Page 54 of The Cost of Forgetting You

I blink. “But we…”

His gaze cuts to the screen expectantly. “You know I saw it for the first time with your mom. You were a few months old, and Kimberly’s parents came to meet you. It was such a good movie.”

What a strange disease, that he can remember all of that and not the hours we just spent together watching it on this couch.

Another piece of sand slips through the hourglass. I press play.

Chapter Seventeen

Henry

May 17th, 1997

My house is dark and silent as we enter, save for the one floorboard by the entrance that squeaks every time you step on it. Dad always promised to replace it, and though I certainly could figure out how, doing so now feels like erasing part of his memory. I leave it so he has something to come back to, despite knowing how insane that sounds.

Moonlight filters in through the wide bay windows around our breakfast nook. They overlook a hundred acres of farmland that hasn’t been used since the owner got too old to care for cattle. Every morning, Abel Johnson sits out on his front porch and watches the sun rise over his land. Some mornings when I’ve got extra time before school, I sit at the table and watch him. It’s a tradition he doesn’t even know he’s a part of, but it brings me comfort all the same.

“There’s a beer or two in the fridge.” I nod toward the yellowing refrigerator littered with magnets from all the casinos my parents used to frequent. The thing looks like a dated advertisement for Biloxi at this point. “Help yourself.”

Kimberly’s heels click in a harsh staccato. Her dress swishes around her legs, revealing flashes of creamy skin with every step she takes. She opens the fridge and glances back at me, her face a half-moon in the glow of the small lightbulb. “You want one, too?”

First I wore my dad’s shoes while smoking a cigarette. Now I’m adding underage drinking to the list. And it’s his leftover beer, no less.

I slip the oxfords off, hoping it will reduce the guilt when I say, “Sure.”

A groan vibrates her full lips. “Ugh, good idea.” She carries two cans over and passes me one before taking a seat on the bench and popping one delicate foot in the air. “Could you help? These heels are absolutely killing me.”

“Um, yeah. I can do that.” I set my beer on the table and kneel. When I take her foot in my hand and rest it on my knee, I’m struck by how soft and warm her skin is. It ignites something in me, a desire I’ve only felt once before, outside the confines of my bedroom at least.

The straps are intricate and a bit confusing. With a little instruction from Kimberly, though, I manage to free one foot and then the other. “There you go.”

She smiles. “My hero.”

For some reason those words make my chest tight. I’m still kneeling in front of her. My gaze travels the long, smooth path of her muscular leg from the foot I’m holding to the place where the slit in her dress parts midthigh. I blink slowly. My dick hardens against my fly. It feels wrong to think of anyone else this way when Lucy’s all I’ve ever wanted. But Lucy’s not here. And when I finally tear my gaze from the swell of her thigh, Kimberly’s looking at me through lowered lashes.

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip. She removes her foot from my grasp and pushes it against my chest, rocking my balance. “You gonna stay down there all night?”

I swallow hard. “Right. Sorry.”

She giggles softly. I stand and take the seat opposite her. When I don’t immediately reach for my beer, she pops the tab on it with her long, painted fingernails and passes it back, then does the same to her own. We each take a sip. It’s the only sound in the room aside from the miscellaneous creaks and groans of the house. I pray she doesn’t notice me wincing in response to the bitter taste. Or that I’m shifting uncomfortably in my seat, willing my boner to go down.

“Will your parents be gone all night?”

I nod. “My mom works late.” The diner stays open into the early morning hours after prom to give kids a safe place to go for a late-night snack. She volunteered for the shift once I agreed to go to the dance. Briefly I wonder if she’ll notice my absence from the post-prom crowd. Knowing her attention to my comings and goings as of late, I doubt it.

“And your dad?”

I let my gaze drift toward the window. “He passed away in January.”

“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry, Henry.”

It’s been months, and I still don’t know how to respond to that. Instinctually I want to say, It's okay, but it’s not. Thank you also feels weird. I’m sorry, too is the most accurate, but it tends to bring the mood down. I settle for flattening my lips and nodding, a half-assed grunt rattling my throat.

Kimberly taps a nail against the aluminum can of beer. I get the sense that she’s not comfortable with the direction this conversation has taken. She won’t be still, and she makes a low humming noise to fill the silence that’s settled between us.

“How’s the beer?” It’s the best lifeline I can offer.

Her nose wrinkles. “A little flat.”

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