Page 147 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Dad slips an arm around my shoulders, oblivious to their slump. “They have a baby grand, boy. It’s practically Carnegie Hall.”

I dare to peek up at Tru through my lashes. His jaw ticks as he grinds his molars together. His hands have found his hips. There’s a fresh Band-Aid on his knuckle, with several smaller cuts around it, like he got caught on a bit of fencing. I focus on that rather than the disappointment in his stare. The disbelief.

I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I’m putting Dad into care, or the implications behind it, that earn me that look.

“They have a wait-list. So it’ll be a little while,” I say in case it’s the latter.

Truett’s nod is curt and quick. “How long is a while?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. Tears prick my eyes, and I blink them back. “Could be a month. Could be longer.”

Truett mumbles a noncommittal hum, though he looks like he’s taken a blow to the chest. “Henry, do you mind if Delilah and I chat for a sec?”

“Sure”—Dad wiggles his eyebrows—“you two take all the time you need.”

I reach for my father, catching the sleeve of his threadbare plaid button-down. “Are you sure, Dad? It’s been a rough day.”

The truth is, I do need to talk to Truett. But the obligation to check in, to put Dad’s needs above my own, is strong. Maybe one day I’ll learn to lay them down or to lift myself above, but today is not that day.

He pats my hand gingerly, a knowing smile playing on his wobbling lips. “I’ll be all right, sweet pea. Gonna watch some TV for a bit.”

“Okay.” I let him go, but I find myself checking his gait as he climbs the steps to the front door. Making sure he slips from his shoes where he always does and walks inside without hesitation. No signs that an episode is imminent, but then, there aren’t always.

“So that’s it, then?”

I tear my gaze from Dad’s silhouette through the windows and focus on Tru. His arms are crossed over his broad chest. He’s replaced the hat on his head, and its brim rides low, turning his gaze almost black in its shade. This version of him is all hard lines and stony facade. I know it well. I tried to build one like it for myself, only for life to shatter it without a second thought.

“I know you’ve seen my texts. My calls. The voicemail.” His gaze is hard, daring me to disagree. “I meant what I said, Delilah. I’m not giving up without a fight this time. I’m here on your doorstep to beg you to please talk to me. Let me in.” He licks his lips. Draws in a short breath. “So you’re what, leaving? Is that what you were avoiding me for? You didn’t have the guts to tell me you were done? I think I deserve better than this, Delilah. I really do.”

“It’s not that. I—” My voice splinters off. I swallow it, adding to the coating of regret lining my throat. Every excuse dies off in my lungs. What good are they? They don’t undo the hurt. I know that better than anyone. So instead I reach for Tru’s hand. Tug it loose from his folded arms. I hold it like a promise, a prayer, as I take a note from his book and whisper, “You’re right, and I’m sorry.”

His eyes widen. Perfectly white teeth puncture the plush curve of his bottom lip. He shakes his head slowly, giving my words time to catch up.

“Are you really leaving?”

I open my mouth to answer, but the sound of a cabinet closing steals my attention. My gaze flickers to the house, and my lips flatline.

“Can we go somewhere else to talk?” I nod toward the closest window, at my father who suddenly makes himself very busy with the kitchen sink. “Somewhere a little more private?”

Truett lets out a strained laugh. The color is still leached from his cheeks, but his eyes are lighter. Glossy with unshed tears. “The river?”

I nod. “Perfect.”

He releases my hand, sweeping his in front of us toward the four-wheeler I hadn’t noticed parked beside the largest live oak. “Lead the way.”

I do. But not before calling over my shoulder, “TURN OFF THE SINK BEFORE YOU FLOOD THE PLACE.”

I swear Dad’s chuckle follows me all the way to the ATV.

Chapter Forty-One

Delilah

We ride in silence, my hands curled loosely around his waist. The routine is the same: he dismounts, opens the gate. I drive us through. He latches it and climbs back on. When we arrive in the clearing, the sun is beating down on my shoulders, turning them pink. The air is so thick you could swim in it. I’m tempted to strip and run for the dark, cool river, but I force myself to sit in the discomfort. I’m realizing that I have to learn how to get through tough moments like this if I ever want to have anything worthwhile.

So I’m starting here, with Truett and me. Hoping that the outcome really can be different from my father and Lucy if I lay all my cards on the table now.

Truett leads me through the tall switchgrass to the sandy beach that forms the shoreline. We sit side by side, our thighs touching with every shift, fingertips brushing in the sun-warmed sand behind us.

---