Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Delilah
Fly Hollow has a population of 3,112 according to the newly minted sign at the edge of town, but even that number seems a bit of a stretch. With not much more than a small grocery store, a school that you attend from kindergarten all the way to graduation, a church, and copious amounts of farmland, I’m not sure where all those people are hiding. I’d be willing to bet they included cattle in the tally, just to beef up the numbers.
A half-hearted giggle bubbles over my lips. The cluster of cows near the fence line to my right moo as I drive past, as though disapproving of my joke, but I ignore them with a tired smile.
Leaves rustle overhead. A familiar canopy of live oaks blots out the pale blue sky. Birds perched in the sprawling branches call to one another. In the distance a tractor starts up. I turn down the volume on my road-trip playlist and unfurl my arm out the open car window, capturing the hot breeze in my clammy palm.
Homesickness stirs in my chest, adding to the already long list of complicated emotions I have to sort through. It’s all the same. It’s all so hard.
The scent of azaleas blooming along the road filters in, light and sweet, while the words dancing in my mind are anything but.
“ He doesn’t deserve your pity.”
A middle-aged man wearing a faded ball cap stands on the weather-beaten deck behind the post office, loading mail into a beat-to-shit Jeep for delivery.
“ You’re all that I have; you can’t go.”
The only grocery store and gas station in town, Sunshine Grocery—where Dad and I would grab breakfast sandwiches from the deli on our way to school each morning—appears up ahead on the right.
“ How could you do this to me?”
I veer into the cracked asphalt lot and throw the car into park. Here, the sound of cicadas and people chitchatting over the gas pumps nearly drowns out the memory of my mother’s voice in my head.
Nearly.
As if on cue, my phone vibrates with another text from her. This time I swipe to delete it without sparing her words a glance. It’s my version of boundary setting. Something else my former therapist tried to teach me.
The music, a quiet rhythm under the cacophony of small-town life, cuts out with an incoming call.
Mom’s picture pops up on the screen. My skull thuds against the headrest. Maybe things like private letters and boundaries work for other people, but I’m beginning to think that therapist was out of her depth with a woman like my mother. If my grandparents weren’t already gone, I’d recommend they get their money back.
Finally the call drops. Before the music can resume, though, I cut the engine.
Heat in south Alabama is a living thing. When I step onto the pavement, it embraces me. I stretch my legs out in front of me, leaning against the wheel well for support. Nine hours of driving has my whole body spent. My mind, however, is wired.
I’m ten minutes away from my father. My father, whom I haven’t seen since junior year of high school. My sick father, whom I didn’t even warn I was coming. Goose bumps prickle on my forearms despite the relentless sunshine overhead. My mom was right; this was a terrible fucking idea.
I push my hands through my hair and shake it out. When they drop back to my sides, they’re trembling. Being here, in this town that holds so much of my hurt as well as my joy, is too much. The sprawling fields and undulating curves of the river, which seemed endless to me as a child, now feel impossibly small. I’m suffocating, but I’m surrounded by open space.
A bell jingles, drawing my attention. The front door of Sunshine Grocery swings open. The man who steps through it is about my age, with shaggy blond hair cut in a grown-out mullet. Harsh sunlight illuminates his five-o’clock shadow–ridden face as he glances in my direction, and my breath stalls in my lungs.
Time folds in on itself. Suddenly I’m seventeen again, walking through the tall grass of a field.
Trucks are parked in a loose semicircle ahead, their headlights illuminating a cluster of kids from school who stand around a bonfire, sipping from plastic cups. Their shouts and laughter carry over to me on the breeze. I rub my forearm, regretting the decision to wear short sleeves. It’s colder than I thought it would be.
Kyle Miller glances over his shoulder at me, pausing mid-laugh to scan my body as I approach. I wore this shirt because of the deep V-neck, hoping it would be sexy enough for someone with his experience. Heat fills my cheeks. I’ve never tried to be sexy before. The only guy I ever cared about impressing has seen me traipsing through fields of cow manure in boots and loose- fitting jeans. Dressing up for Truett was never going to change how he saw me.
Of course, after everything that’s happened these last few weeks, impressing him is no longer an option. Speaking to him is no longer an option. He made sure of that.
Kyle, on the other hand, has never been on my radar. He’s good-looking enough, with tightly cropped blond hair and brown eyes that are approximately 70 percent cacao. As our school’s star tight end, he’s certainly sought after by the other girls. I’ve been so busy pining after my best friend, though, that Kyle never managed to make it out of my peripheral. Not until yesterday, when he invited me to this party.
When he sought me out during the loneliest period of my life.
Which is how I find myself here, trying to impress him with no idea how to do it. I tug at the hem of my shirt and hope this V-neck and what little bit of makeup I have on are enough to make me something more than the unremarkable person I’ve always been.
Kyle’s lips stretch into a wide smile. “There you are, Delilah.”
“Here I am.” I shift my weight and glance around at the crowd, noting the familiar faces. In a town as small as Fly Hollow, it’s impossible not to know everyone. It’s also impossible to keep your business to yourself. Especially when your dad decides to conduct that business on school grounds.
So when I catch Emily and her best friend, Katelyn, casting sidelong glances my way before closing ranks with their shoulders and dissolving into laughter, I suddenly wish I were anywhere but here.
“You look beautiful,” Kyle says.
My gaze cuts back to him. Despite my anxiety, I find myself preening at his compliment. Have I ever been called beautiful?
Not by anyone but my dad, I realize. Pathetic.
Perhaps that’s why I lean into Kyle when he opens his arms for me. Aligning my body to his, I can feel every muscle, every contour. I lace my arm around his waist like I know how to do this. Like my experience goes beyond a few stolen kisses in the shade of a willow tree with my best friend.
Like said best friend didn’t just arrive and grab a beer from a group of guys ten feet away, without ever bothering to acknowledge my presence.
Ignoring him takes every ounce of my strength. When I finally pry my gaze from the back of Truett’s head, Kyle’s friends are looking at me expectantly. I realize I’ve missed what was just said.
I clear my throat and fix my face into the friendliest expression I can. The least nervous. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Kyle’s hand slips an inch down my waist. Tension crawls into my spine, but moving away from his touch only brings me closer to his side. He takes it as a good sign, hooking his thumb through my belt loop and squeezing.
“I asked how things are going,” his friend Noah clarifies. Noah’s the quarterback and the basketball captain and class president all in one. Perks of a small school and outgoing personality, I guess.
“You know,” Kyle adds, glancing down at me, “with your parents.”
I shrug, not really interested in this line of questioning. “Hell if I know.”
“That’s so wild Mrs. Parker and your dad fucked at school. The man’s got balls; that’s for sure!” Noah howls with laughter.
Their other friend, Asher, slaps his shoulder. “That’s what Mrs. Parker said.”
Noah’s laughing too hard to respond.
I, on the other hand, bristle. “Dad said they didn’t have sex.”
I don’t know if I believe him. Mom certainly doesn’t. But it feels wrong to let these idiots shit talk him in front of me without even trying to come to his defense.
The look everyone gives me screams, Oh, you sweet, summer child.
I huff a breath, clouding the night air with vapor. “I’m getting a drink,” I mutter. But when I try to slip away from Kyle’s embrace, he simply walks with me toward the tailgate where lukewarm beer lies in wait, never releasing his hold from my waist.
It’s something couples at school do all the time, which drives me absolutely nuts. No amount of infatuation justifies needing to be literally attached at the hip, taking up all the space in the hallway.
My mind, and my gaze, flash to Truett. Even from this distance, I can see exactly what his eyes are locked on.
Kyle’s hand. On my waist.
“Sorry about those guys,” Kyle says as he passes me a can of Natural Light. “They don’t have a lot of couth.”
I try not to show my surprise that he even knows the meaning of the word couth . My eyebrows shoot up anyway.
“It’s whatever.” I do my best to sound unaffected. The slight warble in my tone would give me away, but Kyle’s staring at my chest. The chances he heard, or cared even if he did, are minimal. Not when he’s practically salivating.
V-neck saves the day. Who knew?
He finally tears his gaze away from what, if I’m honest, is barely a B-cup on a good day. “How come you’re never at these parties?”
Because I’m not usually invited. Because even if I were, I have volleyball practice to fill most nights and, lately, Mom’s tantrums to fill the others. Because I’m newly motivated to study hard to get into a great college so I can leave this place, and my parents’ issues, behind .
The reasons threaten to roll off my tongue. Luckily I’m well-trained in the art of biting it.
I shrug. “I’m usually busy.”
In one smooth motion, he plucks the beer I’ve barely taken two sips of from my hand, deposits it on the tailgate, and folds me into him so we’re chest to chest. The sour scent of beer breath mixes with his Axe cologne, hitting me in the back of the throat.
“I’m glad you weren’t too busy for me tonight.” His lips curl in a half smile, stretching like a lazy cat. “I’ve got the most beautiful date here.”
I’m not blind. I’ve seen my competition. Emily and Katelyn are both bombshell brunettes who lost all their childhood chub in middle school and never gained an ounce back. Every other girl at this party has a million traits I could pick out as more desirable than the sum of mine. I know I’m not the most beautiful. Not by a mile.
But when he says it, some small part of me rises up from the depths and latches on to it. Believes in it with all she’s got.
I’ve only ever kissed Truett Parker. Kisses that were slow and sweet, secret and all the better for it. So when Kyle’s lips land on mine in a flurry of movement, when his tongue immediately demands access to my mouth, I’m unprepared. I’d stumble backward if he wasn’t holding me so tightly. His tongue darts from side to side, searching for God knows what. A courageous hand slips from my waist to my ass and pinches, eliciting a yelp that crashes into his lips and falls silent in the onslaught.
His other hand, which had been lazily stroking my cheek, slowly moves to my throat. Down, down, down, until his palm presses against my breast and squeezes. Hard.
“That’s enough,” I say against his mouth. Somehow I manage to fit my hands between us and flatten them against his chest, pushing him back. “What the fuck?”
“Aw, come on.” Kyle smirks and pats the tailgate beside him. “ I know it’s not a piano, but I bet I can fuck better than your dad did.”
Hoots and hollers sound behind us. I jerk toward the sound, suddenly confronted with a row of people holding their phones up in our direction. Recording. They’re recording this.
I stumble backward. Kyle reaches for my elbow, but I skirt his grasp. “What is going on?”
Kyle’s eyes, already brown as the mud beneath my boots, darken. “Don’t act like you aren’t easy, Delilah. The apple can’t fall that far from the tree.”
Laughter. More shouts, calls for him to give it to me. Give what to me, I don’t know, but I’m not sticking around to find out.
I shove through the line of my classmates, kids I’ve known since kindergarten. On the other side, I’m met with the rest of the party attendees. People who didn’t care enough to film but also didn’t care enough to stop it from happening.
Among them is Truett. He won’t even look in my direction. In fact, he turns his back on me and walks away, toward the wood line. Probably has to take a piss or something. Anything is more important than his best friend of, I don’t know, our entire lives?
The tears come, hot and prickly. I blink them away, determined not to add to my humiliation by letting these people see me cry. I take off toward the road, in the opposite direction of Tru. Through the mud and the tall grass I charge, ignoring the catcalls behind me. When I finally get to Dad’s car, which he let me borrow without so much as a question as to my destination, I kick out of my muck-covered shoes and toss them into the trunk.
I drive home barefoot, blinded by tears.
The benefit of a small town, I suppose, is that you could drive the roads blindfolded. Or sobbing your eyes out.
When I park in front of the house, there’s no movement inside. There hasn’t been movement for weeks. Not since the night when everything fell apart .
Now my parents just haunt opposite sides of the house, my dad silent and sulking and my mother hell-bent on letting us both know how badly he hurt her. No one’s there when I drop my boots by the front door, walk inside, and collapse onto the bench in the breakfast nook.
It’s always been my favorite place in the house. A three-sided bench seat situated just off the kitchen, surrounded by windows overlooking our yard and the Parkers’ pasture beyond it. The best view in the house, until now. Until my dad had to go and sleep with Truett’s mom, effectively ruining everything.
Footsteps on the hardwood draw my attention from the moonlit field. Mom shuffles to the fridge, removes a bottle of wine, and uncorks it. She doesn’t bother with a glass. I’m tempted to ask her for a swig. With the way things have been going lately, she’d probably hand it over.
But I don’t. Instead I clear my throat, startling her.
“Oh, Delilah”—she flattens a palm over her heart—“I didn’t know you were home.”
I run a finger along the familiar wood grain of the table. A table I’ve done all my homework at, eaten every dinner. Something that used to bring me comfort but now feels like another reminder of everything that’s been tainted. “Are you still planning on moving to Grandma and Grandpa’s?”
Her shoulders droop. Behind her, my baby pictures stare back at me from their place on the yellow-white fridge. They didn’t make it into the boxes she packed, I guess. The ones lining our living room wall, awaiting pickup on Tuesday by the moving truck my grandparents hired.
“Yes, it’s what’s best for me. With everything that’s happened, I can’t stay here.” She sits on the bench opposite me. The wine bottle rattles against the wood when she sets it down. “I know you don’t want to leave your dad.” Venom leaks into her voice. She takes a sip, like wine might wash it away. “But I really wish you’d come with me. He doesn’t need you like I do. Besides, you’d love Charleston. Lots more to do there.”
My hand, which was still tracing that grain, is swallowed by hers. Cold and damp from the perspiration on the bottle.
She catches my gaze, a smile slowly stretching her lips. “We’d have so much fun together.”
The old house groans as if in mourning. “I’ll come with you,” I whisper.
Her eyes go wide, alertness sparking in them for the first time in weeks. “You will? Oh, that’s fantastic.”
I expect her to hug me. To ask me why the change of heart, maybe. But instead she abandons me and her wine bottle, taking off for the study where my dad has been sleeping since he was caught cheating with Lucy Parker.
Of course she’d want to rub it in his face. I’ve just handed her something precious, and her first thought is to hone it into a weapon and hurl it at my dad.
The wine is bitter but better than warm, cheap beer. I take a swig and hope it washes away the fear that I’m making a mistake.
Kyle doesn’t recognize me. At least, from the way his gaze travels over me and then flickers away without so much as a reaction, I can assume he doesn’t. Why would he? After all, one of the worst nights of my life was probably just another Friday for him.
Fucking small towns. You can’t go anywhere without running into someone.
He walks past me without a word and climbs into the same red pickup truck he was driving in high school, where an older and softer version of Katelyn Phillips sits waiting for him. Her hand—lined with braided, multicolored bracelets—hangs out the window. She takes the bottle of Sprite he offers, the receipt it’s wrapped in crackling when she grabs it. He quickly deposits a wad of dip into his lower lip and starts the truck, reversing without another glance my way.
This place never changes.
Perhaps it’s why I thought I had more time. That I could leave and come back when I was finally ready, and like a time capsule, it’d all be sealed here, waiting for me. No dust. No aging.
No forgetting.
I duck into my car and start the engine back up. The leather of the steering wheel sears my palms, but my hands no longer shake. My dad is sick , I remind myself. I’m here to take care of him. To get some answers if I can. I know how to do this. To be the responsible one, the voice of reason. The life raft. I can’t drown if I’m focused on saving someone else.
Those words cycle through my mind over and over for the next ten minutes. A steady heartbeat as I drive down more familiar roads, past homes of girls I used to have sleepovers with but haven’t heard from since I left town, and finally turn by an overgrown magnolia tree whose blooms blot out its leaves like full moons.
Nestled amid a grove of live oaks, my childhood home appears. The white paint is faded in some places. My rope swing and the branch it hung from are missing from the tree out front, a large oak with a trunk the size of a grain silo. Probably rotted or blown away in a hurricane. Or maybe Dad cut it down so he didn’t have to look at it every day and remember me.
My heart lurches at the thought. It took me a week to gather the courage to tell Mom I was leaving. Another to actually get my ass in the car. How much could things have changed in those two weeks? Will he recognize me? Will he remember who I am?
I shake my head. Everything I’ve seen online says that’s not how this disease works. I’ve got time. I’ve got to have time.
Time for what, I don’t know. Time for answers? An apology ?
From him or from me? I swallow back bile and put the car in park.
Cows call out from the fields beyond the house. I don’t glance in their direction. Truett may have been helping Dad in my absence, but I’m here now. And I’ve got this. He can go back to his farm and his mother and leave my family the hell alone.
I park behind Dad’s silver Altima. As I get out of my car and amble closer, I realize it looks like it’s been in an accident. The hood and front bumper are caved in. Angry black streaks peel back the paint along the driver’s side doors. I scrape a shaking hand through my hair, blowing out a whistle as I take in the extent of the damage. I’d be shocked if it even runs.
Beside it, there’s a baby-blue pickup truck. Newer, by the looks of it, or restored to look new. A replacement for the totaled car?
The floorboards of the porch creak underfoot. Several pairs of shoes, including mud-stained Converse, sit discarded by the door. Mom’s swing sways gently in the hot breeze. It brings with it the scent of magnolias and river water, as well as cattle from the Parkers’ farm.
I drop my backpack to the ground and school my face into a neutral expression before knocking on the door.
It swings away from my fist in a rush. Suddenly Dad is standing right in front of me for the first time in so long. My heart seizes and my eyes burn with unshed tears, but I force it all down. Because it’s not about me right now. It can’t be.
When his gaze lands on me, I brace myself for the look of confusion that filled Nana’s eyes in those final years. Logically I know it takes time to get there. But fear knows no logic. And right now I’m a little girl, afraid her dad has already forgotten her. That he did long before he got sick.
The crow’s feet around his eyes have deepened. Gray has started to appear, dense at his temples and sporadic in the rest of his brown hair. He’s handsome; I’ve always thought so. My classmates used to tease me about it. He smiles, and that same front tooth of his is still crooked. Still familiar, when so much of his life is foreign to me now.
Tears well in his blue eyes. “Delilah, you came.”
I exhale. My clenched fists unfurl. Be calm , I tell myself. You don’t want to overwhelm him.
“Of course I did,” I whisper. Though I suspect, behind Mom, he was second most sure that I wouldn’t.
When he opens his arms, expression hesitant but hopeful, I crack. A single tear. It might as well be a torrent. For a moment all the anger and hurt dissipates like morning fog burned off by the sun. All I feel is relief that he remembers.
Because as long as he remembers, there’s still time.
We embrace in the threshold with my backpack at our feet.