I Almost Forgot About You

I Almost Forgot About You

by Terry McMillan

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I Almost Forgot About You by Terry McMillan

The #1 New York Times bestselling author of How Stella Got Her Groove Back and Waiting To Exhale is back with the inspiring story of a woman who shakes things up in her life to find greater meaning.

In I Almost Forgot About You, Dr. Georgia Young's wonderful life—great friends, family, and successful career—aren't enough to keep her from feeling stuck and restless. When she decides to make some major changes in her life, including quitting her job as an optometrist and moving house, she finds herself on a wild journey that may or may not include a second chance at love. Georgia’s bravery reminds us that it’s never too late to become the person you want to be, and that taking chances, with your life and your heart, are always worthwhile.
Big-hearted, genuine, and universal, I Almost Forgot About You shows what can happen when you face your fears, take a chance, and open yourself up to life, love, and the possibility of a new direction. It’s everything you’ve always loved about Terry McMillan.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781524762315
Publisher: Crown/Archetype
Publication date: 01/02/2018
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 560
Sales rank: 543,084
Product dimensions: 4.20(w) x 7.50(h) x 1.40(d)

About the Author

Terry McMillan is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Waiting to ExhaleHow Stella Got Her Groove Back, A Day Late and a Dollar Short, andThe Interruption of Everything and the editor of Breaking Ice: An Anthology of Contemporary African-American Fiction. Each of Ms. McMillan’s seven previous novels was a New York Times bestseller, and four have been made into movies: Waiting to Exhale (Twentieth Century Fox, 1995); How Stella Got Her Groove Back (Twentieth Century Fox, 1998); Disappearing Acts (HBO Pictures, 1999); and A Day Late and a Dollar Short (Lifetime, 2014). She lives in California.


Danville, California

Date of Birth:

October 18, 1951

Place of Birth:

Port Huron, Michigan


B.S. in journalism, UC-Berkeley, 1979; M.F.A. in film, Columbia University, 1980

Read an Excerpt

Running Out of Time?

It’s another exciting Friday night, and I’m curled up in bed—alone, of course—propped up by a sea of pillows, still in my lab coat, the sash so taut it’s suffocating the purple silk dress beneath it, but I don’t care. After a grueling day of back-to-back patients, I’m a few minutes away from being comatose, but I’m also hungry, which is why I’m channel-surfing and waiting for my pizza to get here. I stop when I come to my favorite standby: Law & Order: Criminal Intent, even though I’ve seen almost all of them—including the reruns. These days I usually just watch the first five or ten minutes, long enough to see Detective Goren stride onto the crime scene in his long trench coat, tilt his head to the side while he puts on those rubber gloves, rub the new growth on that beautiful square chin, and bend down to study the victim. It’s at this moment, before he utters a word, when I usually pucker up, blow him a kiss, and then change the channel. I’ve lusted over Detective Goren and yearned to be held against shoulders like his long before my second marriage bottomed out.

Truth be told, over the years I’ve fallen in love every Wednesday with Gary Dourdan’s lips as CSI Warrick Brown, and even though I was no Trekkie, Avery Brooks’s deep baritone and sneaky smile made me say “Yes” aloud to the TV. I also let myself be seduced for hours in dark theaters, hypnotized by Benicio del Toro’s dreamy eyes, even though he was a criminal. By Denzel’s swagger when he was a slick gangster. Brad Pitt as a sexy young thief. Ken Watanabe as the most sensual samurai I wanted to ride on a horse with, and I wanted to be a black geisha and torture him until I finally let him have all of me.

I hate to admit it, but if I had the energy, I’d kill to have sex with the first one who walked into my bedroom tonight. I’d let him do anything he wanted to do to me. It’s been centuries since I’ve had sex with a real man, and I’m not even sure I’d remember what to do first should I ever get so lucky again. In fact, I think I’d be too uncomfortable, not to mention scared of getting all touchy-feely, and don’t even get me started on him seeing me naked. Hell, this is why I sleep with the remote.

When I hear the doorbell, I glance over at the broken blue clouds inside the clock on the night table. I’ve been waiting forty minutes for this pizza, which means they’re going to owe me a free one! I roll off the bed on my side, even though the other side has been empty for years. I walk over to the door and yell, “Be right there!” Then I grab my wallet out of my purse and beeline it to the front door, because I’m starving. That is so not true. I’m just a little hungry. I’m trying to stop lying to myself about little things. I’m still working on the big ones.

I open the door, and standing there sweating is a young black kid who can’t be more than eighteen. His head looks like a small globe of shiny black twists that I know are baby dreadlocks. His cheeks are full of brand-new zits. His name tag says free.

“I’m so sorry for the delay, ma’am. There was a accident at the bottom of the hill, and I couldn’t get up here, so this one’s on the house.”

He looks so sad, and I’m wondering if the price of this pizza is going to be deducted from his little paycheck, but I dare not ask.

“I don’t mind paying for it,” I say. “It wasn’t your fault there was an accident.” I take the pizza from him and set it on the metal stairwell.

“That’s real thoughtful of you, but I’m just glad this is my last delivery for the night,” he says, leaning to one side as if he’s pretending not to look behind me, but of course he is. “This a real nice crib you got here. I ain’t never seen no yellow floors before. It’s downright wicked.”

“Thanks,” I say, and hand him a twenty.

He looks as if he’s in shock. “Like I said, ma’am, this pizza is on the house, and I also got some drink coupons you can have, too,” he says, pulling them out of the pocket of his red shirt.

“It’s a tip,” I say. “Is your real name Free?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“I dig it. I get asked all the time about it.”

“So how old are you, Free?”

“I’m eighteen.” He’s still staring at the twenty but then quickly shoves it inside the back pocket of his jeans in case I come to my senses and change my mind.
“Are you in college?” I’m hoping he says yes and that he’s taking English so one day soon he’ll stop saying ain’t.

“Almost. That’s why I’m working. You really giving me this whole twenty?”

I nod. “Do you know what you want to major in?”

“Mechanical engineering,” he says with certainty.

“That’s great.”

“Your husband rich?”

“What makes you think I’d have to have a husband to be rich?”

“Everybody that live up in these hills is. Even them two dykes that live next door. And they married.”

“Those dykes aren’t just my neighbors, they’re also my friends, and they’re lesbians.”

“A’right. My bad,” he says, flinging his arms up like Don’t shoot. “I didn’t mean no harm.”

“I know. Anyway, I’m divorced. And I’m not rich. But I also don’t struggle.”

“You cleaned him out, then, huh?”


Then he gives me the once-over. “You some kind of doctor?”

I look down at my lab coat. “Yes. I’m an optometrist.”

“Which one is that?”

“I help people see clearly,” I say, so as not to complicate it.

“Who helps you?” he asks with a smile, which throws me off completely. What a loaded question to ask a woman old enough to be his grandmother. “Just fooling with you, Dr. Young. No disrespect intended.”

“None taken, Free.”

Who helps me see? See what?

“Cool. Well, look, I gotta dash and get this car back to my cousin, but major thanks for the mega-tip, and I have to say it’s nice somebody black gave it to me. Most of the white folks up here ain’t big on tipping, except for them lesbians.”

What he just said was a little on the racist and sexist side, but I know he meant well. He runs down the sidewalk and jumps into that raggedy car of his, removes the pizza sign displayed on top, and disappears down the hill. I lean against the doorframe watching him go. I really should’ve praised him for working to pay for college, and if he hadn’t been in such a hurry, I would have loved to tell him that he might find his calling in college and he might not. But I’d also tell him to search until he did. Otherwise he could end up doing something he just happened to be good at, something respectable that might guarantee him a nice income, but one day, when he’s older, like, say, fifty-three soon to be fifty-four, when his kids have grown up and he’s twice divorced and bored with his profession and his life and the thought of trying to change it all—or even where he lives—scares the hell out of him because it feels like it’s too late, I’d tell him to please figure out a way to do it anyway, since I’m an excellent example of what can happen when you don’t.

I turn off the porch light, close the door, and I can’t believe all of this is flooding in. I walk across these cool yellow concrete floors and sit on these cool metal stairs and look out at the light jutting up through those soft navy blue waves in the cool black-bottomed pool, and I look up a flight where both of my daughters used to sleep, and I look down to where the library and the guest room are, and I sit here and eat this entire cheese-and-tomato pizza.

I am full of regret.

Monday mornings are the worst, which is why I left a little early. The freeway is still slow going. But I’m used to it. I crack my window, although it can’t be more than fifty degrees. The dampness coming from the bay can’t eclipse the clarity of this morning as thousands of us slowly descend around a curve, and there waiting for us like a giant postcard is the Bay Bridge and right behind it the San Francisco skyline. This is a beautiful place to live.

But then, as typically happens at least once a week, the traffic suddenly comes to a screeching halt. I can see the reason up ahead. A four-car pile-up is blocking two of the five lanes, and everyone is trying to move over to make room for the fire trucks and ambulances I now hear. I just pray no one is hurt. I roll my window all the way down and put the car in park. Some have already turned off their engines. I leave mine running and call my office.

When my cell phone rings, I know who it is before I even glance at the screen. “Hello, Miss Early,” I say to my mother, for obvious reasons but also because her name is Earlene.

“Hello back to you, Miss Georgia.”

Of course I was never any Miss Georgia, because I was born in Bakersfield, where she still lives, and I was named after my late father, whose name was George. There’s hardly a day that goes by when someone doesn’t ask me if I’m from Georgia. In college I just started lying and said yes: Macon. But then they wanted to know why I didn’t have a drawl.

“What can I do you for, ma’am? Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m probably healthier than you. Anyway, I’m calling for two reasons. I’m going on a cruise for seniors with my church.”

“That’s nice,” I say, trying not to laugh, because I’m thinking this is going to be one wild and scandalous cruise.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“I’m thrilled for you, Ma. I know you go to one of those megachurches, but are there enough seniors in the congregation to fill a whole cruise ship?”

“Of course not. There are ten churches, and we’re not going to be the only older people on it.”

She’s eighty-one. Soon to be eighty-two.

“When and where are you going?”

“We leave two weeks and one day from today. For ten whole days! We’re going to four or five islands in the Caribbean that I can’t remember right now. One of them is the Grand Cayman.”

“That’s a whole lot of numbers, Ma, but it sounds like so much fun. It’ll be good for you.”

“I know. I still miss your brother and your dad, and I get lonely in this condo, and I’ll just go on and admit that I get tired of going to church just so I can have a social life and I don’t have to get dressed up to worship at home. Anyway, I’ll be doing a lot of praying standing in front of those slots.” She laughs.

“Okay, Ma, what’s the other thing? Because I’m stuck in traffic, and it looks like it’s about to start moving.”

“Well, you know it’s almost time for my annual eye exam, and my cruise conflicts with the date I have on my calendar.”

“Ma, it’s not set in stone.”

“I know. So I’m hoping to get a rain check to see if we can make it after the holidays, unless you think I need to have it sooner.”

“Ma, you don’t have to have the test on the same day every year, but around the same time is just smart to do at your age.”

“I’m not senile yet, Georgia.”

“I’m not even going to respond to that. And who is we? Please don’t say Dolly.”

“Well, it’s not safe for me to drive that far alone anymore, so Dolly is willing to do the driving.”

Why me, Lord? Dolly is my older second cousin, whom I love but don’t like that much, because she’s got a nasty attitude and never has anything nice to say about anybody, especially me. I know this to be true, because gossip travels faster within families. She has convinced herself that I think I’m hot shit because I went to college and live in a nice house with a pool. Some relatives I can live without, and Dolly’s on the top of that list.

“The boys want to come, too. They haven’t seen you in years, and they’ve been having a hard time finding work.”

The boys are over thirty. And haven’t worked in years either. Last time they were here, they smoked marijuana in the bathroom and tried to drink up half the liquor in the bar.

“I’m about to start remodeling, so there’ll be no place for them to sleep,” I lie.

“Well, it’s about time. And I hope you tone it down some. I feel like I’m walking into a rainbow every time I come through your front door.”

“Gotta go. Love you.” I usually give her smooches, but she just hurt my feelings, so I don’t much feel like it.

I rush past the tall wall of windows, and Marina, our six-foot Japanese receptionist, waves at me. She’s on the phone, sitting behind the long maple counter. In the four years she’s worked here, she’s worn black every single day—including on her fingernails. From here you can see only her shoulders. She waves, then gives me a slow thumbs-up that all is fine. I wasn’t really worried, but I don’t like to inconvenience patients, even though the situation is more often the reverse.

Unlike home, the office is serene. The walls are a pale gray, a warm yellow, and one is white. My mother approves. Nine chairs are white, except for one that’s yellow. Four oblong purple tables are scattered around the area meant for fitting eyewear. Almost every inch of wall space is filled with frames and sunglasses to suit almost every taste and price.

One of my most annoying but favorite patients, Mona Kwon, rushes to open the door for me. “Thank you, Mona!” I say, and head on over to Marina. Mona sits in her chair; the one next to the door if it’s empty, or else she’ll stand. She’ll be seventy-five soon. She only needs strong readers but claims she can’t see the tips of her fingernails when she holds them out in front of her. She comes in to have her glasses adjusted at least twice a month. She has forty pair and counting. The techs think she’s probably suffering from dementia. I think she’s just lonely. She also doesn’t like the techs to warm her frames; she insists I do it. After lifting them out of the hot sand and slipping them behind her ears, I watch her stare into the mirror a few minutes too long, as if, or until, she’s satisfied she looks like whoever she wants to be.

Customer Reviews

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I Almost Forgot About You: A Novel 3.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 22 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Reading it was like being on a roller coaster: up and down, interesting one minute, boring the next. Her main characters are all the same. I can not read another book of hers where the main character has an unpursued interest in art, refers to everyone as hussies, and regrets her first marriage...classic, bitter Terry McMillan...save your money
ThatGirlWhoReads More than 1 year ago
Terry McMillan is back to writing about what she knows best, strong women taking a leap and reinventing themselves to live their best life. "I Almost Forgot About You" is just that kind of novel. It was engaging and well written and I found it to be very relatable whether you are a woman just starting out in life or are a woman looking to make a change. I will admit that this book was hard to get into at first. I found myself reading a few chapters, putting it down and eventually, I forced myself to sit down and finish it. (“Waiting To Exhale” took me less than one day to read.) The story starts off slow but does pick up toward the end. Of course, there is a big "reveal" about one of her daughter's husbands that you may or may not see coming. Overall, it is worth the read. If you love Terry McMillan, I'd also recommend that you read Author Rasheed Clark's "Stories I Wouldn't Tell Nobody But God," and then, read the sequel, "Cold Summer Afternoon." I didn't believe her when my sister told me about the books, but they will have you up late trying to finish them. Good books, really good books.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
What a great novel by a great author! This story helps to restore hope of finding the love that one longs for and deserves. The story also is an inspiration to anyone who wants to begin a new chapter in their life. This book is a great read. Thank you Terry for bringing it to life!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A very difficult read. Thought pattern was scattered at best. Too many unfinished character stories.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This was so fun to read! Made me want to appreciate my friends more and make some life changes.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I loved this book. It seemed to speak directly to me and I was grateful. It was also inspirational.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Decent book but a tad boring
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I laughed, cried, smiled, frowned, related to characters, and fell in love with Georgia...shes a BFF keeper
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I have read this book as slowly as I could, did not want to finish. Cried though yje last chapters, tears of relef, completion, joy.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Really enjoyed this!!!!
PrettyGirlReading More than 1 year ago
I was not feeling this. There were some moments when I could not put it down, and some pages that I skipped through because the story got stuck. Too many waves. Felt like she tried to tell every story of every character instead of crafting believable characters. If you need to pass some time (and some pages) this will do. But, overall, NOPE!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Terry McMillan needs to hang it up. She hasn't written a good book since Waiting To Exhale. Yawn.
Gail-Cooke More than 1 year ago
You could almost say this story is about a mid-life crisis but in the hands of the inimitable Terry McMillan it’s far too zesty, earthy, fresh and intriguing to simply be that. Rather it is a heartwarming story for those who believe in dreaming, love and second chances. Georgia Young is a 54-year-old optometrist with a successful career, good friends and family yet that is not enough. She feels restless, stuck, bored and wants to move on. So, after two failed marriages she decides to make some dramatic changes in herself and will do this by reexamining the loves she left behind. She quits her job, sells her house and travels Canada by train in the hope of discovering what it is she really wants in life. Now, this sounds like an excellent plan but you know what they say about “the best laid plans of..,” Georgia’s meditative journey is interrupted by her feisty 81-year-old mother who has definite thoughts on love, her two stubborn daughters, her frighteningly frank best friends, her business partner, and an assortment of old and new loves. For those of you who have enjoyed McMillan’s books filled with strong, complex women in contemporary times, here’s another to treasure and what a treat to be read by McMillan herself! For those who have yet been introduced to this author’s fictional world, don’t waste another minute!
Anonymous 14 days ago
She was an excellent storyteller
Anonymous 5 months ago
I Almost Forgot About was such a pleasure to read. Each character was easy to understand and relate to. Enjoyed this book more than I thought I was
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Terry other books are a page turner having you wonder what's next, so I was excited to read this book but unfortunately it fell a little flat.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I believe this was a very good but I wish the ending was better.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A very disgusting display of language & sex. I deleted it from my NOOK after reading only a few pages. VERY DISAPPOINTING! So sorry I have to pay for it!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Very good read
navidad_thelamour More than 1 year ago
I received an advance-read copy of this book from the publisher, Crown, via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. I Almost Forgot About You is the breakthrough new novel from Terry McMillan after her roughly 3-year hiatus from the shelves. A feel-good novel if ever I’ve read one, the writing is witty and flavorful, full of all the spice and sass, reminisces, failures and regrets, personal triumphs and lessons learned that make McMillan’s characters feel like your neighbor next door—like your mother/cousin/sister/aunt who you love to watch and look forward to gossiping with over peach cobbler. You know, the women in your life you can really relate to because they’ve been there/done that and lived to tell about it all. That’s who you’ll find within these pages. It’s always evident that McMillan writes what she knows—that she’s lived it, felt it, cried it, laughed it all herself—because her characters are always life-sized. Not larger-than-life rock stars or spoiled and whiny heroines worried about what nail color to try next, but people you can really see yourself sitting down with for a cappuccino—or a Cosmopolitan. She’s grown with them, infusing her own hard-gained knowledge and life experiences into their worlds, sharing a little piece of herself every time she does so. I’ve always appreciated the ease and grace with which she portrays black women, her protagonists of choice, and I Almost Forgot About You was no exception. If you’re tired of the made-for-TV reality drama and the caricatures of black life, 50+ life and “over-the-hill” life that the media will readily hand you on a platter these days, you can turn here for an upbeat, spunky and humorously wise take on the same. Here you will find lively characters who could fill a room with their banter and who go through more than a few bottles of wine of their trek towards what’s next in their lives. The dialogue and narrative were so realistic that I laughed out loud, for a moment thinking it must’ve been stolen from me and my own girlfriends! McMillan’s writing here was both tender and reflective without being overly emotional. It was a light and entertaining read that told a story worth reading, was peppered with uplifting phrases I wanted to jot down and that was devoid of the melodrama that “coming-of-age”/ “finding-yourself” mid-life crisis fiction can bring to the table these days. It was all the way real, pure and simple. The story line was completely true-to-life in its twists and turns, never coming across as over-the-top or forced. However, it was also littered with events that happened off screen and were dropped like small bombs on the reader during dialogue in an, “oh did you know this happened?” sort of manner, leaving me feeling like I may have missed the path somewhere along the line and ended up at a surprise that was both delightful and a little jolting. Of course, this tactic was used to keep the read interesting, to keep the reader on their toes, but this wasn’t a need-to-be-on-toes kind of read; this was a cozy, hilarious, sanguine, fireplace-and-whole-bottle-of-red-wine read, so that really threw me off—not quite annoying me as a reader, but definitely knocking me off balance in a way that warranted a momentary frown... See the rest of this review at The Navi Review (www.thenavireview.com) and follow the blog on Twitter @thenavireview