Page 86 of The Cost of Forgetting You

His jaw tenses. He sucks in his bottom lip and bites down, rolling it beneath his teeth. I glance from him to Mr. Graves’s desk and back. The man is teaching chemistry with too much enthusiasm for eight o’clock in the morning. Everyone else is pretending to listen while fighting sleep. But not Truett. He studies me like I’m a problem on the board. Something to be solved—or at least endured, depending on your feelings about chemistry.

Please, I mouth.

He winces like he’s been struck. Those gray eyes harden. I’m watching him retreat right before my eyes, and he’s not even moving. Until he does, and I wish he hadn’t. Because with the subtle shake of his head, he breaks my heart in two.

I don’t bother going to class. One bonus of Dad’s overwhelming guilt is that he let me drive his car since he didn’t come to school today. I leave campus without a word. Instead of going home, I park at the river access point where Alicia and I go sometimes to swim in the summer. I give Truett one last chance. I text him my location and tell him I’ll wait for him. And I do. I wait for hours, till my stomach is hollow and the sun dips low in the sky. Till Mom has filled my phone with missed calls and texts complaining about being left alone in the house with Dad, and Dad has texted to make sure I’m okay, telling me to take all the time I need.

But not a single message from Tru. That day, or any of the days that follow. Not when Emily and Katelyn corner me in the hall the next day for details. Not when my dad resigns from his position. Not when an anonymous note appears in my locker, telling me all the disgusting things the person is going to do to me in the band room if they can catch me alone and force me in there.

So I agree when Kyle shows me an ounce of niceness by inviting me to the bonfire. It’s the first I’ve received since news of the affair broke out. And when even that turns out to be a lie, Truett doesn’t say a word. But this time, neither do I.

When the movers come, I climb into the car with Mom and let myself be driven away. I don’t look back. Not for nine years.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

I glance over at Truett. He’s traded his cowboy hat for a faded ball cap and his normal T-shirt for a loose-fitting flannel button-down. His eyes pick up the blue in it. And even though they’re sad, they’re beautiful.

I try to shake the residual memory. To think of anything else, but my brow furrows. “Why don’t you use that apple-scented laundry detergent anymore?”

His dimple pops as he fights to suppress a smile. “You remember what detergent I used to use?”

I snort half-heartedly. “Technically Lucy used to use it. I doubt you were doing your own laundry back then, Mama’s boy.”

“You’re right.” He shakes his head. “This mama’s boy stopped using it because he prefers easy-peasy Tide pods. No measuring involved.”

I roll my eyes. “There are literally lines marked in the lid to tell you the measurements.”

“You’re just mad because you miss the Apple Mumbo Jumbo.”

“Apple Mango Tango.”

“Apple Mambo Number Five?” He quirks a brow.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

This time he doesn’t fight the smile. It spreads over his face like dawn breaking. I force myself to turn away, to face the scenic view of palm trees mixed with tall pines that line the road leading to Pensacola’s airport. If I don’t look at him, it’ll be easier to remember why everything he said Saturday at the river shouldn’t matter.

I’ve been slipping in and out of the memory of those miserable days following the affair since early this morning, when we left Fly Hollow to head to the airport. Mom’s surgery is tomorrow, and I’m going to stay for a week while she recovers. She’s hoping it turns into more, no matter how many times I assure her it’s not. And true to his word, Truett showed up bright and early in his truck to shuttle me here. He and Roberta are going to trade off staying with Dad while I’m gone. The fact that I was able to pay her overtime with my quarterly bonus fills me with pride, and I focus on letting that emotion take priority. On pushing those lingering feelings of confusion over Truett even deeper into the recesses of my mind.

The drop-off lane is surprisingly empty for a Monday morning. Truett parks alongside the curb, but neither of us makes a move to get out.

He draws in a deep breath, and I force myself to look at him, praying my mask holds.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?”

I smirk. “You gonna hop on a flight to help me give Mom a bath?”

He sucks in his cheeks, then releases his lips with a pop. “Maybe just moral support then?”

“Got it.”

I gather my purse and reach for the handle. The midmorning heat rushes in when I open the door. It’s not so bad here, with the bay nearby to move the air around a bit. But it’s still Florida, and every breath feels like I’m inhaling a bucket of water.

Truett strides around the front of the truck and places a hand on my arm, stopping me from opening the back door to retrieve my bag. “I got it,” he says.

I step back, and he easily hoists my overstuffed suitcase onto the curb.

“Thanks, Tru. For this and the ride.”

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