Page 82 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Lucy laughs. “Wow, you don’t beat around the bush. Yes, I have a son. He’s playing on the hill if you’d like to join him. His name’s Truett.”

Delilah nods. “Thank you. Nice to meet you!”

“It’s wonderful to meet you, too.” Lucy pinches her shoulder playfully, then sends her on her way.

I watch her go, my throat suddenly thick with all these words I shouldn’t say. Couldn’t say.

Kimberly and I may have our problems, but that life I want Delilah to have? It involves two parents who love her. Who stay. I won’t do anything to jeopardize that.

“She’s a cutie,” Lucy says, breaking the quiet that’s settled between us. “How old is she now?”

“Five.”

“Truett, too.”

I glance back at her and try to ignore the way motherhood has softened her features, her curves. I’d heard they had a kid. It’s one thing to avoid crossing paths, but avoiding news of her altogether? Impossible in a town like this.

Still, I hadn’t realized his age. How close it was to Delilah’s. “Really?”

A blush floods her high cheekbones. “Yep. We got married that fall after you and Kimberly, and he was born nine months later. To the day, almost.”

A half smile tugs at my suddenly chapped lips. “I wasn’t questioning your virtue, Lucy. I just didn’t realize y’all had a baby so soon after us.”

“I know, I just…” She bites her full bottom lip, tilting her head as she gazes up at me, then shakes her head. “Never mind. How are you? How’s Kimberly?”

“I’m good; she’s good.” I glance at the ground, nudging a clump of dirt with my toe. Lying to Lucy doesn’t feel right. It sits on me like an itchy sweater. And why should I? She’s the one person I’ve always been able to tell the truth to. “Things have been hard lately. Mom has been having some health issues, and it’s getting to the point where it’s a bit too much for us to handle at home.”

Fingertips brush my forearm, drawing my attention upward. Her touch drops to my hand, where she squeezes once, tightly, then lets me go. “I’m really sorry. Anything we can do to help? As your new neighbors?”

“Did I hear someone say neighbors?”

My skin crawls as Waylon’s voice registers. He rounds the back end of the trailer, and Lucy takes a measured step back, putting distance between us. His arm settles on her narrow shoulders, locking in tightly with a squeeze.

“Hi, Waylon.” I nod at him and offer my hand. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

He clasps my hand and shakes it, jerking his chin in the direction of my house. “That you and the missus down there?”

“Yes, sir. And our little girl.” I point toward the two kids who are gearing up for another log roll down the hill. “Delilah.”

When I look back, Waylon’s shaking his head. “Well, let’s hope she’s nicer to Truett than her namesake was to Samson.”

Lucy squeezes her eyes shut. When they reopen, there’s an unspoken apology there. I wish she’d say it out loud. But I don’t get the vibe that Waylon is the type to take kindly to criticism, and I’m not trying to make her life harder than it needs to be.

“I’m sure any boy of yours can take it,” I say, voice flat.

His gaze hardens, while his smile remains perfectly lazy. “So what are you doing now, Henry?”

“Something with music, I hope,” Lucy adds. It’s meant to be a peace offering, but it lands more like a physical blow.

I shake my head. “Nope, I’m at the factory still. Had to put that dream to rest in light of the circumstances.”

Said circumstances come barreling toward us, dirt smudging her cheeks and eyes bright with laughter. Truett follows closely behind, giggling like a madman. He has his mother’s gray eyes and blond hair, slightly darker but still golden. His dad is there in the cut of his features but not in his laugh. It’s all music. All Lucy.

He grins up at his parents, mischief clear in his gaze. “Can Delilah stay for dinner?”

“Not tonight, bud. We’re still getting unpacked, and I’ve gotta get Grandpa’s truck back to him by this evening.” Waylon drops his arm from Lucy’s shoulders, and I swear I hear a sigh of relief. He sweeps that arm out toward the expanse of land between our houses and adds, “We’re starting a farm. I’m gonna raise Angus on this land. Get it back to its former glory.”

I follow the motion with my gaze, tracing the fields I’ve memorized at this point after all the years I’ve spent staring at them out my kitchen window. “They look pretty glorious to me.”

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