finally. “I know this looks really bad, but I can explain.”
I said nothing, and she picked up her clothes.
“Can you stop looking at me like that first, though?” She pulled her bra over her head. “Like, please?”
I didn’t move. I watched as she struggled to put on the rest of her clothes. Blue jeans. Faded shirt. My high school varsity hoodie.
“It’s like you’re a zombie or something right now,” she said. “You haven’t said a word to me since you came in. At least let me know what you’re thinking so I can know where to start.”
Brody stepped out of the bathroom and looked between us, grabbing his jacket and walking over to me. “We’ll still be cool after this, right?” He held out his hand for a handshake, and it took everything in me not to knock him to the ground and beat his ass.
“So, we’re not cool?” he asked. “I mean, don’t tell me you’re willing to flush years of our friendship down the drain over something like this.”
“Depends,” I said finally. “By ‘something like this’ do you mean the fact that I sat in the driveway and watched you fuck my girlfriend for almost two hours?”