Page 28 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“What’s wrong, Lucy?”

She wets her lips, leaving them glistening in the moonlight. “You know how you said I could try anything with you?”

My dick twitches. In what I hope is a subtle movement, I rest one hand on my lap as a shield. “Yes.”

“Could we…I mean could I…”

A car passes by outside, rocking the truck gently in its wake. Her cheek hollows like she’s biting it. Hesitantly she turns over our hands in the seat between us, using her other to trace the lines in my palm as best she can.

“Could we what, Lucy?” Because suddenly I need to know. Have to know.

“I’ve never been kissed.” Her voice cracks and she swallows. Licks her lips again. “And I was wondering if you could change that.”

My heart pounds so loudly in my chest I’m convinced she can hear it. The moment I nod, all the oxygen leaves the cab of the truck. It’s now a vacuum, a black hole, and the middle seat is the center point drawing us in. I unclip my seat belt at the same time she does, and we move toward one another in sync, our hips, thighs, knees meeting in one deliciously warm greeting.

It’s second only to the feeling when our lips collide.

Lacing one hand through the silken threads of her hair, I move my mouth over hers. Gently at first, then with more courage. Her lips part, one gasping breath coating my cheeks, and then I’m right there, brushing my tongue in tandem with hers. A soft whimper escapes the kiss, barely audible over my racing pulse, but I’ll remember it for the rest of my life, that sound. I know it. I just do.

I’m not sure how much time passes before we part, lips swollen and cheeks flushed. It could be seconds or hours. All I know is my whole life begins and ends with that kiss. With Lucy and her soft skin, and her beautiful eyes with pupils so blown I can barely make out her irises. But they’re there. Miraculous and striking as always.

“Does it always feel like that?” she whispers. Two fingers find her bottom lip, and she traces that swollen skin like she too can’t believe the sensations originating there.

I don’t tell her that unless you count the peck on the lips Rebecca Hornstead gave me in kindergarten, then this is my first kiss, too.

I shake my head. I don’t have to kiss other girls to know this was special. “No, no it doesn’t.”

Our foreheads meet. Her scent envelops me like a blanket against the cold. She laughs and I feel it down in my core.

Her gaze drops to my lips. “Can we do it again?”

I have every intention of obliging, but the second I try to, the cab is lit up with red and blue.

Chapter Nine

Delilah

It rains every day for a week straight, which is not unusual for summertime in the South. But it does mean the grass is up to mid-shin come the following Monday morning, so I roll out of bed just as the sky is turning a pale shade of peach, and slip into a pair of jeans and a loose T-shirt. I’m going to prove Truett wrong.

I’m just going to do it before he has a chance to wake up and watch me.

My skin flushes. As I walk over to the shed behind the house, I force myself not to check the fields for his presence. Still, the memory of his threat has me feeling his eyes all over me. A sensation I’m ashamed to admit leaves me aching.

The right door is hanging slanted on its hinges. It’s held in place by an open padlock that’s looped through the two door handles. When I slip the lock off, the right door swings open and slaps against the siding of the shed, startling a few birds in the tree to my right. They scatter, blotting out little pieces of sky in their escape. I open the other side carefully, guiding it all the way till it rests against the opposite side.

Dad’s push mower sits in the same place it has for twenty years. Beside it, stacks of discarded bags of gardening soil and a few cracked plastic pots lie gathering dust. There’s a gas can with questionably aged liquid inside on the shelf above it. On first examination, the lawn mower itself doesn’t seem too difficult to operate. My lack of green thumb shouldn’t stop me from pulling a chain to start an engine. Pushing it around is just a matter of exercise. Two whole acres worth.

I drag the mower down the ramp of the shed and park it in the grass, then return to the shed to retrieve the gas can. I uncap it and sniff. My nose wrinkles. The fuel smells like, well, fuel. Not that I know what it’d smell like if it had gone off. It’s probably fine, right? I pour it into the tank and hope for the best.

My hands find my hips as I survey the lawn. Besides dodging the live oaks and a smattering of bushes around the perimeter of the house, there’s not much to maneuver. Truett was just trying to psych me out. Surely it can’t be that hard.

I grab the handle of the pull starter and yank hard like I’ve seen my dad do a thousand times, but nothing happens. I yank a second time, but still no dice. Then a third and fourth. My breath comes in abbreviated huffs. Sweat beads at my hairline. Even this early, the air is thick with humidity. It clings to my skin like a damp sheet. I stand, fist my hands against my hips, and blow out a breath. “This can’t be that fucking difficult.”

The sound of an engine reaches my ears. I narrow my gaze on the mower, wondering if it’s spontaneously decided to get with the program. Then the realization hits me. I pivot on my heel as Truett tops the last hill that separates our properties, looking smug as ever on his riding lawn mower. Suddenly I regret not having given the farm a once-over this morning. Maybe if I’d known he was definitely watching, I could’ve been a little more stealthy. Or, at the very least, prepared.

He comes to a stop in front of me. Leaving the engine idling, he pulls apart the handles and jumps off the mower. He’s wearing a brown T-shirt and stained jeans that cover his equally dirty boots. Even with a tan cowboy hat casting a shadow over his features, the spark of amusement in his eyes is visible. “You’re determined; I’ll give you that.”

I tear my gaze off the swell of his biceps as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Why are you up this early?”

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