Page 14 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“You cussed at me.”

He starts, reeling back. “No I didn’t.”

I’m about to argue when the sounds of the morning come rushing back in. I glance from him to the door and back as the lawn mower’s engine cuts off. “I thought you were…?”

“You’re gonna be late for school.”

“I— What?” My pulse kicks up a notch. Then I say the first thing that comes to my frantic mind. “It’s summer, Dad.”

“Oh, right.” A trembling hand scratches at his temple. “I knew that.”

I’m pointing the whisk at the door, confusion mottling my features, when footsteps thud up the front porch steps and the door swings open, groaning on its hinges.

Truett kicks his shoes off outside and lets himself in, smelling like cut grass and sweat. There’s a hint of fresh air, too, coming off his skin, but I wrinkle my nose at him anyway.

“Good morning, Ridgefield family.” He grins at my dad, pearlescent teeth popping against his tan skin and a thin layer of dark blond stubble. When his gaze drifts to meet mine, the smile falters. Slightly, but enough. There’s a memory in his eyes, and I find myself wondering which one. “You look lovely this morning, Delilah.”

The whisk drops to my side. Some part of me knows he’s making fun of me. He can’t mean it, not when I’ve just rolled out of bed. Or ever, for that matter. But the moment with my dad still lingers, tipping me off-kilter, so I let his comment slide.

“Why are you mowing the lawn?” I narrow my gaze at him. There are pieces of grass glued to his skin with sweat, forming constellations with the freckles on his sun-kissed forearms. One eyebrow perks at my tone, but he’s otherwise unaffected. As he’s always been when it comes to me, while I remain painfully affected by him.

He shrugs. “Can’t a guy just help out ’cause he wants to?” His gaze, a pale blue-gray like the early summer sky outside, travels over my shoulder to the cluster of supplies on the counter. “Are you making pancakes? For little ole me?”

I want to snap at him. To tell him I’m too old for his taunting, that I’ve put enough distance between myself and this place that he can’t touch me anymore. I want to scream that there’s no Ridgefield family, there’s just me and my sick dad and Tru’s nosy ass that has shown up despite clear instructions otherwise. But I can’t deny the relief at his presence that unfurls in my body, softening my bones. And one look at Dad, who’s smiling at Truett like he’s something special, has my teeth clamping down on my tongue.

“Yes,” I grit out. “But I’m only making enough for two.”

“Three, you mean.” He straightens his ball cap and rolls his shoulders. I’m about to make a smart remark when he adds, “Roberta will be here soon.”

Dad shuffles over to the breakfast nook and settles into his usual spot, content to watch the banter with an amused, slightly distant look on his face, our confusing conversation all but forgotten. Tru leans his dirty elbows on the kitchen island and perches his chin on folded hands, waiting for me to make a move.

I won’t play his games, though. If I’ve learned anything in my smattering of relationships, it’s that the best way to discourage behavior you don’t want is to ignore it.

It also works on dogs, which is telling.

He snorts when I turn without comment, but falls quiet behind me when I bend over to retrieve a pan from the cabinet to the right of the stove. I don’t read into it. Not really. But I do stand a bit straighter when I right myself and begin assembling the batter.

“How are you feeling this morning, Henry?”

“Oh, you know,” Dad replies, drumming his fingers against the wooden table. “Same old, same old. My brain is just broken.”

The egg in my hand splinters against the edge of a metal mixing bowl. I stare at the fault lines that spread from the site of impact. My hands tremble. When I suck in my next breath, it’s through my teeth.

The sink turns on behind me, but I can’t force myself to look over my shoulder. My nose burns and my vision blurs, those tiny cracks losing focus until I can almost believe the egg is whole again. That we’ve gone back in time and the damage is undone.

Warmth like an aura fills the space behind me. A tan, strong hand comes alongside my own pale and fragile-looking one. There are water droplets still freckling Tru’s knuckles as he encapsulates the egg—my hand with it—and splits it into the bowl. He lingers there, holding me while I cling to the empty shell, and whispers into my hair, “It’s okay. It’s just how he processes it sometimes.”

It’s the intimacy in that sentence, the way he knows how my dad deals with his diagnosis because he’s been here while I’ve been states away, that causes jealousy to bloom in my chest. I cling to it, because it’s better than the hurt it replaced. The aching. The regret.

“I know,” I quip, although I didn’t. “It caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

I drop the eggshell into his hand, suck in a breath, and force myself to turn and face him. He’s so close, his features so defined that I waver. But only for a moment.

“Can you take that to the trash?” I jerk my chin in the general direction.

Sarcasm is what I expect, or perhaps indifference. The kind he gave me all those years ago when I needed him most. But instead his cheeks hollow and his slate-colored eyes soften with something akin to sorrow. His gaze flickers over my face, and I remember I’m not wearing a lick of makeup. All he’s seeing is plain, unremarkable me. Good enough in practice, but never for real.

I break the stare first.

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