Page 61 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Hyphenated. Nice. I don’t recognize the name, so I ask, “Where’d you meet him?”

“College. I went to UWF,” she says, smiling softly. Alicia has always been smiley. When we became friends in kindergarten, it was because she was the only other kid who didn’t cry on the first day of school. I made friends with the teacher right away, since I’d always enjoyed the company of adults more than kids, so I wasn’t scared. Alicia is just a happy-go-lucky person, so she took it all in stride with a gap-toothed grin. We bonded to one another, content with our crayons and picture books, while our teacher handled everyone else.

I shift uncomfortably. Nothing could hold a candle to my friendship with Tru, but for most of my life, Alicia and I were incredibly close. We played volleyball together for years. We’d swap stories about our crushes (she’s the only person who ever knew mine was my lifelong best friend) and commiserate over period pains. When she iced me out after everything with my parents, it didn’t hurt quite as much as Tru, but it still created a gaping hole in my life.

“Delilah, listen?—”

“Where’s Dad’s stuff?” I interject, glancing over her shoulder. “Y’all told his caretaker you found some of his things.”

“Caretaker?” Her dark brows furrow. She looks like Snow White, with pale skin and a thick, black bob that’s grown out enough to dust her shoulders. Even her lips are bright red today, her makeup perfect despite the fact that from the looks of the classroom, she’s knee-deep in dust and debris from the renovations. “I guess I just assumed I was talking to a new wife or something. Is everything okay?”

I think about sugarcoating it, but my conversation with Truett left me wrung out. Seeing Alicia again is the cherry on top. I can’t come up with anything but the truth. “He has dementia.”

“What, like Alzheimer’s?”

“Frontotemporal dementia,” I say, my voice a thin monotone. “Different cause than Alzheimer’s. Similar result.”

Her red mouth forms a perfect little O of shock. “Isn’t he too young?”

I swallow hard, my gaze dropping to the floor. Does it ever get easier to say this all aloud? To make it real by making it known?

To my surprise, she drops the cleaning materials and steps forward, her arms wrapping around my shoulders as she pulls me in tight. She smells like vanilla body spray and paint. I stiffen beneath her touch. Alicia is smiley, and a hugger. It’s all so familiar and yet so very strange.

“I’m so sorry, Delilah.”

I force myself to reach around her and grab on. Lightly at first, and then I’m squeezing her so much tighter than I planned. Because I’m sorry, too.

She leans back, her hands locking on my biceps as our gazes meet. “I’m sorry for a lot more than that. After everything with your parents, and Tru’s mom?—”

“We really don’t have to talk about all that,” I mutter. I try to pull away, but her fingers dig into my skin. Not enough to hurt, but enough to hold me in place.

“We do.” She licks her lips and swallows. I briefly wonder what lipstick she’s wearing, because it doesn’t smudge. “You and your dad were like a second family to me. The number of days I spent in this classroom, soaking up any- and everything he could teach me? I’m sure my brain turned half to mush.” She shakes her head, her dark locks swaying gently. “I was seventeen and stupid, and I didn’t know how to handle everything when the news got out. My parents were freaking out about your family being a bad influence, people were filling my head with so much nonsense…”

She’s babbling, which she always did when she was nervous. I snort at the familiar trait, even as tears burn the backs of my eyes. “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

She slaps an open palm against her forehead. “Sorry.” Her chest expands with a deep breath, and a phantom smile tugs at her lips. “Do you know what’s so ironic? While I was away at college, my mom ended up having an affair with Jessica’s mom.” She shakes her head. “What’s that saying again about throwing stones in glass houses?”

“Jessica Mathias?” The bitch who made sure the entire school knew all the sordid details? “That’s fucking rich.”

Alicia huffs out a laugh. “Anyway, I should’ve reached out to you then and told you how sorry I was, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.” Her arms drop to her sides. “Really, I should’ve stood up for you in the first place. Like a real friend.”

The bridge of my nose burns. I blink against the sting of it, and when that’s not enough, pinch the source.

She’s watching me with her wide brown gaze. Waiting, I assume, for me to accept her apology. Only I don’t know if I want to, or how to do so even if I did. I made up my mind about all these people so many years ago. It’s disorienting to find so much wasn’t as it seemed.

I’m off-kilter, so out of my depth. With my dad. Truett. And now Alicia. I don’t know when, if ever, I’ll feel steady again.

“My dad’s stuff?” I mumble, folding my hands at my waist.

She nods, offering a somber smile. “Right. Come inside. I’ll grab it for you really quick.”

The classroom is in a state of disarray. All the posters with cheesy musical puns and various awards the band won during my dad’s time are gone from the walls and shelves. The doors to the instrument rooms are open, their cubbies bare. The only thing left is the baby grand piano, which I recognize from its shape alone under a protective drop cloth.

My dad’s proudest accomplishment was raising enough money to purchase that piano for the classroom. To teach kids on a “real piano” like he’d always dreamed of owning. It makes me think of the little keyboard in his home office, and my throat constricts. He used to talk about buying one for himself when he retired, a music-obsessed man’s version of a midlife crisis. The loss of that dream hits me hard in the chest. I look away from the instrument, past the stacks of chairs by the back door, to the glowing light coming from what used to be his office. Alicia appears in the doorway carrying a cardboard box.

“Let me get that!” Truett calls out from behind me. I turn in time to see him stride past. He relieves Alicia of the box with a grunt. “Man, what’d Henry do? Leave his whole life behind?”

His lips flatten the moment the words are out of his mouth. The room collectively holds its breath, waiting for my response. He did, I want to say. We all did.

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