Page 9 of The Cost of Forgetting You

We both turn toward that voice. One whose drawl, despite the years since I last heard it, I’d recognize anywhere.

“No one’s touching the floor.” Dad’s hand, warm and familiar, cups my bicep. “Delilah, you remember Truett Parker?”

Remember Truett Parker? How could I fucking forget.

He’s seated in my spot at the breakfast nook, gaze trained on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. He was always tan from weekends and afternoons spent helping his dad around the farm, but he’s especially tawny now. It makes his dirty blond hair seem so light by comparison, his blue-gray eyes bright. The youthful wiriness is gone from his body, replaced by taut muscles that strain the shoulders of his T-shirt, the seams of his Wranglers. He stretches his long legs out like he sees me studying them and wants to give me a better angle.

I blush, drawing my gaze back up to his. He’s clean-shaven, leaving the strong angles of his jaw on full display. His lip twitches toward a knowing smile, causing the dimples in his cheeks to pop.

“Hello, Temptress.”

The nickname, born from the misfortune of having the name Delilah while growing up in the rural South—where they take their Bible stories very seriously—grates on me. Though with my dad watching, who always found it amusing, I swallow my retort.

Instead I say, “Surprised to see you here.”

He lifts an incredulous brow. “Suppose I could say the same to you.”

It’s a barb that I don’t want to admit has hit its mark. I turn and grab my bag from the porch. Clear my throat.

“Welp.” Truett slaps his knees, pushing on them to lift himself. As much as I wish I were immune, his forearms—sun-kissed and corded—draw my attention. “Guess I’ll give you two time to catch up.” He saunters toward us in no hurry, like my presence doesn’t affect him at all. It’s that apathy more than anything that boils my blood. “Henry, Roberta will start on Monday. It’s all taken care of, so no need to do anything but be your charming self.”

He offers my father a genuine smile that falters when he turns to me. “Are you planning on sticking around that long?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

He acknowledges my glare with a nod but doesn’t flinch. Instead he shrugs and retrieves a folded leather wallet from the back pocket of his too-snug Wranglers. “Here’s her card in case you need it.”

“Who’s Roberta?”

He offers the small white business card to me. Our skin brushes—his hot, mine cold—as I pluck it from his hand. His gaze catches mine and holds it.

“Your dad’s new in-home nurse,” he says matter-of-factly.

My heart twists in on itself. I crumple the card into my front pocket, earning a glare of my own from Truett.

“Sure you don’t wanna stay for dinner? I can make—ah…” Dad’s voice trails off. He smacks his lips once, twice, like whatever he’s trying to say might manifest that way.

Finally, with a subtle shake of his head meant only for me, Truett looks back at my dad. Softens. “No, sir, I’ve got cows to feed. You two have fun though. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”

Truett moves toward the door, my dad and I parting like the Red Sea to let him through. He slips into a pair of boots in the pile outside the door; then he’s across the porch and down the steps in a few strides of his long, muscular legs. The thin fabric of his white T-shirt gathers and relaxes between his shoulder blades with each swing of his arms. I watch it, that movement, for a beat too long before my brain remembers how to do its thing.

“One second, Dad.”

My sock feet thud against the porch, drawing Truett’s attention. He spins on the heel of one boot but continues putting distance between us, walking backward. “What do you need, Temptress?”

“Stop calling me that.” I slip into my Keds and bound down the steps. A glance back at my father, who’s staring hard into the kitchen, tells me he’s not paying us any attention. The front door remains open, though, so I reach for Truett’s hand and pull him toward my car. “Help me get the rest of my things, would you?”

His brows furrow, but he doesn’t resist.

Once we’re out of my father’s earshot, I release his hand like I’ve been burned. “Why does he need an in-home nurse?”

“He has dementia.” The duh is unspoken but very much present.

“Don’t be a smart-ass. How bad is it, really? He seems fine to me.” I glance over my shoulder as if to confirm this with a cursory scan of Dad’s profile. When at last I turn back to Tru, pity is waiting for me in his eyes.

He shifts his weight, then crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. “He crashed his car two weeks ago. Nearly took out the sign for the First Baptist Church. So things aren’t great, per se.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. My heart is lodged in my throat, blocking all flow of air.

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