Page 121 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Dad draws a card and, just like me, gathers four cards together to place on the table. A six in every suit.

Truett’s gaze widens. “What are the freaking odds?”

“Pretty good if you have a shit dealer,” I say, shrugging.

Dad loses it. He holds his cards to his chest as he succumbs to wave after wave of laughter till there’s no sound left. Just the shaking of his shoulders.

Meanwhile, Truett’s shaking his head at me with mischief glinting in his eyes. “You’ll pay for that later.”

“Later?” I do my best to sound coy. Which will only work if Tru can’t see the tremble in my hand when I reach for my water. The blush creeping up my neck as I take a sip.

For a moment I swear I can feel his lips on my skin. His hands roaming my curves. I’m lying in his bed, legs spread wide for him, feeling him everywhere and yet endlessly craving more.

Tru winks like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. The swell of his cheek hollows out his dimple. He is equal parts man and mischief. Every inch of him rugged and rough-hewn, yet boyish in the most charming way.

“I’m taking you dancing.” He turns to Dad. “If that’s all right with you, Henry?”

“Sure.” Dad waves a hand. “I’m all good.”

I shift in my seat. “Are you sure…?”

Dad leans into me and smiles. It’d be reassuring if it weren’t tinged with such sadness. “Feel right as rain. Those…um…new meds. They help.” He swipes a hand over his lower abdomen and winces. “Just give me a hell of a stomachache.”

“Probably all those extra fries you ate,” Truett says.

Dad makes a pfft sound and waves a hand at Truett. “Take your turn, boy.”

Truett snickers. Dad joins him. Some of that tension releases from my shoulders.

Truett draws, then discards. “Roberta will be here too, Delilah. I already asked her.” His gaze meets mine, full of warmth and knowing. “I owe you a date. One that doesn’t involve childbirth.”

“I said that to my wife once.” Dad shakes his head at his cards. “I lied.”

I’m laughing so hard tears pool in my eyes. I point at Dad, but my eyes are on Tru. “See where I get it from?”

Tru shakes his head, but his shoulders are rattling with laughter. “Can’t take you two anywhere.”

“Except dancing,” I clarify.

He meets my gaze once more, expression serious as sin. “Except dancing.”

I draw another card, and this time it’s not luck that brings me my third ace. I have to believe it’s karma. That after so much bad, I’m finally getting some good.

I lay down my cards.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Delilah

Felix Crow opened the aptly named Crow Bar in 2007, when I was barely old enough to register the disgruntled rumblings it started among my neighbors. Mostly the church ladies, in line at Sunshine Grocery on Sunday afternoons getting a bucket of fried chicken to bring home from the deli. Dad would scoff and smile down at me, whispering, “Their husbands would all be first in line to patronize the bar if their wives would allow it. Instead they settle for lukewarm beer they keep hidden in their garages, and ibuprofen to dull the headache from all the complaining.”

I didn’t really know what that joke meant back then, but as I walk into the dimly lit bar with an industrial-style exposed ceiling and neon beer signs lining the walls, I find myself laughing at it with a renewed sense of perspective. Small-town people with their small-town secrets, so afraid that if word gets out that they, too, have vices, they’ll never be forgiven.

Felix glances up from behind the bar. He’s in his late fifties, with tattoos lining each arm that have faded into a mess of gray ink, and a beard in a matching shade. His bald head is polished, belly stretching the limits of an AC/DC shirt. When he sees us, he smiles, and it softens all those hard edges at once.

Tru laces our fingers together, tugging me through the small crowd of people already gathered this early on a Friday night. “What do you like to drink?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Oh, I shouldn’t?—”

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