Page 15 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Butter sizzles in the pan. I finish mixing the batter and fill a ladle with it, then pour it over the bubbling liquid. The lid of the trash can slaps against the side of the cabinets when Truett steps on the pedal to dispose of the eggshell. Instead of returning to his place at the island, I hear his footsteps retreat to the nook.

A breath comes whooshing out of me, releasing some of the ache with it.

“Roberta ought to be here shortly,” Truett says. “It’ll be good to see her.”

“It will be. How’s she doing since…” Dad smacks his lips once, twice, then pauses. I make three more pancakes before he starts over. “How’s Lucy?”

My heartbeat stutters, then kicks into high gear. Since I arrived, we’ve managed to avoid this subject at all costs. Now, whether I’m ready or not, I’m going to get the answers I’ve been dreading.

Surely they aren’t dating or she’d be here instead of her son. Truett’s dad, Waylon, left town the week after everything happened, once he’d blasted her name to whomever would listen, but did he come back? Did they get a divorce? Does my dad still love her?

A wave of nausea rolls through me.

Dad whispered that confession to me through tears as Mom ransacked the house that night, tearing frames off the walls—from photos of her and Dad to shots of the three of us to pictures of Truett and me as children—and shouting loud enough to make my ears ring. I can still see him when I close my eyes, which I do now as I wait for Tru’s answer. Dad’s gaze is bright blue and red-rimmed, tears streaking down gaunt cheeks. His hand is splayed over his heart, a gold wedding ring still glinting on his finger as he whispers, “I love her, Delilah. I’m so sorry, but I’ve always loved her.”

How? I wanted to ask but didn’t. I was a child still, only seventeen, and watching my parents’ relationship crumble to the ground right in front of me. But my dad, the one I told all my secrets to, was giving me his own confession. One I couldn’t possibly understand.

How could this man whom I viewed as the picture of perfection, of dedication, do something like that? Hurt us like that?

I’ve turned to watch without realizing it. Truett glances at me, Adam’s apple bobbing, before smiling at my dad. The expression doesn’t reach his eyes.

“She’s good, Henry.” He traces the same wood grain I did the night I decided to leave. “Up on the hill, you know. Enjoying the nice morning.”

“She loves it there,” Dad whispers, gazing out the window at the hill in question. It rises up in the distance beyond the Parkers’ farm, shrouded in trees with spring-green leaves that shake and sway in the breeze.

Truett nods, lips pressed together. He looks at my dad with sorrow etched into his face that I don’t understand.

Before I can ask, though, the acrid scent of a pancake burning in the pan hits me. I spin around, grumble, “Shit,” under my breath, and flip it onto a waiting paper towel where the first, ugly pancake also waits. The discard pile.

Dad and Truett wait in silence while I finish the pancakes. True to my word, I only make enough for two—a short stack of three pancakes landing on each plate. I set one plate in front of my dad, who digs in right away, and cover the other with a paper towel.

“You’re not eating?” Truett asks.

I’m already at the mouth of the hallway. I glance over my shoulder at him. “No, I’ve got a meeting. Tell Roberta those are for her.”

There’s a warning in there, too. Don’t eat them.

The truth is, my stomach is tied in too many knots to even consider eating a pancake. Whatever semblance of peace I felt this morning has gone out the window. I’ve spent the weekend in a bubble of almost-normalcy, pretending that night didn’t happen. For my sake and my dad’s. It’s easy to shove away the anger and hurt when the reason for it isn’t glaring at me right in the face.

But I can’t sit here and listen to them talk about Lucy without feeling like I’m going to throw up. Because she isn’t just some woman my dad fell for and had an affair with, though that would be bad enough. She’s Truett’s mom, for Christ’s sake. The one who helped me put makeup on him when we were eight years old and hosed us off when we played too hard in the pasture. I can’t count the number of times I sat on a barstool pulled up to their kitchen counter and listened to her tell stories while she baked, all the while wishing she were my mom instead of the one I got. She was at every volleyball game, cheering me on with Truett in the stands. She held me when I cried because the boy I had a crush on asked someone else to homecoming, though I couldn’t tell her then it was her son. I hated her for taking herself away from me just as much as I hated her for tearing apart my family.

It’s why I couldn’t blame my dad for his tearful confession, even as it shredded my heart into pieces. Because I loved Lucy Parker, too.

“Hey,” Truett says, that strong hand landing on my shoulder. I pause with my back to him, soaking in his touch for a beat before shrugging away from it. A tiny indulgence I allow myself.

Maybe I’m more like my dad than I’d care to admit.

“I told you; I’ve got a meeting.”

I swing open the door to my bedroom but hold tight to the knob, fully prepared to slam it in his face. But he moves too quickly, slipping in behind me before I can turn around.

The silent treatment, then. If he won’t go away, I’ll ice him out.

I pull out the chair in front of my vanity and take a seat, plucking open my laptop. Truett stands with his hands on his hips, scanning my childhood bedroom. He’s seen it a thousand times. Still, there’s a shiver down my spine, that sensation of having all my secrets exposed, as he spins in a slow circle.

My nails click against the keyboard as I log into my computer and load my email. I try to ignore the large man behind me, but his overwhelming scent makes it nearly impossible. I’ll be smelling fresh air and Truett’s sweat tonight when I go to sleep, I just know it.

The responding pulse between my legs at the thought of that causes me to flush. I cross my legs and squeeze, hoping to quell the ache.

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