Page 10 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Things are getting worse. Not better.

He studies me as this information takes hold, searching my face for a reaction. Whatever he finds, his expression softens. “He’s still himself, aside from the occasional outburst when he’s having a bad day. But he gets confused with things like showering and cooking. Remembering certain words can be hard for him. I try to help out as much as I can but have to work during the day, so Roberta seemed like the logical next step. She’ll come for five hours a few days a week.”

I don’t know what to say. How to ingest all that at once. So I choose silence instead, reaching for the latch of the trunk to busy my trembling hands.

Tru rests his hip against the side of the car. A muscle in his jaw ticks when he sees my large suitcase and laptop bag. “How long are you planning on staying?”

I pause, hands resting on top of my luggage. How long am I staying? The truth is, I have no clue. I didn’t even know how I’d feel when I saw Dad until he opened the door, let alone if I’d be welcomed across the threshold. There are so many feelings, good and bad and in between, swirling around in my gut. All I know is that Dad is sick, and it’s my job to take care of him. Not some stranger Truett hired, and not Truett. Me. Considering how I feel about any of it is a luxury time didn’t afford.

Hooking my hands through the loops of the suitcase, I drag it from the trunk and deposit it against Truett’s chest. “As long as I’m needed. You can call off the nurse. And you don’t need to stop by anymore to check on him. I’ve got it from here.”

He scoffs and drops my suitcase in the dirt.

“Hey—”

“With all due respect, Delilah,” he interjects, “you have no idea what he needs.”

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. “I know he needs help. That’s why I’m here.”

Truett steps around my discarded luggage till he’s so close I can smell the same mixture of sweat and fresh air that always coated his skin after a long day working the farm. “He may seem fine because you’ve only said five words to him, but trust me when I tell you it’s already hard. It’s only going to get worse. You won’t be able to do it on your own. So let Roberta help. Let me help.”

Rich, considering how much he helped me when everything fell apart. Which is to say, not at all.

Doesn’t he know I’ve only ever had myself to depend on? Even when I thought I could count on him, he proved me wrong.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of handling.” What I’ve been handling since the day we left. If I can manage my mom, Dad will be a walk in the park. “You’ve done enough, Truett. Thanks for everything, but I’m here now. Just leave us be.”

The slam of the trunk echoes through the trees. Somewhere a hawk screeches, offended by the disturbance. I move to go around Tru and retrieve my suitcase, but he blocks my path.

“Can you move.” It’s not a question.

“You haven’t been here.” He jabs a finger in my direction, nearly touching me before he apparently thinks better of it. Still, I sense the heat of his hand hovering a few inches from my collarbone. “I have. You stayed away all these years.”

“He wasn’t exactly beating down my door, either.”

“Because you told him not to!”

The fact that he knows this, that my dad told him about the letter—or worse, let him read it—hits me like a blow to the chest, that private, aching piece of my story now everyone’s business to discuss and judge me over.

What else is new?

I glare up at Truett. His jaw is taut; I swear he’s grinding his teeth. His lips—normally a soft, perfect pout—are pinched in frustration. Everything about him is hardened, accusatory.

Except his eyes. Those are wide, desperate for an explanation. Realizing this, I step backward. Put a foot and then another between us.

He doesn’t get to look at me like that. Like I hurt him by staying away. Not when he did it first.

“Our relationship”—I gesture between myself and the doorway, where Dad is no longer visible—“is none of your concern. I will handle this like I’ve handled everything else—on my own. You made sure of that.”

This time when I step around him, he doesn’t move. I lift my luggage with an embarrassing hmph, laptop bag tucked under my armpit, and start walking.

“Delilah, wai?—”

“Goodbye, Truett.”

I don’t look back, and he doesn’t make another move to stop me. Instead I hear a door open, and then the truck engine rumbles to life. It slowly grows quieter as he drives down the long dirt road that leads to the Parkers’ farmhouse. Eventually I can’t hear it at all.

I suck in a breath as I step onto the porch. In my mind, brick after solid brick goes up around thoughts of Truett and everything that he said. I need control if I’m going to get through this. If we’re going to get through this, I think as I step through the doorway.

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