Page 60 of The Cost of Forgetting You

His chin dips, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and reverent. It reminds me of his grandfather and the few sermons I watched him preach growing up before my mom put a stop to me going with the Parkers to Sunday service.

“People are starting businesses, building new homes, starting families every damn day. My mama lived and died here, and I stood by as they buried her on that hill behind my home. Things are always happening, Delilah. Life goes on here the same as it does in any big city. In Charleston. We’re just lucky enough to have a hell of a lot more time to slow down and notice.”

He’s right. And that fact lets the hot air right out of me.

My gaze drops to my hands, folded in the cradle of my lap. The truth is, I’ve spent the last nine years listening to my mom rant about everything that makes this town miserable. I’ve clung to those reasons desperately so I could forget all the reasons I grew up loving where I lived. So I’d never feel the need to return. But Tru’s laid them bare before me. There’s no hiding from it all. The simplicity. The slow pace. The way everyone knows about the big and small moments in each other’s lives. Much as it’s miserable when that moment is a shitty one, it’s pretty spectacular when it’s something you’re proud of.

I wasn’t like my friends or even my mom, always itching to get away. I would’ve stayed forever if circumstances had been different. It’s painful to remember that. It feels a lot like grief.

But circumstances are different, I remind myself. All the things that drove me away from here in the first place still exist, like an infection festering beneath the surface. It’s not lost on me that I’m back in a loud, growly truck with the same painfully tempting boy all these years later, on my way to a school I never thought I’d step foot in again.

Only he’s all man now. And I’m a woman who can still feel the buzz of his fingertips on her lips.

I clear my throat, breaking the fragile silence that has settled in the cab, save for the rush of vehicles flying past every few minutes.

“We better go,” I say, voice guarded. “Someone’ll think you’ve broken down and pull off to check.”

“You’re making my point for me,” he mutters, but he puts the truck in drive, sending us on our way.

Some things never change. In fact, in Fly Hollow, very few ever do. The school being a prime example.

The linoleum floor is still a dingy speckled white. The walls are comprised of cement blocks painted with layer after layer of a pale yellow color that makes the hall seem even more dated. As we follow the same ancient office secretary to the wing that houses electives—which, in a school this small, means band, choir, and shop class—my gaze traces over the years of graduating classes framed on the walls. I never got to be in one. The school I graduated from in South Carolina didn’t have that kind of tradition, with 400 students in a single year. I didn’t think that bothered me until we pass the one with all my classmates pictured, and I’m nowhere to be found.

“Alicia is right in here,” Mrs. Pierson croons. Her voice reminds me of wooden wind chimes, hollow but musical. At just shy of five feet tall, she’s a stereotypical grandmother. She wears her readers on a beaded chain. It’s possible that her cardigan was crocheted from a bunch of leftover doilies. Her lips are framed by deep wrinkles, and they quiver at the corners when she smiles like she is now.

“Thanks, Patty.” Truett leans over and kisses the top of her head. I swear the woman blushes.

“Anytime, handsome.” Her birdlike gaze dances between the two of us. “Always did think you two would make the cutest couple someday.”

I hold up a hand. “Oh no, we’re not?—”

“Delilah!”

The three of us turn. The heavy double door to my dad’s old classroom is propped open, and Alicia Busby stands in the threshold, rag in one hand and bottle of cleaner in the other. Her gaze is locked on me.

“Alicia,” I manage to choke out. “What are you doing here?”

Her smile wavers. Mrs. Pierson and Truett exchange a glance.

“Alicia is the new music teacher,” Mrs. Pierson offers. “John Davis, the man who took over after your dad…” Mrs. Pierson’s expression turns sheepish. “He retired this year. Passed Alicia the gauntlet. Isn’t that so special? I remember the two of you girls huddled close in these halls giggling like fools as though it was yesterday.”

Alicia’s hand crosses over her waist to cup her elbow. “Well,” she says, ignoring Mrs. Pierson’s last comment, “this fall I will be. Gotta get the room fixed up first.”

“Small world!” Truett swings an arm around Mrs. Pierson’s shoulders and smiles down at her. “Patty, why don’t I walk you back to the office while these two catch up?”

Her excited, “I’d love that!” drowns out my attempts at protesting.

“Be back shortly, Delilah.” Truett’s gaze is hard as it locks with mine, like a warning. Or a plea. “Alicia.” He nods at her, that tuft of hair bobbing on his forehead, then turns with Mrs. Pierson still in his arms. They walk down the hallway attached at the hip, like those couples that annoyed me in high school. Only much slower.

“Now, when are you coming back to mow my lawn, boy?” is the last thing I hear before they turn the corner.

I scoff. “Whose lawn doesn’t he mow?”

“Mine,” Alicia pipes up, raising one of her hands as my gaze returns to her. “Though my husband is very territorial about the yard, so it’s no surprise. Real lawn guy, that one.”

My eyebrows lift. “You’re married?”

She flips that raised hand around, the cleaning cloth now tucked between her thumb and forefinger, to show me her sparkling oval-cut ring. “Mrs. Alicia Busby-Hughes at your service.”

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