Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Delilah
A wave of heat courses through my body, ripping me from a dream where I’m submerged in dark, swirling water. I can still sense it as I toss and turn, stumbling my way to awareness. The feeling of the cool water pressing in on me, filling my throat so I can’t even speak. Through the glassy surface, I can just make out Truett. His arm is outstretched, but I shake my head at him, moving like molasses in the quick current. I know this river as well as my own heartbeat. I’ve been swimming in it my whole life. Why would I need his help?
My eyelids peel apart with great effort. I blink blearily into the darkness of my room. No sliver of sunlight peeks through the crack in my curtains. I’m still below the surface, I think for a moment, panic squeezing my lungs. I sit up in bed, hands searching the blankets. For what? I don’t know. Awareness comes on the tail end of another wave of heat, this time culminating in the pit of my stomach. Saliva floods my mouth. The realization hits me just in time, and I jolt out of bed.
I’m going to be sick.
I fling open the bathroom door, hand clasped over my mouth like that could save me, and kick it shut behind me. In the dim glow of the night-light, I can just make out the way to the toilet. I collapse at its base and heave. There’s barely enough time for my hand to move out of the way and grip the seat before I’m vomiting. Bile burns my throat. Tears spill down my cheeks. Quick, sharp breaths are all I can manage between wave after wave of nausea. By the time my abdomen stops clenching, I’m utterly exhausted and my head is spinning. I fumble for the handle and flush away the contents of my stomach, then collapse onto the cool tile floor.
The cold stings the heated flesh on my cheeks and forehead at first, but as my body melts against it, it morphs into the sweet sensation of relief. I draw in a deep breath and hold it, then release it with a moan through pursed lips. I slap one clammy hand against my forehead. There’s no doubt in my mind I have a fever, but suddenly the medicine cabinet in our kitchen seems impossibly far. I resign myself to die here on the bathroom floor, because there’s no way I’m crawling the necessary fifteen feet to get Advil.
I want my dad, I realize with a muffled whimper. Thoughts that are quickly overrun with worrying about how, exactly, I’m meant to care for him in this state.
My eyelids flutter closed, the lashes sticky with tears. I let my mind wander back to that dark, swirling water. To Truett. This time I’m not afraid of drowning. I’m too desperate to cool down.
Somewhere, a door clatters shut. I’m able to ignore it for the most part. I slip back beneath the waves of consciousness. An immeasurable time passes before a voice drifts close. Footsteps pad down the hall. Distantly I’m aware that someone is knocking on a door. What door? Couldn’t tell you. All I know is that my body aches from head to toe. My throat is a desert. And I’m freezing cold.
“Delilah?”
Roberta’s voice breaks through the barricade of my fever, but only barely. I blink slowly, grateful that the only light in the bathroom is the night-light and a small sliver creeping through the gap beneath the door. This is by far the most dated room in the house, with a wrap of ivy wallpaper encircling the top of the ceiling that reminds me distinctly of an Olive Garden dining room. I trace the vines slowly with my gaze, hoping if I can focus on something for a moment, it’ll quell the nausea stirring in my stomach.
Footsteps thud against the hardwood in the hall, making their way back toward the bathroom from what I assume was my bedroom door. A shadow stills outside; then the doorknob rattles. When she realizes it’s unlocked, Roberta calls, “Delilah? Are you in there?”
I moan something unintelligible, but it must be close enough to, “Come in,” because she does.
She’s backlit by early morning light that leaves her features shrouded in shadow. I can only make out the haze of her silver-streaked hair, the silhouette of her frame, before my eyelids drift closed again.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
I hear shoes hit the tile floor, then a cool hand sweeps over my forehead. It reminds me of my mother on mornings when Dad had already gone to work and I was home, sick as a dog from the latest virus scourging my classroom. She’d do the same move, smooth knuckles brushing the sticky skin of my temples, then call my dad to beg him to come home.
“You look like you feel about as good as Henry does.”
My eyes fly open and I jerk upright, but I’m instantly informed that was a terrible mistake when the world spins rapidly around me. Roberta catches me as I slump backward. Pulls me into her chest. She holds me the way I always begged Mom to, but Mom was too afraid of germs. I lift my arm weakly, bringing a trembling hand to cover my mouth. “I’m sick. I don’t want to breathe on you.”
Even speaking sends a wave of nausea up my throat. I pinch my lips tight, desperate not to vomit again. I have nothing left. My stomach is achingly empty.
“After years of working in hospitals, I have an immune system of steel.” Her tone holds a thin layer of amusement, like decoration adorning a warm underbelly of empathy. “And I’m masked.”
I squint up at her. The light now falls across her face. A blue medical mask hides her ever-present smile, but I can still see it in the crinkles of her eyes.
“Henry was on the couch, pale and moaning over a salad bowl when I walked in. I thought you’d slept through work, so I was going to wake you up once I got him settled in bed.”
Guilt, painfully vile, slithers up my spine. “I need to get up. Need to help.”
“Respectfully,” she says, amusement coloring her tone, “you’re not helping anybody in your state.”
A groan rumbles in my throat. It’s the spark the nausea kindling in my gut needed. I lurch forward, collapsing over the toilet as stomach bile and not much else works its way out of my body. Roberta strokes a steady hand up and down my spine over the thin fabric of my T-shirt. “Let it out, honey. I know that hurts.”
I can’t flush the toilet this time. My arms are shaking too badly. Roberta does it for me, then braces a hand under my armpit and pulls me away from the toilet.
“Can you stand?”
I roll my head back and forth in some semblance of a shake.
A hum vibrates her lips, the sound muted by her mask. Then she releases me and stands. I whimper at the abandonment, suddenly reverting to the emotional capacity of a two-year-old in the face of being alone.
“I’m not leaving you, Delilah. Just needed better leverage.” Her forearms brace underneath my biceps and lift. I forget how to assist, and my arms fly up, my shoulders meeting my ears. “You’re going to have to help me a bit here. I’m strong but not that strong.”
I blow out a breath and nod. This time when she hoists, I’m ready. I use every ounce of strength left in my body to brace my feet against the tile and push. With a lot of grunts and a few concerned breaths, I make it to a standing position, though I’m leaning heavily on Roberta.
“Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
I allow her to lead me toward my room, but I whine, “What if I need to be sick again?”
“Surely there are multiple salad bowls in this house.”
I’d laugh if I weren’t certain it’d lead to vomiting.
She opens the door and ushers me inside. I drop onto my mattress with the grace of a two-ton elephant, then curl into the fetal position. Sand from last night’s escapades scratches my skin, sending a tinge of regret up my spine. As if I weren’t feeling bad enough already.
Did Truett deserve for me to blow up at him? Probably not. After everything he’d just done for my dad, the least I could do was show him a bit of grace. But nothing I said was untrue. He did leave me to fend for myself, like everyone else in my life. Surely that entitles me to some anger.
But as sleep tugs me back under, it’s not anger that I feel creeping over the barriers surrounding my heart. It’s a feeling much more concerning, one that leaves me exposed. Vulnerable. And not only because I’m too sick to thank Roberta when she deposits a bowl beside my bed .
Exhaustion takes me, but not before the word for that feeling drifts through my mind like a wayward breeze.
Need.
I wake to the buzzing of my phone near my ear. It could be minutes since Roberta escorted me to bed, or possibly hours. My concept of time is warped by whatever virus is plaguing my body. My hand weaves through pillows and clumps of bunched-up sheets until it lands on something smooth and cool. My cell.
“Hello?” My voice is all sharp edges and rasp, like I’ve raked my vocal cords over hot coals. Or vomit. So. Much. Vomit.
“Oh my God, Delilah. Are you okay?” My boss’s voice hits my eardrum like a mallet. I wince. Knowing Cameron means well doesn’t stop it from hurting like hell. “I’ve called a few times. You didn’t log on, and I thought something might’ve happened with your dad.”
Tears prick my eyes. Even closing them doesn’t ease the stinging. I’m weak, tired, and an emotional wreck from the events of the last twenty-four hours. And I never miss work. Certainly not without calling first. I meant to earlier, when Roberta brought me back to my room, but sleep came on so fast.
“I’m so”—I gag around the words, then swallow back the rising bile—“sorry. Dad’s okay.” I crack an eyelid, spying a glass of water on my bedside table that I assume Roberta left for me. I grab it and bring it to my lips, taking a few small sips. The way my throat burns, you’d think I was throwing back a glass of razor blades. “I’m sick. Some kind of stomach flu.”
Cameron groans, his normally bright voice turning to a gravel tumbler. “Oh man, Charis had that a few weeks ago. It took her daycare by storm. Must’ve made its way to Alabama. ”
“Joy,” I bite out. The few sips of water start to creep back up my throat.
“On the bright side, it only lasted about forty-eight hours.”
I can’t help it; I let out a little whimper.
“Sorry, Delilah.” The telltale sound of a Zoom call coming in blares in the background, triggering something instinctual in me. I almost reach for my phantom mouse to accept the call. Cameron grunts. “Gotta take this. It’s the Cale Group. Don’t worry about your meetings—I’ll divvy them up among the team for the rest of the week. Take a few days to recover. Oh, and get some ginger ale. It’s the only thing that helped Charis.”
I picture his cute little three-year-old feeling as shitty as I do, and sympathy tugs at my heart.
“Thanks, Cam. Sorry”—I have to pause, exhale slowly, and try again—“for not calling.”
“Don’t sweat it. Just wanted to make sure everything was all right.” The ringing ceases. “Shit. Gotta call them back or Liv will be up my ass for not taking care of our very important client. ”
It sounds exactly like something Liv, the VP of our division, would say. I snort half-heartedly, then wince.
“Take care!” Cameron singsongs.
My response isn’t much of one. More of a grunt. I drop the phone back into the sea of blankets as soon as it goes dark, and my head isn’t far behind it. This time as I drift off to sleep, I hear that damn ringtone on repeat till at last I slip away.
Roberta’s hand is rougher the next time it brushes against my temple. Not in force, but in texture. It’s the first thing I think when my brain comes online. Roberta needs some fucking lotion.
“She’s awfully warm. ”
Oh. Perhaps I’m not fully online yet after all. Because that was definitely not Roberta’s soothing, melodic voice.
“I haven’t been able to get any medicine in her. Every time I try to wake her, she groans and rolls away from me.”
That’s Roberta. So who the hell…?
A snort sounds nearby. The breeze of it cools my cheek.
“Sounds about right. If you’ll leave the bottle on her vanity, I’ll get her to take some.” Truett’s voice is warm in the middle but laced with sharp edges. Something like concern, if I didn’t know any better.
Truett. Jesus Christ, this bug has taken all my common sense if I couldn’t even identify his voice. I jolt upright, having somehow forgotten my lesson from earlier, just as Roberta places a blue pill bottle next to my sunscreen and mascara on the vanity.
“Whoa, Delilah. Go slow,” Truett says.
“I’m not a horse,” I rasp. But I do pause, letting my equilibrium catch up with the new position.
Tru comes into focus, all sun-kissed skin and soft, golden hair. His smile is turned down at the corners, pinching his dimple. Bronze freckles dot the bridge of his nose, looking boyish compared to the sharp angles of his jaw. His gaze searches my face briefly. Those lips fall and flatten, and his dimple disappears. “You need to take some meds. You’ve got a hell of a fever.”
My brow furrows. “Why are you here?”
Is that sorrow swimming in his gray eyes? They really are slate today. All the crystalline blue that sometimes appears has leaked away, leaving behind solid stone.
“You’ve slept all day.” Roberta peeks around Truett, the nurse side of her checking me over. Even as that persona falls away, her chocolate gaze remains tight with concern. “I’ve got to pick up my granddaughter, but Tru’s gonna take over. Your dad’s fine. His fever broke a while ago, and he’s feeling quite a bit better. Just watching some TV in the living room. But I couldn’t leave you to fend for yourself.”
Her voice screams, You poor, pitiful thing. And even though I feel that way, I don’t want Tru to know it.
“I’m fine.” I swallow the spit that rises with those words. Inhale through my nose. Out through my mouth. I’m not gonna be sick in front of Truett Parker.
Never mind that we got the chickenpox one summer as kids and spent a whole week watching Rugrats reruns together while Lucy brought us meds and snacks. That was before Dad started teaching, so he was at school and Mom had work. Lucy, however, was home and more than happy to care for me, too.
Or who could forget the time he gave me mono in middle school. We only had each other for company for a month. Truett’s no stranger to what I’m like when sick. But that doesn’t mean I need his help. Especially not after laying myself bare last night.
“Sure you are,” Tru says, smiling. “But I’ll be here in case that changes.”
Roberta’s gaze flicks from Tru to me, then back. “Okay, I’ve gotta go. Call if you need anything.”
“Will do,” Truett and I reply simultaneously.
It’s the vigor with which I reply that does me in. Roberta has barely taken two steps into the hall when I double over, arm sweeping under the bed for my puke bucket. Truett surges forward from my vanity chair, which he’d pulled over in front of my bed. He scoops up the bowl and hands it to me with seconds to spare. What little water I’ve been able to put down spills from me in violent heaves, while embarrassment heats any place the fever left unscathed.
Truett stands, and I’m certain he’s so disgusted that he’s second-guessing his promise to Roberta. She’s frozen in the hallway, unsure whether to stay or go. My dad’s voice carries unintelligibly from the living room. Truett mutters something to Roberta that I can’t make out over my gasping breaths. She nods, turns, and walks away. Instead of following her, Truett yanks open a couple drawers on my vanity. When he returns to my side, there’s a giant scrunchie around his wrist.
I hold out my hand for it, still too breathless to verbally request the hair tie, but he bypasses my outstretched palm and comes to stand with his knees pressed against my mattress. I turn to look at him, the world tilting as I do, but his hand gently cups my chin and turns me forward, facing away from him.
“Face the bowl; I may owe you an apology, but that doesn’t mean you get to puke on me.”
His hands sweep through my hair. My greasy, sweaty hair. In all the fantasies I entertained as a teenager about Truett doing this, none of them involved me feverish and gross, with mouse-brown locks sticking to various patches of my neck and forehead. He combs those back, gathering my hair in a knot on top of my head, and ties it off with the scrunchie.
“Better?”
I grunt something that’s meant to be gratitude. My gaze drops to the bowl in my lap. Its disgusting contents stare back at me. Before I can dwell on it for too long or get sick again at the sight of it, the bowl is swept away.
“I can clean it,” I mumble.
“You’re sick. I’ll take care of it. A little puke doesn’t scare me, Delilah.”
I absently wipe at my mouth in case there are any remnants of vomit. “So what’s this I hear about an apology?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Another time. When you’re feeling better.” He sets the bowl on my vanity. The small top drawer is still open from his search, and he plucks something from it. When he returns to my side, the photograph of us from Halloween is pinched between two fingers. “We really were thick as thieves back then, huh? ”
Tears pool along my lash line. I’m entirely too weak to hold them back for long. Not with him standing so close. “Yeah, we were.”
His gaze lifts to mine, clocking the tears within a heartbeat. Of course.
His tongue traces the notches he’s bitten into his bottom lip. In the delirium of my illness, I wonder what it would feel like to do so myself. To sink my teeth into his full bottom lip, then lick the pain away.
I blink, and so does he, like he too had found himself on a train of thought going in the wrong direction.
He taps the photograph once, a breathy laugh escaping his throat; then he does something peculiar. Instead of returning it to the drawer, he tucks it back into the gap it left on my vanity mirror. Like he somehow remembered that’s exactly where it belonged.
The bottle of Advil rattles as he scoops it up and uncaps it, shakes two pills into his palm, and deposits it beside my puke bowl. He holds his hand out, and I open my palm, catching the pills he drops. He hands me the newly refilled glass of water from my bedside table, as though I’d put even a dent in the original contents, and watches intently as I down the meds.
“I’m not tucking them under my tongue, if that’s what you think.” I stick it out to prove my point, regretting it a heartbeat later when I remember how rancid my breath must smell. My cheeks grow hotter, as if the fever wasn’t bad enough.
To his credit, Truett doesn’t seem to notice. He studies his hands, then mine. The distance between them. Or is it me who’s measuring?
Growing up, we were so close I often wondered where Truett ended and I began. It felt like we’d always been two parts of a whole, a continuation of one another. My thoughts would echo in his brain. I’d answer his homework questions before he had to admit he couldn’t work them out. Even now, I find that tether, thin and frayed as it may be, linking my heart to his. Or perhaps I’m imagining it, sick as I am. Wishing it into existence.
“Have you eaten at all?”
I shake my head.
“Thought so. I’ll be right back.”
He disappears, and though it’s what I wished for initially, loneliness crashes around me the moment he does. It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone around to take care of me. I’d almost forgotten how comforting it can be. Mom’s version of helping me when I’m sick is isolating me to my floor of the house, then placing a delivery from whatever restaurant she’s craving at breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the landing for me to crawl out of bed and retrieve.
When he returns a few minutes later with a box of saltine crackers, I’ve already used the bedspread to dry my face. He’s seen enough of me crying since my return. So much for showing him just how much I don’t need him.
I reach for the box of saltines, but he ignores me and plants himself in the chair by my bed. Plastic wrap crinkles around his hand as he retrieves a cracker and holds it out for me. “One at a time. If you eat too fast, you’ll be sick again.”
I roll my eyes, and thank God for rapid-relief gels because the world doesn’t spin too badly when I do.
I pluck the cracker from his fingertips and bring it to my mouth, taking a small nibble of the corner. It’s bland as all get out and I’m not exactly excited by the idea of food right now, but the moment I swallow, I realize how ravenous I actually am.
“You’re probably super dehydrated. When’s the last time you went to the bathroom?”
My jaw slackens. “I’m not answering that.” But he’s got a point. Was it last night? This morning? I truly can’t remember .
He shakes his head softly. “So testy. Why won’t you let me take care of you?”
I try to ignore the way that sentence lodges itself into my heart, taking up far more space than is comfortable. Instead I scoff. “We didn’t exactly leave off on good terms last night.”
“Right.” His lips thin, gaze narrowing on the space above my head. “Bringing us back to the aforementioned apology.”
“I’m all ears now. Completely healed and ready to talk. Look at me, the picture of health.” I gesture to my body, which I’m now realizing is still in the same clothes as last night, bra and all. It’s digging into my rib cage something fierce. If it weren’t for Truett, I’d rip it right off. I settle for shifting uncomfortably in an attempt to dislodge the underwire from my soft flesh. The blankets are pooled around my waist, and I tug them higher to disguise my wiggling.
One eyebrow arches as his gaze drops to mine. “Bra bothering you?”
I huff. “You have no business being that observant.”
“It’s a gift.” He snickers. “Lean forward. I’ll help.”
I balk. If I could go any paler, I would. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Relax, Temptress. I’m not trying to seduce you while you’re sick.”
But what about when I’m not sick? The thought rolls unbidden through my brain. I wince, hoping beyond hope that his ability to read me like an open book didn’t catch that.
The corner of his mouth quirks. Fuck. What is wrong with me? One stomach bug and suddenly I’m stupidly horny for enemy numero uno. Ridiculous.
“I tell you what. I’ll turn my back. You try to take it off. If you can't, just let me know, and I’ll help.”
I scoff again. Cocky bastard. “Fine.”
He spins the chair around. True to his gentlemanly word, he doesn’t peek. I lean forward, sweeping my weak arms behind me and under my shirt. It’s a move as familiar as breathing, but for some reason my fingers can’t quite work the clasp. They shake and tremble. My biceps ache. A little grunt escapes me, and I swear Truett’s ears perk up.
“Need help?”
“Nope. Almost got it.” I finally get the clasp between my fingers. Sweat beads on my forehead with the effort. My arm gives out as I try to slip the hook and eye apart, and I loose a frustrated breath. “Just a new bra, that’s all.”
“Oh yeah? Do they stick more at the beginning?”
I don’t like the way he says it like he knows better. I don’t like that I find myself wondering how he knows better. Or, more importantly, who. I got one kiss, but who got the rest? Is he seeing anyone? The thought sends fire to the base of my neck that has nothing to do with the fever.
Ridiculous, I chastise myself. I do not care.
“Time’s up.” He rises, pivots on his heel, and closes the distance between us before I can protest.
I was just catching my breath, I want to say. I was gonna get it. But the words lodge in my throat as his hands—those strong, calloused hands—sweep under my shirt. They brush the soft skin of my sides, his fingertips dancing lightly over my rib cage. I suck in a breath, resisting the urge to unravel for his touch.
He undoes the clasp with practiced ease that only adds to the twisting in my stomach. He doesn’t linger beneath my shirt. In and out, with all the precision of a military operation. And just as much desire. I have no reason to be disappointed, but the feeling settles in my chest anyway, along with a painful realization.
I’m completely and utterly fucked.
His fingertips snake up my sleeves now, hooking the bra straps and tugging them off my shoulders. As soon as my arms are free, the torture device falls away from my chest, and I let out a sigh of relief .
He steps back, smiling briefly. It’s there and gone in a flash. I miss it so much I forget to breathe.
“Better?”
This time when he asks that, I’m actually able to offer a verbal response. “Yes, thank you.” I retrieve the loose bra from where it’s fallen to my waist and toss it across the room, not even checking to see where it lands. Truett’s eyes widen slightly. His golden cheeks turn a deep russet color. At least, I think that’s what happens. My eyes are growing heavy again now that I’m comfortable, and I could be misinterpreting. Or wishing.
The column of his throat tenses as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. A muscle in his jaw ticks. Those hands find purchase on his hips, bracing against the waistband of time-worn Wranglers. A fresh cut mars his forearm, the blood newly crusted over. There’s a dirt stain on the front of his faded Budweiser tee. He’s clearly worked all day, and yet he’s here taking care of me. Despite everything I said last night.
He was wrong about owing me an apology. Or at least only partially correct.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. It’s half sleep laden, half sorrow. All broken.
The wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens. “For what?”
“For last night. I—” I swallow. The tears are building again, and I only have so long before I throw up or sob or both. I choose my words carefully, trying my best to be clear and measured. “You helped me, and I attacked you out of nowhere. About shit that doesn’t even matter anymore.”
Because why should it matter that he abandoned me all those years ago? It’s not like we’re anything to each other now. There’s no need to drag up old wounds, flaying us both open in the process. Especially over a man I only half-tolerate for my dad’s sake. And drool over when sick. Or when I see him in these Wranglers, which is all. The. Time .
Ugh.
He grimaces, probably exhausted by my constant yo-yoing between bitter asshole and remorseful crybaby. I tug the blanket up over my braless breasts, not that he’d even care to look. I feel so small, lying here while he stands over me, face tense with contemplation.
As though he can hear my thoughts, he forgoes the chair and takes a seat on the bed. The mattress dips around his weight, tilting me into him. I try to scoot away, but it’s no use. There’s only so much bed, and Truett is a big guy. He takes up a good bit of the empty space and way too much of the oxygen in this room.
His hand rests on my thigh, dangerously close to the apex, though he has no way of really knowing. I’m beneath so many layers of blanket, now freezing as the fever breaks. Goose bumps break out across my skin. Because of the fever or his hand, I couldn’t say.
“It does matter, Delilah.” His voice is gruff. Thick. He clears it and swallows, gaze shifting from mine to where his hand lies. “Okay, partial apology now and then you really need to get some rest. You’re turning green.” His cheeks hollow. “I’m sorry I shut you out after everything. And I’m sorry about the party. I thought you left that night because… Well, I don’t know. I just thought you left. And Kyle was gone when I got back, so honestly? I thought y’all went somewhere together.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he squeezes my thigh once to silence me. It does a lot more than that. Heat pools between my legs. I imagine his hand moving higher, pulsing against my hips. My throat constricts. The juxtaposition of my thoughts and the nausea is enough to send my head spinning.
“I didn’t find out until the following Monday about the video. About what Kyle did.”
I’d be less sobered if he’d thrown ice cubes down the back of my shirt. I reach for my water, my hand shaking as I bring it to my lips. Hopefully Tru will write it off as a product of the illness rather than the aftereffects of a waking fever dream.
“You’d blocked my number by then.” His gaze lifts to mine, bright and clear despite the storm that rages inside. “And then I found out you moved with your mom. That you weren’t coming back.”
I gulp audibly. “I—I didn’t realize…”
He nods. “I know. And I’m not telling you as an excuse, because it’s a shitty one at best.”
I lick my lips. “Then why are you telling me?” I rasp.
His thumb moves over my thigh, dipping low. Even through the layers, I feel it searing me. It’ll take a lifetime to forget the sensation.
“You didn’t attack me out of nowhere.” He shakes his head, more to himself than me, I’d wager. “And it isn’t shit that doesn’t matter anymore. Where you’re concerned, it’ll always matter.”
My lips part, but he gets to his feet before I can formulate a response. He retrieves the bowl I’d forgotten about from my vanity and turns to leave the room, foot landing on the strip of brass where carpet meets hardwood in the threshold. “I’ll fix dinner and bring it back in a bit. Holler if you need anything.” He winces like he’s thinking better of that statement. “Actually, you might want to consider unblocking me so you can call instead. Yelling might not be the best move till you’re feeling better.”
I crack a smile. It’s stiff as a rusted water hose wheel, but it eventually cranks into position. “Does that mean I can yell all I want when I’m healthy?”
His lip twitches. “Yeah, Temptress. Get better, and then you can yell at me all you want.”
The door snicks closed behind him. I hear the thud of his retreating footsteps, followed by the distant tenor of my father’s voice. My chest aches. I’ve been so sick, Roberta had to be the one to take care of him. I couldn’t push through enough to be strong for him. What kind of daughter does that make me?
My spine slumps into the stack of pillows. Something hard presses against my hip. I retrieve my phone from where it jabs me, and I’m about to toss it on the floor when I remember what Truett said. It takes a few minutes, but I finally figure out where my blocked contacts are housed. It’s him and that bitch Jessica Mathias, the one who caught Dad and Lucy and spread it all over school in the first place.
I unblock Truett’s number, reinstate him as a contact, then shoot him a text.
Me
Hey, this is Delilah. I unblocked your number.
Truett
Good. Now get some rest. Your beauty sleep awaits.
Me
You saying I need it?
Truett
You’re right. Stay awake. You already have an unfair advantage on everyone else in that department.
I lock the phone and flop onto my belly, smiling despite myself. That smile morphs into a yawn, my jaw popping and crackling as it overtakes me. Every muscle relaxes in its wake. All the feelings of inadequacy, of uncertainty where my dad is concerned, the questions about where I stand—or where I want to stand—with Truett, will have to wait. I’m too weak to reach for another sip of water, let alone to decipher why the moment I close my eyes, it’s Truett that I see. Shirtless in the river, water rippling over his abdomen, as crickets and frogs call out a lullaby that lulls me to sleep.