Page 84 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“You could be friends with his mom!” Delilah says. “What was her name, Daddy?”

“Lucy.” It comes out gargled, half choked on. I clear my throat. “Lucy and Waylon Parker bought the farm. They’ve got a boy about Delilah’s age.”

Kimberly stills. Her face is smooth, unreadable. “Of course they did.”

I shrug like, What can you do?

Kimberly shakes her head and turns away.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Delilah

I came to school because I didn’t want to face the hell that is being home with my parents right now. Between Mom spending every second berating my father to me, and Dad holing up in his office, I feel like a soldier conscripted to war. One where I don’t agree with either side fighting.

But school brings with it a different type of suffering. The kind I didn’t anticipate.

My shoes squeak against the polished linoleum. All around me, life ebbs and flows. Lockers slam and fluorescent bulbs buzz. Voices rise and fall over each other. It’s a normal Monday morning, for all of about two seconds.

A beefy arm locks around my shoulders. I glance up. Brody Chamberlain—the resident loudmouth jock I’ve known and detested since kindergarten—smiles down at me with a wicked grin. “Hey, Ridgefield, heard your dad and Mrs. Parker were making their own kind of music after the band concert Friday night.”

A few of his teammates form a huddle behind us. They erupt with laughter like this is the most original joke ever told. I shrug his arm off, scowling as best I can. “Leave me alone, Brody.”

His eyes flare. “So it is true?”

Any student within earshot falls silent. A good twenty pairs of eyes settle on me, making my skin crawl. My ears and throat heat. Bile hits the back of my tongue, and I turn, earning a collective “Ooooohhh” as I slip into the girls’ bathroom.

I slap open a stall door and kneel on the disgusting tile. As my meager breakfast of a boiled egg and some stale Cheerios splashes into the bowl, I contemplate whether the small squares that make up the floor were always brown or if our custodian is just that bad at mopping. Knowing Mr. Pugh, probably the latter.

I wipe my mouth with a wad of single-ply toilet paper, then flush it down the toilet alongside the contents of my stomach. My backpack thuds when it hits the floor. I lock the stall door, collapse onto the toilet, and rest my head in clammy palms. I don’t understand this new version of reality. My dad and Lucy? Of all people, why her? Why did it have to be Truett’s mom?

I unzip the front pocket on my backpack and retrieve my phone. No new messages. I click on Truett’s name, smiling despite myself at his contact photo. It’s a shot I took last summer right before he did a backflip off the riverbank. I called his name and he turned, bright smile flashing, the sun glinting off beads of water on his tan skin. I captured him like that, carefree and bright and looking at me with warm amusement in his eyes. It’s how I always saw him when I closed my eyes. That is, until Friday.

Friday, when we were lounging against the trunk of the willow tree and he told me about his upcoming date with Molly. He admitted he was nervous. That he’d never really kissed anyone beyond a peck during spin the bottle. Even that revelation sent jealousy spearing through my gut. But then he turned to me with a sheepish grin and said, “Will you practice with me?”

Now, when I close my eyes to block out the slew of unanswered messages I’ve sent him since Friday night, that’s the version of him I see. Gray-blue eyes glimmering with hope. Lips pocked with scars where he chews them too much. Nose splattered with freckles. He’s leaning close, a breath away, and I can smell the sunshine on his skin and the scent of his parents’ laundry detergent. Gain Apple Mango Tango. I begged Mom to get it after I smelled it on Truett the first time. Lucy even offered us a coupon. But Mom refused. She said it was too fruity.

I’m about to type out another message, thinking this might be the one to finally garner a response, when the door to the restroom opens. The noise from the hallway rushes in, then just as quickly disappears with the closing of the door. I hear bags slap against the counter. Through the crack in the stall door, I make out flashes of two girls standing at the sinks.

Emily and Katelyn pass a lip gloss between them. Their brunette waves are swept into messy buns, with small tendrils falling to frame their faces. Emily’s brown eyes go wide as she glances at Katelyn in the mirror. “Did you hear what happened with Mr. Ridgefield and Mrs. Parker?”

Katelyn shifts out of my line of sight. “No, what?”

“Jessica Mathias caught them having sex in the band room on Friday night after the concert.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“Right?” Emily smirks. “I heard they were doing it on the piano!”

“Ew! They’re going to burn that, right?” Katelyn audibly shudders. “That’s so gross.”

“I mean, Mr. Ridgefield is pretty hot.”

“Yeah, but at school? That’s disgusting.”

They both giggle. I clamp my hand over my mouth to hold back the sob that wants to creep out of me. It’s bad enough hearing the CliffsNotes from my parents. The unabridged version is humiliating.

Katelyn recovers first, asking, “Did Delilah show up to school today?”

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