Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Delilah
“Come inside, come inside.” Dad steps back and waves me in. “You must be tired! What’s that drive, nine hours or so?”
I pause mid shoe removal and blink at him. “You know how far it is?”
He winces, hooks his hand on the nape of his neck. “I’ve been to Nancy and Greg’s house a time or two. It’s a long drive, but at least it’s scenic.”
The bruise on my heart aches as though he’s pressed a finger right into it. Why didn’t you come to see me, then? I want to ask. But I don’t, because what difference would it make?
I finish removing my white sneakers and leave them next to his black Converse, a little yin and yang there on the porch. When I step over the threshold, the honey-colored floor creaks under my weight. Same board as always. You can’t come or go in this house without being announced.
“I see you haven’t fixed the floorboard,” I tease.
“I’ll get to it next week.”
We both turn toward that voice. One whose drawl, despite the years since I last heard it, I’d recognize anywhere .
“No one’s touching the floor.” Dad’s hand, warm and familiar, cups my bicep. “Delilah, you remember Truett Parker?”
Remember Truett Parker? How could I fucking forget.
He’s seated in my spot at the breakfast nook, gaze trained on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. He was always tan from weekends and afternoons spent helping his dad around the farm, but he’s especially tawny now. It makes his dirty blond hair seem so light by comparison, his blue-gray eyes bright. The youthful wiriness is gone from his body, replaced by taut muscles that strain the shoulders of his T-shirt, the seams of his Wranglers. He stretches his long legs out like he sees me studying them and wants to give me a better angle.
I blush, drawing my gaze back up to his. He’s clean-shaven, leaving the strong angles of his jaw on full display. His lip twitches toward a knowing smile, causing the dimples in his cheeks to pop.
“Hello, Temptress.”
The nickname, born from the misfortune of having the name Delilah while growing up in the rural South—where they take their Bible stories very seriously—grates on me. Though with my dad watching, who always found it amusing, I swallow my retort.
Instead I say, “Surprised to see you here.”
He lifts an incredulous brow. “Suppose I could say the same to you.”
It’s a barb that I don’t want to admit has hit its mark. I turn and grab my bag from the porch. Clear my throat.
“Welp.” Truett slaps his knees, pushing on them to lift himself. As much as I wish I were immune, his forearms—sun-kissed and corded—draw my attention. “Guess I’ll give you two time to catch up.” He saunters toward us in no hurry, like my presence doesn’t affect him at all. It’s that apathy more than anything that boils my blood. “Henry, Roberta will start on Monday. It’s all taken care of, so no need to do anything but be your charming self.”
He offers my father a genuine smile that falters when he turns to me. “Are you planning on sticking around that long?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Excuse me?”
He acknowledges my glare with a nod but doesn’t flinch. Instead he shrugs and retrieves a folded leather wallet from the back pocket of his too-snug Wranglers. “Here’s her card in case you need it.”
“Who’s Roberta?”
He offers the small white business card to me. Our skin brushes—his hot, mine cold—as I pluck it from his hand. His gaze catches mine and holds it.
“Your dad’s new in-home nurse,” he says matter-of-factly.
My heart twists in on itself. I crumple the card into my front pocket, earning a glare of my own from Truett.
“Sure you don’t wanna stay for dinner? I can make—ah…” Dad’s voice trails off. He smacks his lips once, twice, like whatever he’s trying to say might manifest that way.
Finally, with a subtle shake of his head meant only for me, Truett looks back at my dad. Softens. “No, sir, I’ve got cows to feed. You two have fun though. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”
Truett moves toward the door, my dad and I parting like the Red Sea to let him through. He slips into a pair of boots in the pile outside the door; then he’s across the porch and down the steps in a few strides of his long, muscular legs. The thin fabric of his white T-shirt gathers and relaxes between his shoulder blades with each swing of his arms. I watch it, that movement, for a beat too long before my brain remembers how to do its thing.
“One second, Dad.”
My sock feet thud against the porch, drawing Truett’s attention. He spins on the heel of one boot but continues putting distance between us, walking backward. “What do you need, Temptress?”
“Stop calling me that.” I slip into my Keds and bound down the steps. A glance back at my father, who’s staring hard into the kitchen, tells me he’s not paying us any attention. The front door remains open, though, so I reach for Truett’s hand and pull him toward my car. “Help me get the rest of my things, would you?”
His brows furrow, but he doesn’t resist.
Once we’re out of my father’s earshot, I release his hand like I’ve been burned. “Why does he need an in-home nurse?”
“He has dementia.” The duh is unspoken but very much present.
“Don’t be a smart-ass. How bad is it, really? He seems fine to me.” I glance over my shoulder as if to confirm this with a cursory scan of Dad’s profile. When at last I turn back to Tru, pity is waiting for me in his eyes.
He shifts his weight, then crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. “He crashed his car two weeks ago. Nearly took out the sign for the First Baptist Church. So things aren’t great, per se.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. My heart is lodged in my throat, blocking all flow of air.
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.
“Sorry about that.” I deposit my bags to the left of the door and shut it behind me. Dad, who’s opening and closing each kitchen cabinet in turn, doesn’t glance up. “Can I help you find something?”
“Just looking for the cat food.” He stands, strokes his chin with one hand, and rests the other against the base of his spine. “Skittles will be hungry soon.”
My breath hitches. I replay his words in my mind, hoping I simply misheard him, but no. I did not.
Dad’s gaze cuts to me. His features relax, and the fog that seemed to fill his gaze clears. “You hungry? We could go to the Grille. You always liked their shrimp sandwiches.”
There’s a ringing in my ears as my racing pulse calms, leaving quiet in its wake. I nod, tugging this bit of normalcy around my shoulders like a blanket against the cold. “Yeah, Dad. I’d like that.” I point at my bags. “Can I change first? If that’s okay. I’ve been sweating in these clothes all day.”
He smiles, flashing that crooked tooth. “Sure. Your room’s still the same.”
Of course it is. I smile weakly and gather my bags. “Be back in a second.”
The hallway is dim, but when I flick the switch to illuminate my path, nothing happens. Typical. Whenever another light in the house went out, the first bulb we’d steal was from the hall. This, like so much else, has not changed. It makes me acutely aware of the distance between myself and this place, and all the things that have shifted within me as a result. It’s like running on a treadmill. You do all this work just to end up right where you started.
My room, the last on the left, appears untouched at first glance. There are my pictures, tucked into the white frame of my vanity mirror. Heavy curtains to block out the light so my teenage self could sleep in well past noon. Even the bedspread, a purple, floral thing, remains. But the room smells of cleaner. There’s not a speck of dust on any surface.
He may not have known I would come, but I recognize it in this room. The hope. It fills a gap somewhere in my heart, like concrete in a pothole you’d grown so accustomed to giving a wide berth.
I set my things at the foot of my bed, except for my laptop, which I place on the vanity. For the time being, this will make do as a desk. The blinds slap shut when I pull the cord. I strip my tank top from my body. Reapply deodorant that I retrieve from the outer pocket of my backpack. The first T-shirt my hands touch gets tugged over my head. A few pieces of hair have fallen from my ponytail, so I remove the band and redo it, using my hands as a hairbrush to smooth it out.
Dad’s standing by the table when I return to the kitchen. His gaze is lost somewhere on the other side of the breakfast nook windows, on the pasture and the Parkers’ house beyond it.
Do he and Lucy still see each other? Is that why Truett is so determined to be involved? The thought makes my chest physically ache. My eyes burn. In my absence, I imagine another family forming. One with no space for me.
I swipe at my eyes, twin streaks of mascara lining my fingers. When I wipe them on my cutoffs, Dad glances over at me.
“You ready?”
I press my lips together. For the first time since walking through the door, I really take him in. Nine years without seeing him. Eight without hearing his voice. While living them, it felt like an eternity. But looking at my dad, it’s hard to believe so much time has passed. A few extra wrinkles, that peppering of gray hair. But he’s still my father. His fingertips are calloused from plucking guitar strings. There’s a barbecue stain on the pocket of his Fly Hollow Marching Band T-shirt. It stings the back of my throat, the way I missed him. The shame of not having been here, even though being here fills me with guilt.
“Dad,” I whimper, “is it really okay that I came?”
I want permission, I realize. Reassurance. To know that I haven’t ruined my relationship with one parent for another who doesn’t even want me.
His face crumples, eyes filling with unshed tears. “It’s more than okay. It’s everything.”
I want to run to him and cry and cry and cry. To be small and comforted by my father’s embrace. But I don’t. I can’t. Not when he needs me to be strong, to take care of him. Not when there’s still so much hurt festering inside me.
Instead I suck in a deep breath and let it out through my teeth. Wipe my eyes once more and clean them off on my shorts. Something crinkles in my pocket. Pinching it between two fingers, I remove the crumpled business card Truett handed me.
Roberta Dunn is a certified nurse practitioner with over fifteen years of home care experience, according to her business card. She sounds qualified. She also sounds expensive.
I walk over to Dad with every intention of tossing her card in the trash can beside him, but then I notice the kitchen cabinets, still swung open from his earlier search.
I smooth the card out on the counter. Just in case.
Roberta’s name grows blurry as I finally summon the strength to say, “I’m really sorry about the letter.”
“What letter?” Dad asks.
My gaze jolts to his, which is twinkling with mischief.
I swallow and nod, the relief so overwhelming that for a moment I can’t formulate a response. Finally a smile pulls my lips tight. “Ready for shrimp sandwiches?”
He slings an arm around my shoulder and guides me out. “Born ready, sweet pea.”
The door slams shut behind us as he steps into his Converse. I pause, waiting for him to lock it, but he doesn’t. Just starts toward my car while tossing, “You’re driving!” over his shoulder.
Typical small-town mindset. I’ll bet the locking mechanism is rusted over from lack of use. “I figured as much,” I say, chuckling. Even without looking, the image of his mangled car flits across my mind. I shake my head, slip into my shoes, and follow my dad.