Page 39 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Tears spring forth, dripping down my cheeks in slow rivulets. I let my forehead fall against the hardwood. “I’m all you’ve got.” I’m sorry, I want to add. I wish I was more. The loneliness grips me. Swallows me whole. “You’ve got to let me in.”

Something else hits the door. Steam from the shower billows out from the crack at my feet. I watch it curl around my legs, then dissolve entirely. I can barely hear my dad’s heavy breathing over the rush of water. Then, a keening like I’ve never heard before. Worse than Roberta reminding him of Lucy, though at the time, I couldn’t have imagined it possible.

Roberta. Fuck. I find my purse where I discarded it on the island. My phone lights up, and I click on our conversation from this morning. I don’t even bother typing it all out. With trembling fingers, I select her contact image and press call.

It goes straight to voicemail. Before I’ve gotten a single word out, a message comes through. One of those automated ones that lets me know the person I’m trying to reach is driving, but they’ll get back to me soon. I drop the phone on the counter without leaving a message. Dad’s sobbing grows louder. I want to plug my ears. I want to be let inside. I don’t have a fucking clue what to do.

My head falls into my hands. I lift my gaze, scrubbing my face as I do. In the distance the windows of the farmhouse glow like beacons on the hilltop. I suck in a breath.

Dad’s phone lies abandoned on the kitchen table. I grab it, grateful he’s trusting enough not to password protect it, and select Truett’s name from his speed-dial list.

“Henry? Is everything all right?”

A small whimper escapes my lips even as I clamp down on it.

“Delilah?” Something clinks in the background, like he’s setting down a glass. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Dad.” I hate how weak I sound. How out of control. But I am. And it makes me desperate. “He’s locked himself in the bathroom and won’t let me in.”

“I’m on my way.”

I see the door open and a figure bound down the front steps, silhouetted by the porch light. There’s a covered shed behind the house, and moments later the headlights of a four-wheeler appear from around the corner. They bounce and shift as he traverses the land between our two homes. He never hangs up. I hear the rip of the engine and his steady breathing. I align mine to it on instinct, and it calms my racing heart.

From inside the bathroom, the distinct sound of a curtain rod falling brings me back to the chaos.

“Dad! Truett is coming.” I press my ear to the door. The sobbing has slowed, but the muttered cursing has returned. “He’ll be here any?—”

“I’m here,” Truett calls from behind me. The front door remains wide open, his shoes on, as he crosses the space between us. His hand falls to the base of my spine, the other to the doorknob. “Henry, it’s Tru. You’ve gotta let me in, ya hear? Delilah’s real worried.”

A shadow interrupts the light under the door. I inhale sharply and point, drawing Truett’s gaze downward.

He nods. Taps lightly on the door. “Open up, Henry. Let me help you.”

“I don’t want her to see me like this,” Dad whisper-shouts, his earlier anger all gone. These words are comprised entirely of desperation. Stitched together with utter shame.

Tru’s gaze meets mine and softens. The hand that was resting against my spine now lifts to my cheek, wiping away a fresh flood of tears. “I’ve got this, Delilah. Just wait for me out here?”

Despite everything inside me that screams it’s my responsibility, I relent. If my dad doesn’t want me, I can’t force it. It’ll only cause more pain for us both.

I step out of Truett’s orbit, feeling cold to the bone the second I do. Halfway to the living room, I hear the lock disengage and the door ease open. A glance over my shoulder catches Truett disappearing inside. Soft voices join the flow of water and the sound of my breaking heart.

Chapter Thirteen

Delilah

Tru leans back against Dad’s bedroom door once it’s shut, exhaustion heavy on his shoulders. “He’s fast asleep. All that fussing really tuckered him out.”

I pull the throw pillow tighter to my chest, like I can brand the words Ridgefield Family into my sternum if I squeeze hard enough. My body sinks into the couch cushions. I stare straight at Tru, straight through him, without blinking.

Truett sighs, a heavy, bone-weary sound. Then he rounds the side table and kneels in front of me, hands braced on my knees. “It’s just a bad day, Delilah. They happen every now and then.”

My gaze lands on his hands. On the steady circles his thumbs impress upon my skin. “The doctor upped his meds. It feels like things are progressing. Aggressively.”

I’ve heard that word used to describe a multitude of diseases throughout my life. Things like cancer. Heart failure. Kidney disease. “An aggressive form,” they’d call it. I never understood how accurate a word it was until now.

It feels like an attack. Not only on my dad, but on me too. It feels malicious. Hateful. Like the universe itself has a bone to pick with my family.

Truett’s thumbs pause. I glance up, fully allowing myself to absorb his gaze for once.

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