Page 6 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“I asked how things are going,” his friend Noah clarifies. Noah’s the quarterback and the basketball captain and class president all in one. Perks of a small school and outgoing personality, I guess.

“You know,” Kyle adds, glancing down at me, “with your parents.”

I shrug, not really interested in this line of questioning. “Hell if I know.”

“That’s so wild Mrs. Parker and your dad fucked at school. The man’s got balls; that’s for sure!” Noah howls with laughter.

Their other friend, Asher, slaps his shoulder. “That’s what Mrs. Parker said.”

Noah’s laughing too hard to respond.

I, on the other hand, bristle. “Dad said they didn’t have sex.”

I don’t know if I believe him. Mom certainly doesn’t. But it feels wrong to let these idiots shit talk him in front of me without even trying to come to his defense.

The look everyone gives me screams, Oh, you sweet, summer child.

I huff a breath, clouding the night air with vapor. “I’m getting a drink,” I mutter. But when I try to slip away from Kyle’s embrace, he simply walks with me toward the tailgate where lukewarm beer lies in wait, never releasing his hold from my waist.

It’s something couples at school do all the time, which drives me absolutely nuts. No amount of infatuation justifies needing to be literally attached at the hip, taking up all the space in the hallway.

My mind, and my gaze, flash to Truett. Even from this distance, I can see exactly what his eyes are locked on.

Kyle’s hand. On my waist.

“Sorry about those guys,” Kyle says as he passes me a can of Natural Light. “They don’t have a lot of couth.”

I try not to show my surprise that he even knows the meaning of the word couth. My eyebrows shoot up anyway.

“It’s whatever.” I do my best to sound unaffected. The slight warble in my tone would give me away, but Kyle’s staring at my chest. The chances he heard, or cared even if he did, are minimal. Not when he’s practically salivating.

V-neck saves the day. Who knew?

He finally tears his gaze away from what, if I’m honest, is barely a B-cup on a good day. “How come you’re never at these parties?”

Because I’m not usually invited. Because even if I were, I have volleyball practice to fill most nights and, lately, Mom’s tantrums to fill the others. Because I’m newly motivated to study hard to get into a great college so I can leave this place, and my parents’ issues, behind.

The reasons threaten to roll off my tongue. Luckily I’m well-trained in the art of biting it.

I shrug. “I’m usually busy.”

In one smooth motion, he plucks the beer I’ve barely taken two sips of from my hand, deposits it on the tailgate, and folds me into him so we’re chest to chest. The sour scent of beer breath mixes with his Axe cologne, hitting me in the back of the throat.

“I’m glad you weren’t too busy for me tonight.” His lips curl in a half smile, stretching like a lazy cat. “I’ve got the most beautiful date here.”

I’m not blind. I’ve seen my competition. Emily and Katelyn are both bombshell brunettes who lost all their childhood chub in middle school and never gained an ounce back. Every other girl at this party has a million traits I could pick out as more desirable than the sum of mine. I know I’m not the most beautiful. Not by a mile.

But when he says it, some small part of me rises up from the depths and latches on to it. Believes in it with all she’s got.

I’ve only ever kissed Truett Parker. Kisses that were slow and sweet, secret and all the better for it. So when Kyle’s lips land on mine in a flurry of movement, when his tongue immediately demands access to my mouth, I’m unprepared. I’d stumble backward if he wasn’t holding me so tightly. His tongue darts from side to side, searching for God knows what. A courageous hand slips from my waist to my ass and pinches, eliciting a yelp that crashes into his lips and falls silent in the onslaught.

His other hand, which had been lazily stroking my cheek, slowly moves to my throat. Down, down, down, until his palm presses against my breast and squeezes. Hard.

“That’s enough,” I say against his mouth. Somehow I manage to fit my hands between us and flatten them against his chest, pushing him back. “What the fuck?”

“Aw, come on.” Kyle smirks and pats the tailgate beside him. “I know it’s not a piano, but I bet I can fuck better than your dad did.”

Hoots and hollers sound behind us. I jerk toward the sound, suddenly confronted with a row of people holding their phones up in our direction. Recording. They’re recording this.

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