Page 24 of The Cost of Forgetting You

He smacks his lips, willing new words to fill the void. When they don’t, his hand moves from my shoulder to the back of his neck, which he rubs like it’s sore. The tips of his ears go red, and a grimace distorts his face. “My damn brain, you know?”

He’s looking at me, but it’s Roberta who answers, “We know, Henry.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper, wrapping an arm around his middle and squeezing.

His chin finds purchase on the crown of my head as his arms encircle me again, and for a moment I’m held, like all those years ago on the porch. And for that reason I know I have to do this. Despite the catastrophic way he let me down, for all the times he held me up, I can do the same for him now.

He squeezes my side and then releases me, taking a step back. “What are you up to, sweet pea?”

I shift my weight, unsure if he’s here with me now, or if he still sees me as the kid who just got home from school. Will it confuse him if I say I have meetings? Or does he think I need to head to practice soon?

“Um, I…” I glance over my shoulder at Roberta, who’s politely organizing hand-dried dishes into their spots in the cabinets.

She must’ve been watching me in her peripheral, though, because the moment I look to her for help, she intervenes. “You have work, right, Delilah?”

“Y-yes, but…”

“Henry and I are going to the store to pick up some groceries. Do you need anything?”

“Oh.” I nod my head, feeling a blush creeping up my cheeks. “Actually, yes. I could use a pair of flip-flops if you don’t mind.”

Roberta’s eyebrows scrunch together, but before she can speak, I hold up a hand. “It’s a long story.”

“Noted.” Her laughter—a light, lilting thing—eases some of the tightness in my chest. “We’ll be back in a little while then. Do you have my number if you think of anything else?”

I point to her card where it still sits smoothed flat on the counter.

Her gaze flicks in that direction, along with my dad’s, who laughs so loud I startle. “Would you look at that!”

“Okay, well, don’t hesitate to call.” She smiles again, the warmth returning to her face. For someone who’s spent years in stressful environments, it’s amazing that it doesn’t show in her skin. The only wrinkles she has are happy ones, from smiling too hard, laughing too much.

I absent-mindedly reach up to smooth the skin between my eyebrows, knowing my skin will tell a very different story when the time comes. I’ve spent my whole life worrying about something.

The thought makes me frown.

“Bye, sweet pea.” Dad tugs the door open, plucking his Converse from the porch and sliding into them.

“Have fun, you two.” I wave over my shoulder as I head for the hallway, not missing Roberta’s watchful gaze tracing my steps.

From my makeshift desk, I hear the engine of a car start up and retreat, leaving me in the stillness of an empty house.

My calendar is blessedly empty of meetings until three o’clock. I take the time to catch up on emails and shoot my boss a quick reply letting him know I am, in fact, alive. Luckily Cameron and the rest of my team are incredibly understanding. Without a single question digging for details, I was told to go take care of what I need to down here. Any slowness to respond or sudden appointments thrown on my calendar were totally okay, so long as I let them know if I needed them—for work or otherwise.

I won’t, I assured them. I’ve got it all under control.

I glance at my closed door, imagining the living room and kitchen beyond it, and all the ways in which I utterly did not have things under control today. For all that I want Truett to be wrong, he’s right about one thing. I need Roberta.

My resulting sigh is so heavy it blows a photo off the mirror. It falls against my foot, and when I pick it up, I see that it’s a shot of Truett and me in Halloween costumes when we were maybe eight or nine years old. I’m dressed as Hermione from Harry Potter, and he’s supposed to be Harry. He drew the scar on his cheek instead of his forehead, though. I was the one obsessed with the books; he only played along to amuse me.

It’s so hard to reconcile that boy with the one who turned away at the party when I needed him most. Even harder to hold the two up next to the man in the field this morning, one affected by grief and something deeper that I don’t understand.

I touch the curve of my ear, where I can still feel the featherlight brush of his lashes. My breath catches. How can I still want him this badly, after so much time? Haven’t I been hurt enough?

I know one thing for sure. I absolutely cannot take him up on his offer. Indebted or not, any time spent alone with Truett will be bad for my health.

The small drawer in my vanity resists at first but finally relents to my tugging. It’s full of old makeup brushes and bobby pins, busted compacts and a hairbrush missing half its bristles. I set the photo on top of it all and push the drawer shut. Out of sight, out of mind. I’ve got more important things to worry about than a childhood crush.

Before I can chicken out, I open a new tab to a search engine on my computer and type in frontotemporal dementia. My hands tremble as it loads. Every bone in my body aches to slam the laptop shut. To hide from the results that unravel before me. I gave the articles a cursory glance before coming here, but part of growing up means knowing all the hard details, even the ones you wish you didn’t. So I force myself to do a deep dive into it all.

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