Page 58 of The Cost of Forgetting You

At least the bruises beneath my eyes are mostly gone. My skin looks healthy again, no longer tinged with a sickly green. I sweep my mussed waves into a ponytail while pushing away the memory of Truett’s hands doing the same. My scalp tingles at the thought of his fingers in my hair. Like I can still feel it two days later.

What a ridiculous thing to come undone over. But I sense it, somewhere in the tight knot of my heart. A loose thread. An unraveling.

“Delilah?” Three raps follow my name.

I break eye contact with myself. “Yeah, Roberta?”

My door cracks, whining on its hinges. Her hair is pinned back today, leaving her face bright and exposed. Her brown eyes are crinkled at the corners, a half smile playing on her lips. “What are you getting up to today?”

The sound of a nursery rhyme played on the keyboard spills in from the hall. It’s echoed by a choppier rendition. Caleb, the little boy I first met the weekend I arrived, is here for another lesson. I wince at a particularly harsh note. Roberta’s lips close around a choked-off giggle.

“I thought about taking Dad for a walk by the river.” I turn away from her. If we keep making eye contact, I’m going to burst into laughter. I’m not trying to crush the boy’s ego. “You know, once the maestro is done with his lesson.”

A sound not unlike what would happen if one pressed every single key at once assaults our ears. My bottom lip quivers as I try to smooth ChapStick on. Roberta snorts but covers it up with a cough.

“Is his mother here?” The memory of her overwhelming questions last time is enough to send a spark of discomfort down my spine. I’ll grin and bear it if I have to. But if I can avoid it, I will.

“Nope,” Roberta says, popping the p. “Said she had errands to run.”

The sigh of relief is involuntary. Roberta offers an understanding smile in response.

“That’s great, Charlie!” Dad’s voice drifts across the hall. “Love your enthusiasm!”

“It’s Caleb,” a small voice replies.

“Your father is overwhelmingly positive,” Roberta muses.

I glance at her reflection in my mirror. I nearly smudge my mascara across my eyebrow when I see how tightly pinched her face is in an effort to contain her laughter.

I bite the corner of my bottom lip. “Always has been. I once served the ball into the bleachers in my early days of volleyball practice, and he stood up cheering like it was the best play he’d ever seen.”

We both raise our eyebrows as something close enough to “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” follows a brief pep talk from my dad.

Our gazes meet and I shrug. “Positive reinforcement. It works wonders.”

“I knew it did.” She smiles warmly, sweeping a hand in my direction. “Look how you turned out.”

My lungs squeeze, choking off my breath. I glance at her over my shoulder and put on my best smile, though inside it feels like she’s carved out a piece of my soul with an ice cream scoop. “Thanks, Roberta.”

“Anytime, sweet pea.” She winks.

I roll my eyes, that tightness releasing enough for a quick intake of breath. “Did you need something?”

“Yes, actually. The school called.”

I turn and rest my hip against the vanity. “The music school?”

She shakes her head. “Nope, the school school. They’re renovating the band and choir classrooms this summer and found some things of your dad’s they thought he might want.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I snap it closed.

Why does even the mention of that place fill me with so much anxiety? I’m a grown woman, so far removed from the girl I was in high school. The girl who walked those halls with her head hung low, listening to the hateful things people who’d known her for her entire life had to say about her family. About her. It shouldn’t hurt like this anymore. It shouldn’t matter.

I patched up that wound with the sutures of a few states’ distance. So why does it still ache?

“Truett said he’d go if you don’t feel up to it,” she offers.

I work to keep my expression neutral, but inside a fault line forms. Do I want to step foot in that hellhole? No. But do I want to let Truett take care of one more thing that is supposed to be my responsibility? Absolutely not.

---