Page 18 of The Cost of Forgetting You

He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s Waylon whose voice comes out. “Lucy, we were going over the plan for that special Wednesday night service you and I discussed.” His eyes, dark and guarded, bounce off my face like I’m nothing to think twice about. Asshole. “We thought it’d be nice if you sang while I played guitar.”

“You play guitar?” I don’t mean for the snide tone to leak into my voice, but it’s there. I can tell by the way Waylon and the pastor bristle. And by the tiny smirk Lucy hides behind a cough.

“He does,” Pastor Timothy grits out. He throws an arm around Waylon’s shoulders and squeezes. “Mr. Parker here has not only paid a great service to our country, he also delights in music—mostly for the benefit of the church—and studies agriculture at the local college.” There’s pride in his smile, more than he’s ever shown for Lucy. An ache forms behind my sternum. “You’d do well to follow in the footsteps of a man like him, Son. I know you’re not currently in any small groups—perhaps joining Waylon’s would be a step in the right direction.”

I’m tempted to mention that the now-pious Waylon left a less than stellar reputation behind at our school for beating up freshmen for sport. I learned early on to steer clear in case he started branching out to the middle schoolers. He also loved to tell the whole student body about the things he’d force his girlfriends to do underneath the bleachers, but I doubt Pastor Timothy wants to hear about that.

Uncomfortable silence settles around us, seeping into the green carpet. With our song still buzzing beneath my fingertips, it feels glaring by comparison. I glance at Lucy, willing her to look at me, to acknowledge that she feels it too. But her eyes are trained on that puke-colored carpet. And her dad’s, when I check, are still glaring at me.

If he doesn’t stop, it’s going to be puke covered soon.

“We’d better be going,” Mom says, injecting a bit of her perpetual sunshine into this awkward moment. She’s good at that. Always looking at the bright side of things. I, like my dad, tend to not be so upbeat. “This one has some chores to attend to.”

She reaches out a hand for mine. I stand but don’t take it. Not in front of Waylon. Not in front of Lucy.

I swallow, summoning all the bravery I have in my wiry teenage body, and turn to Lucy. “We should do that again sometime.”

She tilts her head gently, a sad smile tugging at her lips. Before she can answer, her dad interjects. “Come on and look at the music for Wednesday with Waylon, dear, and then your mama will need your help with the baby.” He beckons her, and she jolts forward as if tugged by a leading rope. When his hand meets the place between her shoulder blades and she winces, my hands curl into fists.

One day, I vow, I’ll touch that same place, and it will be everything. With my fingertips, my lips. One day I’ll be able to hold her and replace all that fear with something sweeter. Something right.

Because everything about this, about making music with Lucy, felt absolutely and completely right. And now that I’ve tasted it, I’ll be chasing it forever.

She follows Waylon’s lead out of the room, head hung low, while her father continues to watch me. My mom smiles at him politely and loops her arm through my father’s. “We’ll see you next Sunday, Tim.”

My parents walk together down the aisle. The midday sun illuminates the double glass doors at the other end of the room, and they make their way toward it with heads tilted together, discussing something in hushed voices.

I close the lid over the keys and take a step in their direction, but the pastor captures my bicep in a firm grasp. I tip my chin up to look at him while tugging my arm away.

His hand drops to his side, but his gaze hardens. “Boy, I know my daughter is pretty. She gets that from her mother. But she’s not allowed to date anyone I don’t approve of, you hear me?” I try to speak, but he holds up the hand clasping the brown leather Bible to stop me. “I was young once. I know what goes through a kid’s brain. Just say you and me have an understanding, all right?”

I swallow, my Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”

He smiles—an awkward, bitter thing—and claps that Bible against my shoulder. “Good. Now go on and have a blessed Sunday.”

I nod. He turns away without another thought spared in my direction, and strolls after Waylon and Lucy, whistling to the tune of “Amazing Grace.” My feet beg to scurry after my parents. That part of me—my fear—is still very much a child. But my heart yearns for the girl in the next room with golden hair and a yellow sundress. My hands itch to roam over her thighs, spread them open, explore what’s underneath.

Perhaps Pastor Timothy was right about my intentions.

It’s not purely physical, though. How could it be? Before today, I knew Lucy Barlow was beautiful. But now I know what her mind can create. The music that lives just beneath her skin. And with everything I have, I want to let it out. To set her free.

One day, Lucy. I promise we’ll make music again.

Chapter Six

Delilah

An hour later I finally log out of a call that takes at least two years off my life. The man needing training would’ve been better suited to a Computers 101 course before ever trying to operate our system, but who am I to judge? Just the one who has to repeatedly remind him to use his mouse to click on things instead of poking his monitor with a fat, greasy finger.

I close my laptop with a sigh and turn toward my bedroom door, steeling myself. Facing Truett shouldn’t rattle me the way it does. Not after all this time, in the face of so many more important challenges. But when he’s in front of me… my body reacts on my behalf. My mouth runs twenty paces ahead of my poor brain. I’m always playing catch-up with him, and I can’t afford to be.

The only way I’m going to get through this whole ordeal is by holding my wants and needs at arm’s length. When I find myself halfway down the hall, I’m still not sure which category he falls under.

The scent of coffee hits me first, followed by the soft trill of a feminine voice and my father’s responding tenor. When I emerge from the hallway, the fist around my heart relaxes a bit. Truett is nowhere in sight.

Instead, seated at the table with my father is a woman in her early fifties. Roberta, I deduce. Her brown hair is streaked with gray and flows in soft waves around a heart-shaped face. When she smiles, her whole face gives over to the expression. And she smiles easily. In response to every word out of my dad’s mouth, though he’s simply talking about various music lessons he’s given through the years. It can’t be that interesting to her, but she watches him intently, giving him another warm grin.

Comfort relaxes my limbs just from entering her orbit. She’s exactly who you’d want in a nurse. A caretaker. Hell, even a mom. She looks kind. Like she gives the best hugs. A small part of me knows Truett made a good choice, even if I hate to admit it. Even if I can’t afford it.

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