Page 136 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Then I load myself into the car and pull away, unsure of where it is I’m heading, only that I have to keep going.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Delilah

Warm wood presses against my skin, no doubt imprinting the looping pattern of its grain on the backs of my thighs. My laptop hums quietly on my lap. A gust of equally hot wind rips through, giving the swing I’m sitting on an invisible push. The swing Dad installed for Mom as a gift, a place for her to lounge on summer days like this one, with a perspiring glass of sweet tea in hand. Yet another thing that wasn’t enough to make her happy.

Sometimes I wonder if I was the first, or if her disdain started long before I came to be.

My gaze rakes over the ebbing fields of Truett’s farm, settling on a lone figure bent over a downed fence post in the closest pasture. The one the females and their calves graze in, lazily scarfing down endless supplies of green grass this time of year. I squint. I can just make out a straw cowboy hat, sitting low on the figure’s head. Hope leaps in my chest. Even from this distance, it’d be a relief to see Truett. The unscrewing of a pressure valve, letting off a bit of steam.

The figure removes the hat, and my heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach, heavy as a stone. Dark hair is disturbed by gloved hands. Ollie. Truett’s farmhand replaces the hat and gets back to work.

I shouldn’t care, but my shoulders sag with disappointment. It’s a telltale sign that while I might know in my head that a relationship between us is the last thing I’m capable of right now, my heart sank its claws into a different narrative—one it’s not tempted to let go of quite yet.

I’m so lost in this round robin of thoughts that I miss the sound of tires crunching over discarded acorns. Don’t look up until footsteps thud against the weather-worn wood of the front steps and draw my attention away from the field.

“Hey, stranger,” Alicia says. A bouquet of brightly colored mums interspersed with greenery and bursts of baby’s breath sits clenched in her fist. She holds the bouquet up, a light pink blush settling high on her round cheeks. “Brought these for you.” Her other hand moves from behind her back, producing at least five Caramellos trying to spill from her grasp. “And these are for your dad. Please tell me he still loves these things, because there are about ten more in the car.”

I swallow the rising tide of nerves and second-guessing and force a smile on my face that I pray is more convincing than I feel. “Did you clean out Sunshine?”

She nods, expression morose. “I did. But it was the price that had to be paid for the great Henry Ridgefield. Citizens of Fly Hollow will understand.”

I snort softly, and a relieved smile blooms on her face. No lipstick today. It makes her seem younger, more like the Alicia I knew at seventeen. And twelve. And five.

A dark red indent cuts through my palm when I lift it from the keypad and gesture to the space opposite me on the bench. My back rests against one of the arm rails, but I tug up my legs to free a seat on the other side. “Care to join me?”

“Sure!” She balances the bouquet carefully on the handrail wrapping the porch and piles the candy bars beside it. When she sits on the swing, it rocks beneath us, then finally settles. “What are we doing? Admiring your cowboy from afar?”

“That one isn’t mine.” None of them are, I almost add. Even if my broken heart disagrees.

“Oh?” She flattens a hand over her eyes and squints, blocking out sun that’s already been shielded by the roof. “Where’s yours then?”

Now would be a good time to correct her, but that damn heart of mine has clamped its hand over my lips.

My gaze skirts the field once more, taking stock, but Truett is nowhere in sight. “Not sure.”

She hums her understanding. When her gaze flits to my laptop, a wrinkle appears between her brows. “Are you working?”

“Not exactly.” I scowl at my computer screen. “I’m researching memory care facilities in the area.”

I found the list in a folder Truett had left in Dad’s office, along with the burial plans and other forms he’d taken care of before I ever arrived in town. The temptation to call him, to ask for his help, was so strong I had to power down my phone to keep from acting on it.

Alicia’s eyes widen briefly, but she catches herself. Relaxes the surprise as quickly as it arrived. “What changed your mind?”

“It hasn’t changed. Not really.” I release the breath scalding my lungs and pinch the bridge of my nose. It stings with imminent tears that I fight to hold back. I’m so sick of crying. I’ve been doing it all week, and it’s gotten me nowhere except knee-deep in a migraine that even the strongest pain reliever won’t touch. When my eyes peel back open, Alicia is a little blurry. I blink, bringing her empathetic frown into focus. “I don’t know what to do, honestly. Dad says he’s ready to go, but I feel like I’m failing as his daughter if I put him there.”

She stretches one leg out alongside mine, our skin sticking together in the damp summer air. It’s a comfort though, to have her so close. To sit like we did what seems like a million years ago and talk about our problems as though they can actually be solved.

“What does Truett think of all this?”

I roll my bottom lip between my teeth. I should’ve known I couldn’t skirt past this with Alicia. If anyone’s gonna find out the dirt I’m hiding, it’s her. I sigh, letting the fight go out of me along with the air. “I haven’t really spoken to him since everything went down.”

“And why not?”

“With everything going on, I just can’t…” I wave a hand in the air by my head and widen my eyes, searching for an explanation in the forest across the street. When one doesn’t magically appear, I drop my hand, defeated. “I can’t pursue him and take care of my dad. I’m not capable of doing both. Not well, anyway. I certainly proved that last week, which is probably why Dad is suddenly hell-bent on going into care sooner rather than later.”

The words singe my throat. It’s a truth I’ve been too afraid to utter aloud, even in the quiet of my bedroom long after Dad has drifted off to sleep, yet I’ve served it up to her on a silver platter. Here, judge my shitty performance as a daughter. Like I’m not hard enough on myself as it is.

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