Page 122 of The Cost of Forgetting You

A body slams into me. When I turn, alarmed, I’m met with Alicia’s wide gaze. “Surprise!”

“Alicia!” My gaze cuts from her to Truett and back again. “What are you doing here?”

“Your boyfriend invited me.” She pinches my shoulders, then moves her hands to cup my face. Her brows nearly hit her hairline. “And it sounds like I swooped in just in time. I know you weren’t about to say you shouldn’t drink. We’re cutting loose tonight!” Her gaze rolls to meet Truett’s. “Right, Parker?”

Tru releases my hand to slide his arm around my waist. His fingers thread through my waistband, and he pulls me into him. The movement is natural, like it’s the millionth time rather than the first.

He offers Alicia a cheeky grin. “Exactly.”

“Perfect.” Another face-splitting smile from Alicia. “Oh! This is my husband, Destin, by the way.” She steps to the side and gestures to the booth a few feet behind her where a man sits, watching her with bright-eyed admiration. He’s got dark hair, shaved to the skin at the sides and left slightly longer on the top. What looks like an old scar splits his right cheek down the middle. He startles when he notices us staring, and a closed-lip smile stretches his lips as he waves. That scar disappears; pain erased by joy.

“He thinks he’s not dancing tonight.” Alicia turns back to us and winks. “But he’s wrong.”

Tru leans in and kisses my temple. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to. But if you want to, I’ve got you.” His lips brush my skin with every whispered word, sending a shiver down my spine.

As he pulls away, I glance up and smile. When was the last time anyone had my back instead of the other way around? Too damn long ago.

“I’ll take a margarita on the rocks, if you don’t mind.”

Pride flashes like lightning in the storm cloud of his eyes. “Don’t mind at all.” He points at Alicia. “You or Destin want anything?”

“I’ll second Delilah.” She glances back at Destin, who’s nursing a beer in his fist. “You want another, babe?”

“I’m good, thank you.” His voice is deep and smooth. Decisive. He doesn’t offer more, and Alicia doesn’t wait for it. He seems quiet, which is good, because Alicia has always been anything but.

“Two margaritas coming right up.” Truett’s hand slips from my waist. I didn’t realize how much I loved his warmth until I lost it. I catch myself pouting. Pouting. Like I’m a toddler rather than a grown woman. Pathetic.

“You’ve got it bad,” Alicia taunts, poking me in the side. Her smile falls to a thoughtful shrug. “I’m glad things are going well. Tess will be proud.”

“Where’s she at tonight?”

Alicia tosses an arm around my shoulder and starts guiding me toward the booth where Destin sits. “Working. I think this time it’s as an instructor at a fitness class? I never can keep up. The woman has a million odd jobs. She can’t stand still to save her life.”

Trying to keep her mind busy, I’m sure. I don’t know Tess very well, but I feel a kindredness with her that I can’t explain. Not quite that we are the same, but that we will be someday, whether I like it or not.

“Destin, this is Delilah. Delilah, my husband.” She says the word husband like it’s a lollipop she’s licking. When her gaze falls on him, I cease to exist for a heartbeat or two.

I slip into the booth opposite the two of them. “Hi, Destin.” I offer my hand over the table, and he takes it. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Alicia says you’re a doctor?”

“Yes.” He casts a sideways glance at her. “Well, I’m still in residency. But yes.”

“More of a doctor than I’ll ever be,” Tru interjects. He passes a margarita to Alicia and sets one down in front of me, then plucks a beer bottle from his back pocket. “Though I have delivered a baby.”

“Really?” Destin asks, brows raised.

“A calf,” I clarify.

Tru shrugs. “Cow baby.”

“Hey, if it looks like birth and smells like birth”—Destin wrinkles his nose—“it counts.”

“Hear, hear.” Truett offers his beer, and Destin clinks his against it.

“Disgusting,” Alicia says.

Truett laughs and Destin joins in with a breathy chuckle. It’s lost to the thrum of music coming from the jukebox in the corner of the room. There’s a pool table beside it, illuminated by a single swaying overhead lamp. Two women that look to be a few years younger than us pass a vape back and forth while making commentary on the pool game of the men they’re with. The dance floor is a humble ten-by-twenty-foot expanse of hardwood on the other side of the bar, where a single couple shimmies slowly despite the quick tune bouncing through the speakers.

“How’s your dad doing?” Alicia asks.

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