Page 7 of The Cost of Forgetting You

I stumble backward. Kyle reaches for my elbow, but I skirt his grasp. “What is going on?”

Kyle’s eyes, already brown as the mud beneath my boots, darken. “Don’t act like you aren’t easy, Delilah. The apple can’t fall that far from the tree.”

Laughter. More shouts, calls for him to give it to me. Give what to me, I don’t know, but I’m not sticking around to find out.

I shove through the line of my classmates, kids I’ve known since kindergarten. On the other side, I’m met with the rest of the party attendees. People who didn’t care enough to film but also didn’t care enough to stop it from happening.

Among them is Truett. He won’t even look in my direction. In fact, he turns his back on me and walks away, toward the wood line. Probably has to take a piss or something. Anything is more important than his best friend of, I don’t know, our entire lives?

The tears come, hot and prickly. I blink them away, determined not to add to my humiliation by letting these people see me cry. I take off toward the road, in the opposite direction of Tru. Through the mud and the tall grass I charge, ignoring the catcalls behind me. When I finally get to Dad’s car, which he let me borrow without so much as a question as to my destination, I kick out of my muck-covered shoes and toss them into the trunk.

I drive home barefoot, blinded by tears.

The benefit of a small town, I suppose, is that you could drive the roads blindfolded. Or sobbing your eyes out.

When I park in front of the house, there’s no movement inside. There hasn’t been movement for weeks. Not since the night when everything fell apart.

Now my parents just haunt opposite sides of the house, my dad silent and sulking and my mother hell-bent on letting us both know how badly he hurt her. No one’s there when I drop my boots by the front door, walk inside, and collapse onto the bench in the breakfast nook.

It’s always been my favorite place in the house. A three-sided bench seat situated just off the kitchen, surrounded by windows overlooking our yard and the Parkers’ pasture beyond it. The best view in the house, until now. Until my dad had to go and sleep with Truett’s mom, effectively ruining everything.

Footsteps on the hardwood draw my attention from the moonlit field. Mom shuffles to the fridge, removes a bottle of wine, and uncorks it. She doesn’t bother with a glass. I’m tempted to ask her for a swig. With the way things have been going lately, she’d probably hand it over.

But I don’t. Instead I clear my throat, startling her.

“Oh, Delilah”—she flattens a palm over her heart—“I didn’t know you were home.”

I run a finger along the familiar wood grain of the table. A table I’ve done all my homework at, eaten every dinner. Something that used to bring me comfort but now feels like another reminder of everything that’s been tainted. “Are you still planning on moving to Grandma and Grandpa’s?”

Her shoulders droop. Behind her, my baby pictures stare back at me from their place on the yellow-white fridge. They didn’t make it into the boxes she packed, I guess. The ones lining our living room wall, awaiting pickup on Tuesday by the moving truck my grandparents hired.

“Yes, it’s what’s best for me. With everything that’s happened, I can’t stay here.” She sits on the bench opposite me. The wine bottle rattles against the wood when she sets it down. “I know you don’t want to leave your dad.” Venom leaks into her voice. She takes a sip, like wine might wash it away. “But I really wish you’d come with me. He doesn’t need you like I do. Besides, you’d love Charleston. Lots more to do there.”

My hand, which was still tracing that grain, is swallowed by hers. Cold and damp from the perspiration on the bottle.

She catches my gaze, a smile slowly stretching her lips. “We’d have so much fun together.”

The old house groans as if in mourning. “I’ll come with you,” I whisper.

Her eyes go wide, alertness sparking in them for the first time in weeks. “You will? Oh, that’s fantastic.”

I expect her to hug me. To ask me why the change of heart, maybe. But instead she abandons me and her wine bottle, taking off for the study where my dad has been sleeping since he was caught cheating with Lucy Parker.

Of course she’d want to rub it in his face. I’ve just handed her something precious, and her first thought is to hone it into a weapon and hurl it at my dad.

The wine is bitter but better than warm, cheap beer. I take a swig and hope it washes away the fear that I’m making a mistake.

Kyle doesn’t recognize me. At least, from the way his gaze travels over me and then flickers away without so much as a reaction, I can assume he doesn’t. Why would he? After all, one of the worst nights of my life was probably just another Friday for him.

Fucking small towns. You can’t go anywhere without running into someone.

He walks past me without a word and climbs into the same red pickup truck he was driving in high school, where an older and softer version of Katelyn Phillips sits waiting for him. Her hand—lined with braided, multicolored bracelets—hangs out the window. She takes the bottle of Sprite he offers, the receipt it’s wrapped in crackling when she grabs it. He quickly deposits a wad of dip into his lower lip and starts the truck, reversing without another glance my way.

This place never changes.

Perhaps it’s why I thought I had more time. That I could leave and come back when I was finally ready, and like a time capsule, it’d all be sealed here, waiting for me. No dust. No aging.

No forgetting.

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