Before I Forget by Tory Henwood Hoen - 42

$100,000 for the IP, clean and simple.

You and your father have already laid the groundwork.… We just want to take it to the next level.

For the next few days, I keep hearing Anthony and Gemma’s voices in my head, reverberating and accelerating like some kind of frenetic TikTok mashup.

IP. Groundwork. Next level. Clean and simple.

IP. Groundwork. Next level. Clean and simple.

IP. Groundwork. Next level. Clean and simple …

On one hand, I can think of a dozen reasons to turn them down and never look back. They’re calling it an offer, but I know Gemma and I know Greg. These people don’t offer. They take; they siphon; they extract. They slurp the nectar and leave a dry husk in their wake. Plus, I know my father would be appalled by the idea of “living indefinitely” through technology. After all, I once heard him say, “I’ve tried the internet. It’s not for me.”

But on the other hand: $100,000. I don’t see how I can turn down that amount of money—not when we’re just barely meeting our monthly expenses and I’m no closer to having a real job than I was at this time last year. With that amount of money, I could fix up the house, hire someone to help with my father, and go back to school without having to worry about taking on more debt. At the very least, I could buy myself more time with my father before we would need to sell the house and move him into a home.

Plus, there’s another irony: this is the kind of splashy success story my mother always wanted for me, and, against all odds, I have manifested it.

I consider calling Carl and Paula to help me think through this, but I stop myself. I need to clear my head and cut the noise. I need an escape, and to my surprise, there is only one thing I feel pulled to do right now.

I want to play tennis with Max.

That evening, we meet at the courts with only an hour of light to spare.

“Thank you for answering my text so quickly,” I say as I lace up my sneakers. “It’s been a weird week, and I need to blow off some steam.”

“Happy to heed the call,” says Max, waiting for me to choose a side of the court.

Once we start hitting, I begin to decompress. It’s similar to the feeling I get when I’m at Paula’s dance class—a sloughing off of stress, a remembrance of who I am. We rally for as long as we can before the darkness encroaches and even the neon of the tennis ball becomes hard to track.

As we pack up, Max says, “Do you want to talk about whatever is going on? We could grab a drink…”

The idea of filling him in on the backstory of the situation is daunting. How far back do I go—all the way to Seth’s accident? But I get the feeling that Max is a good listener, and I could use a drink. Carl is watching my dad, and I give him a call to see if he can stay a bit later, knowing the answer will be yes.

As Max and I walk over to the Locust Inn, I try to calculate how long it has been since I have had an evening out on the town without my father. Not since I left New York, so well over a year. I don’t miss my old life or my old self, but I realize that my new existence might look a bit strange, from the outside.

“Is it weird for you that your aunt is one of my best friends here?” I ask.

Max shrugs. “Not really. Honestly, Paula is one of my best friends, too. I never really viewed her as one of the adults. She was always cooler, always more of an equal.”

We approach the entrance to the inn and make our way inside. I’m happy to see the place is brimming with tourists. I even overhear someone say something about “the oracle,” and I wonder if they’ll be on our roster of visitors for this coming weekend.

Max and I choose stools at the bar. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s the closest thing this town has to a cocktail lounge. Max gets a beer and I order a dirty martini, which seems to amuse him.

“I can see you mean business. So tell me: What’s going on over at Catwood Pond?”

I don’t know where to begin, so I start with the amount: $100,000. Then the concept. Then my history as Gemma’s employee. Then my relationship with Greg. And finally—now that I am two martinis in—I get to the meat of the matter: Seth’s death and the fact that I think he is visiting my father in spectral form.

Max listens intently, his head shaking and his eyes widening at the appropriate times. I finally circle back to the matter at hand: Gemma’s offer.

“I mean, she is really effective at what she does, and I’m sure her retreat center would be a success. It could breathe a whole new life into Locust. But I don’t know. That’s sort of why I left New York—I was exhausted by the compulsion to monetize everything; to convert every glimmer of authenticity into a product; to scale small joys until they are so bloated that they wither and droop.”

Max’s face stays serious but his eyes look amused.

“I think whatever magic we have created at Catwood Pond must be tied to the fact that we don’t charge our visitors,” I continue. “But our financial situation is a bit precarious, and this offer has really thrown me for a loop. On the one hand, it feels absurd and categorically wrong. On the other hand, it’s a lot of money. And I can’t help but wonder if Seth—well, Seth’s ghost—has orchestrated all of this. Maybe this is his grand plan, and my job is just to see it through…”

I finally take a breath, and Max nods slowly, as if he is trying to figure out how to respond to the deluge I have just unleashed.

“Oh my god,” I say, finally realizing how tipsy I am and how crazy my pent-up tale must sound. “You must think I’m losing my mind. Wait, am I losing my mind?”

Max laughs. “I don’t think you’re losing your mind. It’s definitely a lot … but you have been through a lot, and you’ve taken on a lot, and you’ve created a lot. I’m not surprised to hear it’s snowballing in a way that feels overwhelming.”

I exhale, relieved that he isn’t judging me. What’s more: he seems to be giving me credit, and maybe even applauding where I have landed.

Naturally, Max has questions, and I spend the next thirty minutes doing my best to answer them. As I do, I feel my anxiety unfurl and then dissipate. My clarity returns.

“It’s a lot of money, no question,” says Max. “And you’ve given this a lot of thought. From what I’m hearing you say, it sounds like you already have your answer.”

“I do?” I say, and then realize he is right. Like a good oracle, he has helped me to see what I already know.

We ask for the check, and when it arrives, I try to be cool. In New York, I wouldn’t have flinched at a $56 tab. But these days, I can’t afford this kind of extravagance. Max insists on putting his card down, and before I can push back, the bartender tells us it’s on the house. He gives me a sly wink. “Oracles and their relations drink free.”

Suddenly, I feel that the wind is at my back, that everything will be okay. As Max and I leave the inn, we’re close enough for our arms to brush, and it feels lightly electric. I’m not sure if it’s him, or me, or the fact that Locust is suddenly more vibrant than it has been in my lifetime. As we stroll down Main Street, Lorne’s looks to be at full capacity, and even the windows of Deb’s are aglow with a new vitality. Tourists stroll the sidewalks and occupy the benches, and kids navigate ice cream cones as they chase each other around the green.

We walk for a while, and when we get back to our cars, Max doesn’t seem to be in a rush. Fireflies are glinting on the tennis court, and the sound of crickets forms an even vibration in the air. As Max leans against my car, I wonder again if he’s flirting with me, but instead of waiting to find out, I lean in and kiss him. For a moment, I can’t believe what I just did, but soon his hand moves up to my hair, and he pulls me a little closer. When I finally step back, he smiles as if he is relieved I made the first move. And now that the ball is in play, I begin to think this is more than just tennis.