Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Delilah
Dirt spits into the air, thrown by Truett’s spinning tires. I spill from the truck before he’s even put it in park. There’s a bright red fire engine parked on our street, an ambulance idling behind it. The front door to the house is ajar. Roberta stands at the threshold, and for the first time since I met her, she looks disheveled. Uncertain. Her mouth is flat, her silver-streaked hair tied back in a low ponytail. When our gazes meet, her lips form a gentle smile, but it wavers at the edges, and my heart falters right along with it.
“Delilah!” She opens her arms for me, and I fall into the hollow she’s created. The door catches us, holding us upright. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise. We’re going to find him.”
She smooths a hand through my hair, and I shiver, drawing back. She’s blurry now. I can’t make out the fine edge of her pointed nose. The soft lines that caress her face. I blink, but it does nothing to combat the flood of tears.
“Where all have you looked?” Truett asks.
I turn in her arms to find him stomping up the front porch steps. His truck is parked haphazardly behind the ambulance. The driver’s side door still hangs open. He’s looking at a fireman, who I now realize is standing behind Roberta, observing our exchange with a piteous glance. It fills me with irrational rage. What good is his pity if he’s not doing something? Why is he here when he should be out there where my dad is?
“Chief Davidson.” The man, slightly older than my dad with a clean-shaven face and brown eyes, reaches out to capture Tru’s hand in a firm shake. “Police are en route from Foley to help. I’ve got the rest of my guys out in their personal vehicles searching town.” His gaze, the same shade as the dry earth at the end of winter, locks with mine. “The ambulance is here as a precaution.”
Tru releases Chief Davidson’s hand and places his palm gingerly against the base of my spine. It’s another point of contact, alongside Roberta’s arm wrapped around my shoulders, to anchor me in this world when I feel so untethered. I want to melt into it, but instead I simply meet his gaze and nod, hoping he understands how much gratitude exists in that gesture.
“Have you searched the woods around here?” Tru asks.
Davidson glances from Truett to Roberta and back, a deep rivet forming between his salt-and-pepper brows. “Well, no, sir. We haven’t. Since the vehicle is missing, we can assume?—”
“We can’t assume anything,” Truett bites out. His hand flexes against my spine. “What about the farm? Did anyone check my land?”
Davidson grimaces and Roberta’s mouth pops open in surprise. She narrows her eyes at the man and bites out, “Daniel, you know better than this.” She releases me, stepping back into the kitchen to retrieve her keys from her purse. “I’ll go. Delilah, you stay here in case your dad comes back. It’s going to stress him out having all these people in his space, so try to keep him calm and?—”
“I’m not waiting here doing nothing.” I glance up at Truett for reassurance, and his eyes glimmer with something I cannot name. Pride, maybe? I grip the front of his button-down firmly. “You’re going, right? I’m coming with you.”
His dimple pops as his lips form a knowing smile. His gaze seems to whisper, There she is.
Not pride, then. Recognition. Like for once I’m exactly who he remembers me being.
“Wait here, Roberta. We’re going to search the farm.” He laces our fingers together. “We’ll call with any news.”
I ignore the buzzing refrigerator, the rumbling engines, the timid remorse in Davidson’s stare. I focus on Roberta. On her steady hand brushing my shoulder as she whispers, “Be careful.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“Here, son.” Chief Davidson tosses a radio to Truett, which he catches in his empty hand. “In case you don’t have a signal. Let us know your location, and we’ll send the bus if needed. I’ll search the woods out front just in case.”
Tru jerks his chin in acknowledgment, and then we’re off, racing back toward the truck the same way we came. Our pounding footsteps and my galloping heartbeat pulse in perfect sync. It’s the only sound I can hear, even when I’m no longer running. Even when the truck roars to life and we’re barreling toward Truett’s property line. There’s still that steady thrumming to drown out all the fear and anger and hurt. A drumbeat to focus on. A song to lose myself in.
“What if we don’t find him before he gets confused? Or hurt?”
“We’ll find him.” Tru places his hand on the console, palm up, and I take it. His gaze finds the rearview mirror, and he shakes his head. “I can’t believe Davidson didn’t think to search around the house.”
“I mean, he’s right. Why take the car if he’s not going far?”
Truett arches an eyebrow. “The same reason we’re driving right now. The farm is huge. ”
We launch over a pothole, and I leave my seat for a second too long. When I slam back down, the breath rushes out of me. “On behalf of your suspension, ouch. ”
He smirks, but his eyes are tight at the corners. “Keep making jokes, Temptress. It’s much better than watching you suffer silently for the entire drive home and being unable to fix it.”
My lips flatline. He’s right. I haven’t spoken much since I got off the phone with Debbie. I’d have powered off my phone if I weren’t hoping for Dad to call. As it stands, Mom has already left six voicemails and a slew of texts I refuse to read. The minute we find Dad, I may sink my phone in the river. If we don’t find him…well, maybe I’ll go in with it.
We’re climbing a winding road that branches out of the valley behind his house. Fencing lines either side of the dirt path. Besides a few stragglers dotting the hill, this part of the pasture is mostly empty of cattle. We’re far from the feeders, and grass is sparser on the hillside. Instead, dense clusters of hawthorn bushes interspersed with towering oaks keep the ground mostly bare beyond the graveyard of their fallen leaves.
Graveyard. Oh God.
“Tru, are we driving toward the cemetery?”
His lips flatten and he swallows. It’s answer enough.
We crest the hill and veer left. The trees part to reveal my car parked in front of a waist-high wrought-iron fence. It’s intentionally secluded, cradling its visitors in a cocoon of privacy. There’s no way Roberta or the firefighters or even Tru’s farmhands could’ve seen my white sedan tucked away up here. I know that logically. But as my gaze lands on Dad’s slumped shoulders where he sits on a stone bench in the center of the small cemetery, I can’t help but feel a wave of anger roll through me. It settles in the pit of my stomach, simmering.
All that panic and he was here the whole time.
Truett blows out a breath just as I draw one in, filling my lungs to bursting. I climb from the truck on wobbling legs and stagger forward. The little iron gate is propped open. Moss should grow here in this shaded spot, but the fencing and gravestones are immaculately clean. There are only a few plots. Tru’s maternal grandmother, who passed away when we were in middle school, is buried to my right. I’d forgotten this place, her funeral, but the memory of it comes flooding back. Sitting with Tru in the pasture while the sermon was delivered, holding his hand while he cried.
The man who owned this land before Truett’s family had lost a son when the boy was only six in a farming accident. His headstone is massive, taking up the entire back left corner of the small cemetery. Abel Junior has a garden in front of his stone, and though the flowers are done blooming for the year, their leaves are a vibrant, healthy green. A smaller stone beside it honors his parents. There’s a hummingbird feeder hung from a garden hook over Abel Sr. and Marie Johnson’s grave, filled to the brim with sugar water.
They’re cared for. All of them. With a tenderness that strikes me square in the chest.
I glance over my shoulder to find Truett. He’s standing at the entrance with his hands tucked into his jeans. His gaze isn’t trained on me or even my father, but on the stone in the center of the private cemetery.
Lucy Parker’s headstone is almost as beautiful as she was. It has live edges that glimmer where sunlight filters through the canopy overhead. There’s a stone slab over her body with the words from an old hymn engraved. Beneath the two dates that bracket her life, a simple “ I’ll love you forever ” is carved into the face, which is embellished with roses along the borders.
“Dad?” Leaves crunch underfoot, announcing my approach. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t react. I steel myself, prepared for whatever version of him I might get, as I round the bench and sit by his side. I rest my hand on his knee. “Are you okay? ”
His gaze is transfixed on the headstone. A tear slips from his blue eyes, scaling his stubble-pricked skin. Shaving has been hard for him lately. Soon he’ll have a full beard, because I’m too scared to take a razor to his skin.
He inhales sharply, his bottom lip quivering. “I miss her.”
He’s here with me. His words are slow, but they’re his.
“I know you do.”
I study his profile, so similar to my own. Our noses have the same soft arch. Our eyelashes are both straight as a board but long. So long they brush his cheeks when his eyes drift closed and he lets out a low whimper.
“Mom always forgot Dad was gone, toward the end.” He turns to face me, eyes clear as a bright summer sky. “Sometimes I think she chose to because it hurt a lot less.”
I tilt my head. That simmering anger in my gut stills as a dart punctures it, letting out the air. “Do you choose what you forget?”
A tear snags on the wrinkles at the edge of his eye. “I don’t wanna forget anything.”
My heart sinks low in my chest, heavy as an anvil. Or an anchor.
“You know, I loved your mom.”
I force myself to swallow. To breathe through the grief. “Yeah, Dad. I know.”
“But Lucy was so special.”
My forehead falls against his shoulder. We both suck in air that is at once painfully thin and so, so thick. “She was.”
A sound rattles his throat, caught somewhere between a hum and a groan. His hand smooths my hair. His mouth parts, then closes. I sit up, studying his face. He rolls his lips together, searching for words that don’t come easily anymore.
He shakes his head, as if giving up on what he wanted to say and settling for what he can. His voice is filled with yearning when he whispers, “Lucy could hear the music. ”
Then his fingers begin to drum against his lap, a phantom melody only he and Lucy can hear.
I try to find Truett’s eyes. To plead for rescue from this heartbreak. But he’s walked away from the cemetery and now stands in the first patch of sunshine beyond reach of the trees. The radio is raised to his mouth. His gaze is pointed toward home, where I imagine Roberta sagging with relief at the news that Dad is safe. That he is fine. Something we would’ve known hours ago if the fire chief knew what the hell he was doing.
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.
“I’m angry at my mom!”
“Why?”
I want to say, “ Why not? ” but instead I say, “Because she lied. She lied about her surgery to make me feel bad so I’d come home.” My chest caves in. I gasp for breath, refilling it just enough to press on. “I’m mad that she has fucking season passes for guilt-tripping me into doing what she wants, like it’s somehow my fault that she got knocked up too young or that my dad cheated or that he’s sick and I have to take care of him.”
“Good.” His gaze is hard on mine. He nods as his thumbs pulse against my shoulders. “What else?”
“I’m mad that neither of them could get their shit together for my sake and just be fucking happy together.” My voice tapers off. Falls into the pit my admission carved out of my heart. “I’m mad that my dad is dying, so I can’t even be mad at him anymore.”
His eyes flutter closed, and he presses his lips together. He nods again. When his eyes open, they’re unguarded and lethal in their honesty. So filled with anguish but edged in pride. “What else?”
I shake my head, biting down hard on my lip. “Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s more than anyone should have to endure.” He swallows hard, the column of his throat working over the same knot twisting mine. “But it’s not everything. Come on, Delilah. I’m a big boy. I can take it. I won’t break.”
“But I might,” I whisper.
He shakes his head softly. “You won’t.”
Tears well in my eyes and I try to look away, to let them fall where he won’t see, but one of his hands releases my shoulder and cups my jaw instead. The pad of his thumb strokes my skin gently, and I come all the way undone.
“I’m mad that you were my best friend in the whole world, and you left me when I needed you most.” I breathe in the scent of him. The scent of home. My stomach twists. “I’m so fucking mad at you for that. I don’t understand how you could be the kind of person who did that to me, but also one who would wait in an airport parking lot for hours for my flight to take off. I’m mad that I don’t know which version of you is real. The one who walks away or the one who stays.”
He doesn’t flinch. He holds my gaze and continues tracing my skin with his thumb. “Can’t I be both? A stupid kid who made a mistake, but also the man he grew into, who would do anything to make it up to you? To take care of you?”
“You said it yourself that you thought you were taking care of me back then, too,” I whisper. “But you didn’t even give me a say. I would’ve chosen you anyway, rumors be damned.”
“I know that now.” He leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead. “I shouldn’t have taken that choice away from you. You’re right, and I’m sorry.”
You’re right, and I’m sorry. Such simple words. Such powerful ones. How many times would it have made all the difference for Mom to admit that to me? Rather than to double down on her lies just to be the one who wins in the end. How much would it have meant if Dad had replied to my letter all those years ago, with nothing more than that sentence ?
It would’ve meant the world. It would’ve meant nine years that we’ll never get back.
I tilt my head back, capturing Truett’s gaze with my own. His thumb moves to my bottom lip, tugging it from the trap of my firm bite. Leaves rustle all around us, cocooning us in a world of our own. Away from the responsibilities and the fear. Away from the past and all the burdens it left us with.
“You can push me away. You can lash out. You can feel whatever you need to feel.” He tips my chin up, brushes his lips featherlight against mine. “But I’m never going to walk away. I’m never going to stop taking care of you. I will prove to you every day that I am this man. That I will not abandon you again.”
I surge upward, capturing the word again with my mouth. It tastes bittersweet like regret, but that quickly gives way to the cinnamon spice of his breath. To the warm slip of his tongue between my parted lips. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him close to me. Our mouths move in a dance perfected by time apart, making this moment of reunion so much sweeter. He’s not shy anymore, and I’m not nervous. I’ve screamed the anger out, and with it every ounce of reservation. And he’s here, just like he said he’d be. I’m not alone anymore.
My teeth graze his bottom lip, scraping the ridges left by his constant worrying bites. He groans softly. Warm breath washes over my mouth, down my neck. Goose bumps ripple my skin. My breasts heave with each gasp, brushing the plane of his muscular chest. I’ve wanted him for so long—a feeling that I’ve always kept at arm’s length. To embrace it is overwhelming and heavy. It’s saccharine in its sweetness, exquisite in its pain.
His fingers weave into the hair at the base of my skull and tug softly, pulling me away from the kiss like if I get too close, he won’t be able to stop. Still, I reach for him. The locks of my hair straining against my scalp only stoke the flame higher. I need him here, like this. Around me and moving inside me. Yearning pulses between my thighs and I squeeze hard, but the ache remains.
His eyes are heavy with lust, a gray so dark it could be charcoal. “I need to get you home before I lose all ability to let you go.”
I blink through the haze. He’s right, though I’ve never wanted him to be wrong more than I do at this moment.
He smiles like he’s read that thought as it comes to me. “Don’t worry, we’ve got time. Now that I’ve got you, I’m not letting you go that easily. But your dad needs you more right now.”
Letting me go , like he’s so sure that he already has me. Have I ever been so sure of anything in my life?
I’m sure of this: the panic rising rapidly in my chest. The idea of being alone in the aftermath, left to wonder if any of it was even real—it strips me bare. Leaves me shivering.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” My voice breaks on the request. “Not like, with me, but you know…”
His eyebrow lifts. My fingers itch to smooth the soft ripple of his forehead wrinkles. Now that I’ve touched him, stopping seems impossible. By the way his hands flex against my scalp, I know he feels the same.
“Yeah.” His hand finds mine and squeezes. “I know. Let’s go home, Delilah.”
And we do. Together.