Free Forgotten: A Novel by Catherine McKenzie

of Dominic’s old clothes (cords and a sweater with holes in the elbows) and pull my damp hair into a ponytail. In the kitchen, Dominic’s standing over a large orange stew pot, a wooden spoon in his hand. The cutting board on the counter is full of meat and vegetable scraps.
    “Whatever that is, it smells amazing.”
    “It’s Irish stew.”
    “An old family recipe?”
    “But of course.”
    I sit down. The table holds two wineglasses and an open bottle of red wine. I pour a large glass and swallow a mouthful. It tastes delicious and familiar. Too familiar.
    I look at the label. It just happens to be my favorite wine, several cases of which were in my storage locker (along with my road bike, my skis, and any number of things I shudder to think about) the last time I checked.
    “Where did this wine come from?”
    “I found it in the storage locker.”
    My heart gives a hopeful beat. “You didn’t happen to find anything else down there, did you?”
    “Just some questionable framed movie posters.”
    “ The Breakfast Club is not a questionable movie.”
    “True, but have you watched Pretty in Pink lately?”
    “John Hughes was a formative influence.”
    “I can tell.”
    I take a few sips from my glass, thinking over the conversation with Craig, wondering if I should take up his offer to stay in his apartment. Whether the solitude of the familiar or the company of a stranger is the better choice. Assuming, that is, that I have a choice.
    “Um, Dominic, I know I only asked to stay the one night, but—”
    “You need some more time to find a place?” he says with a resigned tone.
    I nod, feeling guilty about keeping Craig’s offer a secret. But I feel reluctant about staying there without him. I can’t quite locate why, but it’s enough for me to press my luck. “Is it okay if I stay a bit longer? I can pay you rent if you like.”
    “Sure, why the hell not?”
    I take a seat at the table, trying to decide whether his flat tone implies acceptance or sarcasm. I don’t know him well enough to tell. I decide to take it as acceptance, thank him, and change the subject.
    “You never said—how come you were looking for an apartment at Christmas?”
    His hand clenches the knife he’s holding, his knuckles turning white.
    “Dominic, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
    “No, I know.”
    “It’s just, you know all these details of my life, and you’re—”
    He puts the knife down. “Still anonymous?”
    “Yeah.”
    He picks up the bottle and pours some wine into his glass. He takes a large swallow. “This is really good.”
    “I can’t believe Pedro missed it.”
    His lips smile, but it doesn’t travel to his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “A couple of weeks ago, I came home early from a business trip and found my fiancée in bed with my best friend.”
    “I’m sorry, Dominic. I had no idea.”
    “Me neither.” A cruel look crosses his face. “And you know what’s funny? Getting married was her idea. ‘People get married,’ she said. So I spent more money than I could afford on a ring, and I took her to this little inn up north. I even got down on one knee next to a lake at sunset, for Chrissakes.”
    “That sounds really nice, sweet even.”
    “That’s what she said. But she was already sleeping with Chris when she said yes. Turns out it’s been going on for months. Maybe longer.” He drains his glass in one long swallow, then refills it nearly to the rim. “And that’s what I don’t get. Why get me to propose to her if she didn’t really want to be with me?”
    “Maybe you’re the guy she thinks she should be with.”
    “Yeah, maybe. Anyway, most of my friends, they’re ‘our’ friends, and while I’m pretty sure they’re taking my side, I just can’t face the whole pity party. When I remembered Tara saying something about the apartment downstairs being for rent, it seemed like the perfect solution. And that’s how I ended up here.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Yeah, well,