Page 21 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“Truett’s paying for it.”

I clamp my mouth shut. A cow somewhere lets out a surprised bellow. Same.

“What do you mean, he’s paying for it?”

“Exactly that.” Her hands come together at her waist. The thick gold band on her pinky shimmers in the fluorescent kitchen lighting as she fidgets with it. “He told me not to tell you, but I’m not sure how he thought we’d avoid a conversation exactly like this one.”

Heat catches at the back of my neck, spreading until my cheeks are engulfed.

My gaze flicks to the bay window and the farmland beyond it. In the distance, a lone figure is hunched over the old part of the Parkers’ fence with a cluster of cows standing watch nearby. His face when he saw the suitcase in my trunk flashes in my mind. “Because he never thought I’d stay.”

I watch him working for a heartbeat too long, recounting every interaction we’ve had since I arrived. Suddenly the shadows in his eyes make all the sense in the world. The weight that sits on his shoulders. It’s grief. And grief can make you do crazy things.

Before I realize it’s happening, I’m moving. Opening the door. Jamming my feet into my Keds. Pounding down the steps and hitting grass.

Roberta braces a hand on the doorway. “Where are you going?”

“To talk to Truett.”

Her response is lost to the summer breeze.

The Parkers’ farm spans 100 acres, most of it sprawling across the hills behind the little farmhouse, but enough between our homes that I’m out of breath from running the distance. The dirt road cuts a winding path through the fields, so I opt for the more direct route: straight through the pasture. Truett is still bent over a fence post to the left of the house. The few cows standing around are observing his progress with disinterest, their tails swatting back and forth to keep flies away. When they finally catch wind of my approach, their large heads swing in my direction. One grunts, drawing Truett’s attention. He turns to see what the fuss is about, removing his ball cap when he lays eyes on me.

“If it isn’t Delilah Ridgefield.” His brow furrows. As I close the distance between us, I can see the wheels in his brain turning. “Didn’t expect you to come calling after you kicked me out of your room earlier.”

“Truett, I?—”

He immediately cuts me off, a wry grin catching the corner of his mouth. “You may want to watch?—”

“Can you just let me speak for—” I start, but then my foot lands in something squidgy and hot, and the words die on my lips. If I weren’t already bright red from crying, I’d certainly be turning that color now. I don’t even have to look, but I do. My once-white shoe is now coated in a thick layer of cow manure.

He wipes a hand over his mouth, hiding a laugh. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Son of a bitch.” I kick the shoe off, putting my bare foot down on a clear patch of grass a safe distance from the patty.

“Rookie mistake.” He clicks his tongue. “You never take your eye off the ground when cattle are nearby.”

I roll my eyes. The grass tickles the soft underside of my foot. Shifting my weight to balance my bare foot on the remaining unsoiled shoe relieves the uncomfortable sensation, but it also further proves Truett’s point. I’ve forgotten basic farm protocol.

“Haven’t been barefoot in a while?” he asks, smirking.

None of the responses I have for that are particularly helpful. Mostly a lot of pathetic, You’d know if you hadn’t abandoned me when I needed you most, and other similar quips. Letting him know how much he hurt me after all this time is decidedly not high on my list of secrets to share, so I swallow back the words as quickly as they rise. I’m here for a reason.

It’s not about me.

“Truett, I know about your mom.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, so long on top that his natural waves are peeking through. It makes him handsome in a charming, boyish way. Not that I’ll be telling him as much. His face goes soft at the edges, like he heard the compliment anyway. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. “Guess Roberta told you, huh.”

I suck in a deep breath. I don’t want to cry, not in front of Truett.

“Yes. She told me.” My voice cracks. I’m looking at my bare toes. The cows over his shoulder. Anywhere but at him. “And I think you were trying to tell me earlier. I’m sorry I didn’t let you speak.”

He clears his throat. My gaze drifts to his against my better judgment. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t even put a name to, but it guts me. Despite everything that has or hasn’t happened between us, it’s muscle memory to step into his orbit.

My arms come around him. We embrace gingerly at first, and then so tightly I could map the topography of his muscular back. He collapses over me, his tall frame sloping to meet mine. His chin tucks into my neck, and I feel his damp eyelashes brushing the sensitive skin of my ear. He smells like sweat and sky and home. Like a memory I’ve been pretending not to have.

My lips move against the fabric of his T-shirt, along the hollow beneath his collarbone underneath. “I’m so sorry, Truett. I can’t imagine.”

---