Page 91 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Something that never would’ve happened if I hadn’t left the keys out in the first place. Or gone off to rescue a mother who didn’t need saving, my mind whispers.

Anger returns, this time mixed with a heavy dose of shame. It burns so hot that it feels like it’s going to erupt into a boil. I cycle through the emotions: relief, overwhelm, nausea, disbelief. No matter what, I keep coming back to anger. It trembles in my limbs. My face is scorched with it. I force myself to breathe deeply, evenly, but I’m losing my grip on even that. I want to scream into these silent woods. I want to shake my mother for being so selfish. I want to drown in the ocean of my responsibilities, if only to be relieved from them for a moment.

Footsteps approach behind us. Dad rises from the bench and turns, but I can’t. The best I can manage is a glance backward.

“Delilah?” Truett says.

I barely see him through the haze. My vision is seared white and so hot. I press my eyes closed, desperate to escape this feeling that claws at my throat. I never lose control like this. Never. And I’m not about to start now.

“Henry, we were really worried about you. Chief Davidson with the local fire department is driving Roberta up here, and she’s gonna take you home in Delilah’s car. They might wanna check you over when you get there.”

“I didn’t go far,” Dad mutters, confused.

“I know that.” Truett looms over me now. He’s so close I swallow a breath of his sunshine scent like water, desperate to wash away this burning anger. This residual fear. “You just forgot to let Roberta know where you were headed.”

Dad sighs. “Did I?”

Truett claps his shoulder. “Yeah, you did. It’s okay. Happens to the best of us.”

I chance a peek and find my dad staring at Truett incredulously. Like he knows he’s being placated. It’s the same look I get when I remind him to eat something other than vanilla bean ice cream for lunch.

Tires crunch over fallen leaves, announcing their arrival. I push off of the stone bench, its grainy surface biting my palms, and sway for a moment before catching my balance. Dad is halfway to the exit by the time I circle the bench and follow in his footsteps.

A hand clamps down on my hip, stilling me midstep. “No, you don’t.” Tru uses his grip to turn me toward him. “Roberta’s got your dad. You and I are gonna stay here for a sec.”

My eyes flare. That flame in my chest burns brighter, hotter. More indignant. “No, we aren’t. I’m going home with my dad.”

“Delilah.” His voice is low. “Just stay here. Please.”

I don’t know why I listen. Probably because my legs no longer feel connected to my body, or because the canopy overhead is spinning. Not because I want to. Certainly not because I have to.

I’m losing my grip, and it’s agony. I want to be the one escorting my dad to Roberta’s side. Closing the door behind them. Watching them till they’re driving safely toward home. But instead I’m standing here, tempted to vomit or scream until my lungs give out. I want to run, but my legs won’t comply.

“Delilah, talk to me. What’s going through your mind right now?”

He’s here. Right in front of me. I try to lock on to Tru’s gray eyes, or the smattering of freckles on the strong bridge of his nose. But it’s all out of reach. All lost on the other side of too many emotions I don’t want to feel. My face heats. “Nothing, I?—”

“You’re mad. I can see it in your face. It’s okay; just talk to me. You’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

“I’m not mad.” I shake my head. My hands curl into fists. “Just…”

“Just what? Just upset? Just disappointed? No, Delilah, I don’t buy that. You are mad. And you have every right to be. You don’t get any awards for having superhuman patience. Let it out. Be mad. I’ve got you.”

My gaze finally finds him. I stumble back, desperate for space. For air. For logic and reason and the safety of having things under control, but it won’t come. It slips through my fingertips, slicing my palms as it goes. I’m trembling from head to toe. Suddenly everything I’ve forced down comes rushing up. The fear for my dad. The horror at my mother. The abandonment from Tru. The fucking anger.

“Okay. I’m mad, Truett. I’m fucking pissed. Is that what you want to hear?” I throw my hands up. “What good does it do? It doesn’t fix anything to be angry.”

He’s still in the wake of my admission. His face is calm. Carefully blank. “What are you mad about?”

“Are you insane?” I scream. Birds startle and take off, abandoning the branches overhead in a flurry of wingbeats and rustling leaves. “What do you think I’m mad about?”

“Oh, I’m fairly certain I know what you’re angry over. But you’ve got to face it, Delilah. You’ve got to give it a name. It’s the only way you’ll ever be free of it.”

He steps closer. We’re near the gate now, so I stagger through it, putting more and more space between me and Truett. Between me and Lucy’s headstone. Between me and all the brokenness in my life that I’m helpless to fix.

“Let it out. Scream some more. But don’t keep forcing it out of sight, thinking you can avoid it.” He follows me through the gate, grabs my shoulders, and holds me steady. “You cannot outrun it. So go on. Tell me who you’re mad at.”

It bursts like a dam in my chest. All that heartbreak, all that hurt. It roars to life inside me, swirling and stoking the anger higher and higher, until it’s a fever pitch scalding my lungs. My throat. Ripping its way out of me just to get some semblance of relief.

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