Page 66 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“Not weird,” I rasp, overcome with an emotion too painful to name.

It’s so familiar. There’s the pantry that Tru and I would raid after school when his mom pretended not to look. The barstools are the same, solid wood and painted white one summer day when Lucy had had it with all the dark wood in the kitchen. Now the cabinets, once a deep cherry, are painted white, too. I can’t help but smile. “Did you do the cabinets before your mom…”

I can’t bring myself to say it, and from the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, I think he appreciates it.

“No. I wish I had, though.”

“She’d love it.”

He smiles softly. Runs a hand over the closest drawer. “Yeah, I think so, too.”

“When did you get so handy?” I cross my legs. A question that’s been bubbling below the surface overflows. “Did your dad help you?”

I know his dad left, but I’ve wondered if he ever returned. Though, guessing by the look on Tru’s face, I’d say that’s a Hell no.

Tru’s gaze turns to stone. He bites at a barely healed notch in his lip and grunts in response. My stomach sinks to the floor.

“You were right, you know.” My voice quiets. Though I know it needs to be said, it doesn’t make it any easier. His eyebrow lifts, inviting me to explain. So I do. “It happened to you, too. Your parents’ marriage—your life—imploded right alongside mine. I’m sorry I wasn’t more sensitive to that.”

A guttural sound rips from his throat. He shakes his head. “No, you were right. It was different for me, Delilah. And I forget sometimes that the best thing that ever happened to me was the worst thing that happened to you.”

I balk. Surely I misheard him. “What do you mean, the best thing?”

He strides around to my side of the island and straddles the stool beside mine. Our knees brush. His are covered by blue jeans, mine grass clippings, making the sensation muted yet familiar. Intimate in a way that shouldn’t feel so good.

“My dad was… How do I put this?” He picks at a cuticle, gaze trained on the half-moon of his nail bed. “He was a piece of shit, Delilah. Self-righteous as all hell. You know that much. I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand just how awful because Mom was too careful to hide the worst of it from me, but he was so angry all the time. And when he wasn’t taking that anger out on the animals, he was taking it out on Mom.”

I cover his hand with my own. He doesn’t look up.

“And when I got big enough, I tried to take her place as best I could.”

My lungs are suddenly impossibly tight. “I’m so sorry, Truett. I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t.” He sighs softly, the sound damp with unshed tears. “You were my bright spot. I didn’t like to bring the clouds out when you were around.”

Tears burn my eyes, and they pool in Truett’s. He blinks. Glances up at the ceiling. Anything to keep them at bay.

“Sorry, I don’t know why it still gets to me like that.”

Rage stirs in my gut, but I force myself not to give it the reins. What good would my anger do him now? What he needed was protection that I couldn’t give him, and that’s a truth that’s harder to swallow than any emotion. Our hands pulse against one another, each of us trying to comfort the other. When I finally find my voice, it’s laden with sorrow. “Do you ever hear from him? Your dad?”

“No. If there’s one thing Waylon Parker can’t stand, it’s damaged pride. When everything came out about Mom and Henry, he took off. Last I heard he was out in Arizona with a newer, younger wife. Grandpa shared that particular piece of news before he stopped talking to me, too. Good riddance, honestly. To both of them.” Pity flashes in his gaze. “I think a lot about her. The new wife. Wonder if she’s safe. If she has anybody who looks out for her.”

I savor the warmth of his touch. A reminder that he’s here. That he’s safe. “Like you did for your mom?”

“Not me.” He shakes his head gently, measuring my reaction. “Henry.”

My brow knits together. “What do you mean?”

He releases my hand but trades it for my knee, squeezing it tight. His knuckles are dirty, but so is my leg. We match in that way. “I don’t think Mom ever would’ve had the courage to leave my father. What happened with Henry…it’s the only thing that saved her. Being loved like that gave her hope.”

Love. It was there, in my dad’s tearful confession that night. But still some part of me couldn’t believe it. Refused to. “You think it was more than an affair? You really think they loved each other?”

He raises his brows, his forehead crumpling slightly. “Why don’t you ask your dad?”

“Do you think he’d remember?”

An echo of a smile flits across his face. He’s watching me so intently that I forget to breathe as I wait for his response. The edge of the barstool digs into my ass. I’ve moved close, literally to the edge of my seat, to hear what Truett thinks of this mess that is our lives.

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