Page 52 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Truett

You’re right. Stay awake. You already have an unfair advantage on everyone else in that department.

I lock the phone and flop onto my belly, smiling despite myself. That smile morphs into a yawn, my jaw popping and crackling as it overtakes me. Every muscle relaxes in its wake. All the feelings of inadequacy, of uncertainty where my dad is concerned, the questions about where I stand—or where I want to stand—with Truett, will have to wait. I’m too weak to reach for another sip of water, let alone to decipher why the moment I close my eyes, it’s Truett that I see. Shirtless in the river, water rippling over his abdomen, as crickets and frogs call out a lullaby that lulls me to sleep.

Chapter Sixteen

Delilah

Truett stays until almost two in the morning. I know this because he checks on me every couple hours, even going so far as to bring me homemade chicken noodle soup. I don’t lift my head when he places it on my bedside table—mostly because I apparently cannot trust myself around him while sick—but the moment I hear my door close, I draw it gingerly into my lap. Each sip is deliciously salty and calming in a way that only his mother’s recipe could be. I’d recognize it anywhere.

I lick the last drop that tries to escape down my chin, savoring it. Suddenly I’m second-guessing turning down Tru’s offer for dinner. It’s possible that I’m simply starving, but it’s the most delicious thing I’ve had since coming back to town. No offense to the Grille. Though after the day I’ve had, I’ll never look at their burgers the same.

By the time his face appears in the gap of my open door at one thirty in the morning, illuminated by the soft glow of my bedside lamp, I feel almost human again.

“Look who’s awake.” The line between his eyebrows fades. “You’ve got some color back.”

I rub the seam of my sleep shirt between pinched fingers. I changed when I got up to go to the bathroom a few hours ago, after enough liquid finally made it through my body to justify doing so. Truett and Dad were sitting together on the couch, talking in hushed voices while the light from the TV transformed their faces with every scene change. Neither glanced up, and after seeing my ghastly reflection in the mirror above the sink, I certainly didn’t want to draw Truett’s attention. I brushed my hair and teeth and washed my face, then slipped back down the hall as quietly as possible.

“Mostly thanks to you”—I point to the empty bowl—“and Lucy.”

A nostalgic smile tugs at the corners of his lips. When our eyes meet, his are lost in a memory. “She’d like that she’s still taking care of you. Even now.”

I swallow past the knot in my throat. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to do this. I could’ve handled it.”

“Really?” His eyebrow lifts. “Do we need to recap the bra incident?”

I scowl. “That is not to be spoken of outside these four walls. Do you understand?”

A breathy laugh escapes his quirked lips. He leans a shoulder against my doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps strain against the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Each swell and valley of his muscular arms is highlighted by the shadows my lamp casts. I tear my gaze away, but it’s too late. That smile is already a smirk by the time I make it back to his face.

“Well, since we’re allowed to talk about it here…”

My breath catches. Holds.

His finger jabs in the direction of my discarded bra. “Do you usually toss those things with such abandon at the end of the day?”

I groan, falling back into my propped-up stack of pillows. “You would too if you were chained up in one for hours.”

“You could always go without.”

Blond lashes flutter as his gaze dips to my chest. Only for a heartbeat. A millisecond, really. The responding clinch of my stomach is disproportionately strong. It’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid, and I’m desperate, apparently. My libido has lost all ability to be discerning.

I glance down at myself. My breasts are small but perky, their outline clear in my baby-blue top. My nipples strain for his attention. Any attention, I correct. I’m tired, worked up, and suddenly very acutely aware of my dry spell.

The blanket scrapes against my sensitive nipples as I drag it up, cutting them off from Truett’s view. I bite my resulting whimper off at the pass, teeth digging into my bottom lip. He sees that too, because of course he does.

He clears his throat, tearing me out of my mental war games. And not a moment too soon.

His broad hand swipes over his face. “Well, I better be going. The guys show up early, and someone’s gotta tell ’em what to do. Your dad is doing good. He’s just not tired after sleeping all day.”

“I can relate,” I mumble.

He cocks his head back. “He’s hanging out on the couch watching a movie. I’m sure he’d like some company if you’re up for it.”

Sympathy laces Truett’s every word. Our gazes hold as a silent message passes between us. He knows how badly it hurt me that Dad wanted his help instead of mine when he got confused. I suspect Tru even senses how useless it made me feel. What he can’t possibly understand is how much I need to be needed. If my parents can get help from someone else, what am I good for? If I’m not taking care of someone, what else do I have to offer?

“Get out of that pretty little head of yours for a second”—his chin dips, eyes darkening—“and go spend some time with your dad, okay?”

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