Page 23 of The Cost of Forgetting You

I’m breathless. My lungs are lodged somewhere between my stomach and my toes, though closer to the latter. When he’s this close to me, I can see every detail on his face. As familiar as my own and yet wholly new. Unexplored. Tantalizing.

A dangerous thought. Warning alarms go off in my brain. No matter how tempting, I can’t go down this road. He showed me who he was once; I can’t afford to forget.

I stumble backward, narrowly avoiding another patty. The sun is showing off, throwing rainbows in arcs across the river in the valley behind his house. Cattle dot the landscape in every direction. And this man stands in the midst of it all, looking a lot like a temptation I can’t afford. I’m here for my dad. For as long as he needs me, I realize. I can’t be distracted by pieces of my past—no matter how good they look in Wranglers and cowboy boots.

“No.” I shake my head, stepping even farther away. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not kids anymore. Our parents are gone or going… or something just as bad. We’ve gotta be the responsible ones.” I bite my lip. It’s not lost on me that his eyes are there the moment it happens. That they linger long after it’s over. “It’s time to grow up, Tru.”

Before he can argue, or I fall back into his embrace like I so desperately want to, or both, I slip out of my unsoiled shoe, collect it alongside the other in my fist, and take off running barefoot toward the house.

Chapter Seven

Delilah

My shoes thud against the bottom of my dad’s garbage can. Waste Management, which is really just a guy named Frank who drives a pickup truck with a caged-in trailer hitched to the back, already came by this morning, so I haul the bin up the dirt driveway. I make a mental note to also write an apology letter to Frank for next Monday when he has to pick up this stinking mess.

I deposit the bin around the side of the house and make my way barefoot up the steps, hoping beyond hope to avoid a splinter. The wood is warm underfoot and worn smooth from years of traffic, but I’ve had enough of the prickly bastards in my life to know it’s still possible. One time a particularly bad splinter wedged itself in the sensitive bend of my big toe. Dad heard me screech on the porch, and it only took one look at me crying with my foot in my hand for him to retrieve a sewing needle and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and sit down beside me, pulling my foot into his lap.

He told me a story about the worst splinter he ever got, right in his butt cheek from a rope swing down by the river, and I was laughing so hard I didn’t even feel him pluck out my own.

I’ve been trying to hold it together. To be stable and in control so my dad and everyone else could trust that I’m capable of handling this. That I can take care of him. To prove to my mom that I made the right decision. But as I lean against a porch post and stare at that top step where Dad held me through my hurt, not only in that moment but countless others, I can feel my heart crack open. Within seconds, I’m broken and bleeding without a single wound to show for it.

My spine bows, and I cross my arms over my chest, clinging to my shoulders. If I can just hold myself tight enough, I can keep it all in. The frustration of not knowing what to do or how to fix this. The agony of knowing it can’t be fixed, only endured.

Hot, sticky tears dampen my cheeks. The air has turned humid as the sun rises high into the sky, bleaching the world with its light. I take quick, gasping breaths, willing my heart to slow down. I can’t be in this state when I walk inside. My dad can’t take the splinters out anymore.

It’s my turn to take care of him.

It’s my turn, and I’m not ready.

Through the haze of tears, I stare at the weathered porch swing. At the towering live oaks. Even, against my better judgment, at the fields beyond our property where a distant Truett finishes patching the fence and mounts his four-wheeler to move on to the next task, our conversation seemingly easily brushed aside.

The world, practical and unbiased, goes on spinning. And I have to find a way to be ready.

I tug my shirt up to wipe away the evidence of my breakdown as best I can. Deep breaths, one after the other, slow my heartbeat to a pace one bracket shy of a racehorse. I can do this. I grew up a long fucking time ago. Being the one in charge, the parent for all intents and purposes, is nothing new.

My hand lands on the doorknob, slick with condensation, and I push my way inside.

Dad is sitting in his recliner in the living room, that burlap pillow squished against his chest. Roberta is cleaning up the dishes in the sink, aside from my half-drunk coffee, which sits chilled on the kitchen island. Once I’ve closed the door behind me, Dad’s gaze catches mine, bright blue with the faintest rim of red to remind me of his breakdown. He smiles, and I let loose a relieved exhale.

“You’re home early!” His grin widens. “How was school, sweetheart?”

Roberta turns off the water and dries her hands. When she turns to face me, her lips are forming a smile, but her eyes are apologetic. She nods once, a gesture meant only for me.

Suddenly I’m grateful for the breakdown on the porch. As it stands, I’m fresh out of tears. Instead I steel myself against all the ways this moment hurts, and focus instead on Roberta. Following her cue, I reply, “It was fine, Dad. Great.”

“Delilah here is a very promising volleyball player.” He hops from his seat, shuffling over to me in a fresh set of clothes. His jeans are dark and well-worn, and he wears a faded T-shirt that says Nothing but with a treble clef underneath.

It makes me smile—a real, genuine expression—as his arm comes around me and squeezes.

“But her real secret,” he adds, and my gaze shoots to his, “is that she’s a hell of a piano player, too.”

“Is that so?” Roberta tilts her head, scanning me in light of this new information. Because it is new, to her and everyone else. Mom and Dad are the only ones who’ve ever heard me play. Mom made sure of it.

He plants a kiss against my temple. His breath is sour, like he hasn’t brushed in days, but I ignore it. I’m just grateful he’s here. Grateful to pretend, if only for a moment, that we’ve gone back in time. That I can make my choices differently this time. And so can he.

“Yes, ma’am, she’s really got a talent for it. It’s too bad…” His voice trails off, a frown tugging at his lips. Our eyes meet, and he blinks, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Well, it’s just too bad.”

Too bad, indeed.

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