Page 67 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“I don’t think he could forget.”

There’s something in his tone, in the glint of his gray-blue eyes, that makes me ask, “Tru, what do you know about our parents that I don’t?”

He sighs. “It’s not my story to tell.”

“But isn’t it mine to know?”

“No.” Truett moves closer until our legs are interlocked. “It’s theirs. We have our own story to worry about.”

I remember the glass I abandoned on the table and grab it, taking a sip of water to quench the desert that is my throat. When did it get so hot in here? And why can’t I fucking breathe?

I can feel him along every inch of my overheated thighs, and I don’t hate it. My gaze meets his like I’m seeing him for the first time instead of the millionth. For a moment I let myself imagine what it’d be like if we’d never grown up together. If I hadn’t loved him since I was old enough to give that feeling a name. What if we were just two strangers who met in a bar? What if he asked me to dance, then bought me a drink and we sat on a pair of barstools like the ones here in his kitchen, but we were a hundred miles away from the place so deeply tied to our grief? What happens then, between two people who look at each other the way he’s looking at me now?

Like I’m remarkable, when I’ve always been anything but.

“Delilah,” he breathes, and that breath washes over my lips, which part like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.

And perhaps it is. Wanting Truett has always felt as right as breathing, and equally necessary.

“What are you doing?” I murmur.

A smile touches those eyes, the palest shade of blue. My favorite one. “Oh come on, Temptress. Surely you remember what I look like when I’m about to kiss you?”

He leans in and our noses brush. My stomach hollows out. He’s wrong. I don’t remember. When he asked to practice kissing beneath the shade of that willow tree, I watched him coming, sure. But in the aftermath? When everything I knew shattered into a million pieces? I forced the memory of that moment into the recesses of my mind, determined to forget how it felt to be wanted by Truett, even for a moment.

Even for practice.

His hand cups my jaw. “Beautiful,” he whispers, his lips featherlight against mine.

The front door slams against the wall as it swings open. “Boss?” Ollie asks as he steps into the room. “The bull got out again. He’s in with the ladies— Oh, shit. Sorry.”

We break apart, scrambling to our feet as the barstools clamber to balance themselves out. Truett smooths a hand through his hair. “I’ll be there in a second, man.”

Ollie nods. “Right. Meet you there.” His gaze cuts to mine. “Sorry again.”

As the door shuts behind him and Truett turns back to me, I feel my spine go rigid. What on earth was I about to do? I almost opened the biggest can of worms with the one person who’s as entrenched in my dad’s care as I am, save for Roberta. So we kiss, then what? What happens when everything implodes between us, and then Dad refuses anyone’s help but Truett’s again? What happens when Truett decides things have gotten too hard and he ices me out all over again?

How the fuck could I be so stupid?

“Th-that should not have happened.”

I move for the door, but Truett cuts me off. His hand cups my bare elbow, sending a shiver straight to my core that I hope he misses. I can’t look at him to check. Can’t meet his gaze after everything that I know. Words he said but couldn’t possibly mean.

I flinch away from his touch, and his arm drops. He pops his lips, and against my better judgment, my gaze flits to them.

His jaw flexes. Those eyes, which were so bright a moment ago, are swallowed by blown pupils. Lust. Desperation, I reason. I’m the closest thing to a fresh face he’s gotten in this town in God knows how long. Nothing more.

Nothing like what I felt for him back then. What I still feel for him, despite everything. I curse myself silently for having aged nine years but learned nothing at all.

“Well, I’ll be.” Truett tuts, gaze full of regret. “Delilah Ridgefield does make mistakes.”

I blink back a fresh wave of tears and skirt past him. He doesn’t know how right he is, and I’m not about to tell him. My hand hits the brass doorknob just as his lands on my waist. I pause, only for a moment, and soak in the feeling before turning out of his touch.

He catches the door when it swings open. I feel small compared to him—not belittled but protected. And it’s such a dangerous feeling. Depending on other people. It never works out well in the end.

He leans in so close that his lips brush my ear, sending a shiver down my neck. “You know, it’s okay to want things just for yourself.”

No, it’s not, I want to say. Everything I’ve ever allowed myself to want has ended up hurting me in the end. First Lucy, then him. Even my dad is being taken from me now. Can’t he see that? Doesn’t he get it?

---