Page 46 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“I know this is your first time.” She’s still giggling, the words coming out like little hiccups. “But it's best practice to actually look at the cigarette before taking a drag just in case you’re getting close to the end. And maybe don’t hold it that far up either.”

“Noted.” Though I already know it will be my first and last cigarette. My mind feels loose and relaxed; all the tension from before has seeped out of me. But my lungs are tight, my throat on fire. Not worth it.

“Do you wanna take me somewhere, Henry?” Her eyes are wide and hopeful as they gaze up at me. Golden flecks in her irises reflect the limited light. They’re not striking like Lucy’s, but they’re warm.

I kick Dad’s shoes against the butt, killing the last few sparks. “Like where?”

“Somewhere we can drink?” she asks, a hopeful pitch lifting her voice.

The field flashes through my mind. It’d be empty tonight; the complete opposite of the rowdy crowd inside. There’d be no Lucy and, more importantly, no Waylon. Perfect, essentially. There’s just one problem.

Well, two problems. I can’t buy alcohol. And I don’t want to replace my last memory in that field, with Lucy pressed close to me and my friends gathered around a warm fire. The last normal moment of my life, now miraculous in its simplicity.

Kimberly rises to her feet, her nose even with my chin thanks to a pair of heels. Her head tilts, blanketing her face in moonlight. She’s pretty, I realize, with a face that’s all sloping lines and features that are wide and theatrical. She pokes her bottom lip out. “Please? Knowing Talia, she won’t be done with your friend anytime soon. I wanna have fun tonight.” In a bold move, she reaches for my hand. I twine my fingers with hers almost on instinct. I’m surprised to find it feels nice. Great, even. “Don’t you want to have fun?”

Fun feels like such a foreign concept after everything that’s happened the last few months. But I realize that tonight I do want to enjoy myself. I feel like I’ve been treading water since the day my dad died. It’d be nice to actually enjoy the swim for once.

My gaze drops to our joined hands. I try not to picture a different hand in mine, on a colder night. I want to solely live in this moment without sparing a thought for the past or future, even if only for a moment.

“Yeah. Yes.” I look up at her, catching the sunrise of her smile just as it breaks across her face. “Do you like beer?”

She gathers her dress in her other hand, which exposes her feet in those tall, tall heels. A shiver runs down my spine.

“I like anything,” she says. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Fifteen

Delilah

A wave of heat courses through my body, ripping me from a dream where I’m submerged in dark, swirling water. I can still sense it as I toss and turn, stumbling my way to awareness. The feeling of the cool water pressing in on me, filling my throat so I can’t even speak. Through the glassy surface, I can just make out Truett. His arm is outstretched, but I shake my head at him, moving like molasses in the quick current. I know this river as well as my own heartbeat. I’ve been swimming in it my whole life. Why would I need his help?

My eyelids peel apart with great effort. I blink blearily into the darkness of my room. No sliver of sunlight peeks through the crack in my curtains. I’m still below the surface, I think for a moment, panic squeezing my lungs. I sit up in bed, hands searching the blankets. For what? I don’t know. Awareness comes on the tail end of another wave of heat, this time culminating in the pit of my stomach. Saliva floods my mouth. The realization hits me just in time, and I jolt out of bed.

I’m going to be sick.

I fling open the bathroom door, hand clasped over my mouth like that could save me, and kick it shut behind me. In the dim glow of the night-light, I can just make out the way to the toilet. I collapse at its base and heave. There’s barely enough time for my hand to move out of the way and grip the seat before I’m vomiting. Bile burns my throat. Tears spill down my cheeks. Quick, sharp breaths are all I can manage between wave after wave of nausea. By the time my abdomen stops clenching, I’m utterly exhausted and my head is spinning. I fumble for the handle and flush away the contents of my stomach, then collapse onto the cool tile floor.

The cold stings the heated flesh on my cheeks and forehead at first, but as my body melts against it, it morphs into the sweet sensation of relief. I draw in a deep breath and hold it, then release it with a moan through pursed lips. I slap one clammy hand against my forehead. There’s no doubt in my mind I have a fever, but suddenly the medicine cabinet in our kitchen seems impossibly far. I resign myself to die here on the bathroom floor, because there’s no way I’m crawling the necessary fifteen feet to get Advil.

I want my dad, I realize with a muffled whimper. Thoughts that are quickly overrun with worrying about how, exactly, I’m meant to care for him in this state.

My eyelids flutter closed, the lashes sticky with tears. I let my mind wander back to that dark, swirling water. To Truett. This time I’m not afraid of drowning. I’m too desperate to cool down.

Somewhere, a door clatters shut. I’m able to ignore it for the most part. I slip back beneath the waves of consciousness. An immeasurable time passes before a voice drifts close. Footsteps pad down the hall. Distantly I’m aware that someone is knocking on a door. What door? Couldn’t tell you. All I know is that my body aches from head to toe. My throat is a desert. And I’m freezing cold.

“Delilah?”

Roberta’s voice breaks through the barricade of my fever, but only barely. I blink slowly, grateful that the only light in the bathroom is the night-light and a small sliver creeping through the gap beneath the door. This is by far the most dated room in the house, with a wrap of ivy wallpaper encircling the top of the ceiling that reminds me distinctly of an Olive Garden dining room. I trace the vines slowly with my gaze, hoping if I can focus on something for a moment, it’ll quell the nausea stirring in my stomach.

Footsteps thud against the hardwood in the hall, making their way back toward the bathroom from what I assume was my bedroom door. A shadow stills outside; then the doorknob rattles. When she realizes it’s unlocked, Roberta calls, “Delilah? Are you in there?”

I moan something unintelligible, but it must be close enough to, “Come in,” because she does.

She’s backlit by early morning light that leaves her features shrouded in shadow. I can only make out the haze of her silver-streaked hair, the silhouette of her frame, before my eyelids drift closed again.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

I hear shoes hit the tile floor, then a cool hand sweeps over my forehead. It reminds me of my mother on mornings when Dad had already gone to work and I was home, sick as a dog from the latest virus scourging my classroom. She’d do the same move, smooth knuckles brushing the sticky skin of my temples, then call my dad to beg him to come home.

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