Forgotten: A Novel by Catherine McKenzie Page B

wrong.”
    “Some women might.”
    “Sure, right. If they were interested in you.”
    “You’re saying women just pretend to be interested in things men are interested in?”
    “This is news to you?”
    “Kind of.”
    I lean back on the soft cushions. “You like that famous photographer, right? What’s his name? You know, the black-and-white photos you have in your room?”
    “You mean . . . Ansel Adams?”
    “Yeah, him. Anyway, I’ll bet the women you’ve brought home have all told you how much they like those prints, right?”
    He gets a funny expression on his face. “You don’t like them?”
    “I find him a bit boring, to be honest.”
    “Okay.”
    “Sorry, is he a big influence?”
    “You could say that.”
    “What kind of photographs do you take?”
    He fiddles with the headphones in his lap. “Whatever catches my attention.”
    “Give me an example.”
    “Well, recently, I’ve been in Dublin photographing the countryside being gobbled up by housing developments.”
    “That sounds interesting.”
    He perks up a bit. “Yeah, it’s actually turned out pretty well. I even found this family that’s still traveling around by horse and buggy. I got a great shot of them with the IBM campus in the background, just visible through the mist.”
    “It’s pretty cool that you can make a living doing that.”
    “I’ve been really lucky.”
    “I’d like to see some of your stuff sometime.”
    His mouth twists. “You already have.”
    “No, I don’t think so. Oh. The boring Ansel Adams pictures?”
    He winces. “So glad you repeated the ‘boring’ part. It didn’t quite kill me the first time.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    “No, I do this. I try to make some stupid point and I end up being a jerk.”
    “Don’t be hard on yourself, Emma. It’s been a rough couple of days.”
    “True.”
    His eyes wander to a stack of boxes in the corner. “Speaking of which, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
    “You do? Really?”
    “I need a few minutes to set it up.”
    “What is it?”
    He smiles. “If I told you what it was, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Why don’t you go try on your new clothes, and come back in twenty minutes.”
    I try to protest, but he shoos me out. I unpack my bags in my room. I bought mostly suits, but I managed to find a couple of pairs of jeans I liked too. I slip on a roomy, boyfriend-cut pair and top it with a light-blue turtleneck. As I gather Dominic’s clothes into a pile, I hear a loud thunk! in the living room. Dominic seems to be moving heavy things around. Like the couch, and possibly a lamp.
    “What the hell are you doing in there?” I yell.
    “You’ll see,” he calls back.
    “You’ve got five minutes.”
    “Nice try! I have at least eight.”
    I brush my hair with my new hairbrush and check my cell phone for what feels like the millionth time. Still no callback from Stephanie. If I don’t hear from her soon, I’m going to file a missing-person report. The irony of this is not lost on me.
    I slip the phone into my pocket and go to Dominic’s room to take a better look at the framed pictures sitting on the floor. They’re black-and-white shots of a sharp mountain range in a desert. The frame is made of dense wood that’s so dark it’s almost black. When I look more closely at the base of the mountains, I realize there’s a cityscape full of familiar skylines hidden in the shadows. Paris, and possibly Seattle. Mahoney, 2010, Las Vegas is scratched into the lower right-hand corner.
    “You can come in!”
    I walk into the living room filled with curiosity. Dominic’s standing proudly in front of a tall Christmas tree strewn with small twinkling white lights and sparkly ornaments.
    “How did you do this?”
    “It’s pretty good, isn’t it?”
    “It’s amazing.”
    I walk closer, and now I can see that it’s not a real tree, just a really good fake. I reach out and rub a few needles between my fingers. “How come I’m