Page 116 of The Cost of Forgetting You

I reach for her on instinct. “Luc?—”

She lifts the flowers to block my outstretched hand. “Gotta get these to Delilah. See you inside?”

She walks away, carrying her secrets with her. It takes everything in me to follow her into that gym instead of driving right back to the farm where Waylon no doubt sits in his big La-Z-Boy, sipping a beer, not an ounce of guilt in his mind over the bruise on Lucy’s face that I can’t help but believe he caused.

Not only does Delilah’s serve make it over the net, but her team wins their very first game. Joy splits her face into a burst of pearly teeth like twin rows of stars. Truett races to the gym floor and sweeps her into his arms. For a split second her delight becomes my euphoria, and then Lucy and I look away to give our kids a moment.

On the surface, I’m the picture of normalcy. In the back of my mind, I’m reeling. Considering the possibilities.

Maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe it was a calf. Delilah witnessed a birth one time. She said it was a hectic affair. I have no doubt someone could get a black eye, or worse, in the middle of so much chaos.

But Truett’s body language when Lucy mentioned the injury? Her own stillness when she dodged the question? I can’t shake it. Can’t get out of my own head long enough to even try.

Delilah joins her teammates for ice cream after the game to celebrate their victory. I ride home in silence, never bothering to search for a better station with less static. I can’t even bear to roll down the window and let the night flood in and drown out my thoughts. Once I’m free of the cluster of traffic near the school, it’s just me and the occasional truck passing in the oncoming lane. There are no streetlamps in Fly Hollow, so the world passes by in darkness save for the few fireflies who haven’t given up on summer quite yet.

When I get home, Kimberly is curled up on the couch beneath a pile of tufted blankets, sipping wine and chatting on the phone. My foot hits the same old floorboard she’s always begging me to fix, and she glances up sharply. I don’t know what she sees on my face, but she mutters, “I’ve gotta go, Mom,” and hangs up the phone. “How was the game?”

I can’t find it in me to so much as grunt in response. Instead I pluck at the buttons of my shirt, exposing my chest and then my abdomen and finally letting it fall from my shoulders on the way to the bathroom. I open the door, flick on the light, and toss the shirt into the corner.

“Excuse me?” Kimberly calls out. “I asked you a question. What’s wrong with you?”

I hear but can’t see her wineglass land on the side table, then her soft footsteps pad across the hardwood until she’s standing outside the bathroom door. She doesn’t so much as glance downward when I drop my jeans and underwear to the ground.

Her arms cross over her chest. “You storm in here like something bit you and don’t even say hello?”

The water squeals through the old pipes. When it finally rushes from the faucet, I pull the knob to enable the shower. Kimberly stands in the doorway, looking unimpressed.

I sigh, my shoulders sagging. My thoughts are all over the place. None of them make any sense. And somehow, despite her being the one person I should, no part of me wants to confide in Kimberly.

“Did Delilah lose?” She shrugs, looking unsurprised. “I told you, she?—”

“She did great. Their team won.” I peel the curtain back and step into the flow of water. When the curtain is closed, cutting me off from Kimberly, I relax for the first time since I saw Lucy’s face. The bruise.

“Then what’s the problem?”

I push my hand through my hair, dampening it to the roots. My scalp screams when I pull, but the pain is a distraction. A welcome diversion from the truths I’m trying so desperately to believe are fabrications.

Waylon might have hurt Lucy. Kimberly probably can’t stand me. I’m deeply unhappy in my marriage.

Only one of these things can be said aloud. So I say it, just to let some of the pressure out of my chest.

“I think Waylon hit Lucy.”

Silence. Then the door shuts, and for a moment I think she’s walked away. The faint whisper of clothing falling to the floor restarts my heart, though, and then the curtain is pulled back, revealing a naked Kimberly.

She steps into the shower and pushes me backward, clearing a space for herself beneath the warm spray of water. I stand there, shivering from the cold or anger one, as she tips her head back to dampen her hair.

It’s been a long time since Kimberly and I showered together. I let my gaze rove the soft swells and sweeping valleys of her body. She’s beautiful. Always has been. There is no lack of want in my body for her, as evidenced by my swelling dick. It’s her that never wants to be intimate. Either because she’s tired from work or too full or simply not interested. I can’t remember the last time we slept together, and for a moment it’s all I can think about.

“What makes you think he hit her?” She doesn’t open her eyes as she speaks. The column of her throat works when she swallows stray droplets that fell into her parted lips. I look away, willing myself to focus, even as that dormant need surges to the forefront of my mind.

“She has a bruise on her face, right beside her eye.” I brush my fingertips over Kimberly’s temple, right where Lucy’s skin was mottled and swollen. “She said it was from a calf, but I just don’t know. Everything about her body language was off.”

Kimberly’s eyes flash open, and she finally lifts her head, letting our gazes meet. “Why were you even with her?”

My brow furrows. “That’s what you’re concerned about? From that whole statement, the one thing you wanna ask me about is why I was with our friend to see the giant bruise on her face.” I wipe my face with a damp palm, trying to maintain my calm. “She brought Truett to the game to support our daughter, for Christ’s sake.”

She snakes her arms around my waist, pulling me close. Her breasts press into my rib cage. My dick is tucked against her soft stomach. I swallow hard and look away from her heated gaze.

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