Chapter 25 #2
My eyes linger on his mouth until I’m caught. He doesn’t look away immediately, just watches, eyes almost intrigued. It’s his turn to drop his gaze. He swipes his thumb across the towel on his opposite shoulder.
“Best I can offer you is my five-star cooking right here.” He pats the counter, then pauses and squints one eye in thought. “Or…barbecue from a restaurant that used to be a tire shop.”
I breathe a laugh full of relief.
He’s not wrong, though. Beckett’s Barbecue is some of the best food you’ll find. The only food, really.
Too bad there are no Italian restaurants so close.
He draws in a slow breath, eyes searching mine.
I study him. It’s like there’s something he wants to say, something on the tip of his tongue, but he’s unwilling to budge.
He pulls his focus away, back to the stove.
“Of course, generous and selfless as I am, I’m willing to share tonight.
If you admit I’m a good cook regardless of my chef-adjacent status. ”
“I’ve only eaten a handful of your meals since I started staying here. I’m not ready to judge.”
He leans forward over the island. “They haven’t all been delicious?”
I want to lie, but I can’t. Because they have been. “Fine. You’re not the worst.”
He smacks the counter with his palm, beaming with pride. “I’ll take it.”
I draw in a deep breath, my mind wandering. “So, I’ve been thinking about everything with Ruth.”
“Which is more than the cops are doing,” Will mutters, tossing the towel off his shoulder and brushing the flour toward the sink.
“Your mom’s the one who found her, right?”
Slowly, he nods.
“Did they see anyone else around? She never got visitors.”
He thinks for a while. “Well, Cory said she’d had something delivered like a week before.
Or, well, he said he saw a blue truck there one day when our moms weren’t home.
When he brought it up later that day, Ruth told him it was a piece for her washing machine, but the police didn’t find any packaging to suggest that was true.
Mom thinks…” He pauses, pressing his lips together with a breath.
“They thought Ruth might’ve been seeing someone. ”
“Seeing someone.” The words leave my mouth slowly, feeling impossible. As long as I’ve known Ruth, she’s never dated anyone. None of our moms did. They were content with the family they built together.
“I think that’s why the police haven’t closed the case,” Will says. “Just, you know, until they locate the guy.”
“And they still haven’t? How long does it take? It’s been over a month now.”
He shrugs but he doesn’t seem to have an answer for me.
Instead, he busies himself with cleaning up and putting things away, still refusing my help. When he’s finished and the countertops are sparkling again, he checks on the pizzas and pulls plates down from the cabinet for us. “How did things go at school today? Anything exciting?”
“Fine.” I almost bring up the birthday crown. I’d been so excited to show Mom a picture of it. But it seems silly now. “How…how were things here?”
My mind flashes back to the sounds. To the scene I keep imagining on the other side of his door. My eyes flick to his hands, then away.
Heat blooms thick like smoke in my chest.
“Good. Good.” He opens the oven door more fully, and the warm, cheesy, garlicky scent fills the room.
It’s to die for.
“I don’t know how long it’s been since I had homemade pizza,” I admit, just to fill the silence.
Why do I care about silence? Silence was always better than talking to Will. But for the first time I’m finding that I don’t mind talking to him so much. Or maybe I’m just hungry. Or trying to distract myself from the embarrassment of earlier.
“Mom used to make it for us all the time,” he says, voice low and thoughtful as he places the pans on the stovetop.
“Yeah. Honestly, that’s the only place I’ve ever had it.”
His eyes twinkle. “Well, we’re going to fix that right now.”
He cuts my pizza first and maneuvers two slices onto the plate, careful not to burn his fingers.
“Thank you.” I hate the way the words taste on my tongue when directed toward him.
“For what?” he challenges, licking sauce from his thumb and looking pleased.
“You remembered what I like on pizza.”
His face falls, strangely. The silence stretches for a beat too long. Then he looks away, busying himself with cutting his own pizza. “It’s, uh, Cory’s favorite too. You’re both weirdos.”
Plate in hand, he moves around the island and toward the living room without waiting for me. I briefly consider eating in my room. I don’t need to assume he wants company. He plops down on one end of the sectional and holds up the remote. “You pick.”
He’s already eating before I take a seat a few cushions away. He tosses the remote to me, barely looking my way.
We eat mostly in silence, except for Will occasionally complaining about the choices the characters are making in my latest favorite miniseries.
“You should write the show runner. Let her know how you feel,” I tease.
He pretends to laugh. “Maybe I will.”
“Or you could write your own show. You know, if you’re not too busy being a chef.”
“So, you admit I’m good.” His lips spread into a wide grin.
“I admit you didn’t burn the pizza.”
He tosses a throw pillow at me without warning, and I narrowly avoid getting hit. I set my plate down and grab the pillow, launching it back his way. He catches it and tucks it behind his back. “You always had a bad arm.”
This time, the insult doesn’t land the way it usually does. Even his tone sounds different. Soft. Laced with familiarity because he has known me as far back as always.
Outside, the sun has set, and the world is dark before I notice the time. It’s late. We’ve watched three episodes already.
Will’s eyes catch mine.
There’s a beast in my chest, and it swells with something primal and alert. What is this feeling? Why is he looking at me like that?
His jaw tightens. He swallows once.
The room feels smaller somehow, like the walls have inhaled and are holding their breath right along with me.
He opens his mouth, but it just hangs there, thought unspoken.
“Do I…have something on my face?” I lift a hand to my chin.
His gaze flicks to my lips, a little too warm.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps…staring. Like he’s trying to decide something.
Tension crackles in the air, lighting the room with sparks and questions I refuse to allow into my brain.
Heat prickles my chest. I’d be mortified if he had even the slightest idea what I’m thinking about right now. The sounds. His sounds. They’re practically a soundtrack repeating in my head.
And now that I know he was alone, there’s no anger left.
Just…something else entirely.
His eyes move back up to meet mine slowly. Lazily. Then he blinks out of his trance and leans forward to stand. “No. You’re good.”
I watch as he moves into the kitchen and sets his plate in the sink. Realizing I should try to help, I join him. This time, he lets me. We work side by side in silence, navigating the tight space between the island and the stove.
Little sparks shoot through my skin every time his skin brushes mine.
He leans over my head for a glass dish to store the remaining slices.
We both reach for the pizza pan at the same time, and his hand closes over my wrist as if by instinct, like he can’t help himself.
I spin around, my back pressed against the counter, front pinned in place by his. He releases my wrist. We both look down at the loss of contact, then back up.
His gaze washes over my face, down my neck. A heavy pause stretches between us like the dough before.
He leans forward.
My breathing stills. Mind goes silent.
His chest presses harder into mine as he grabs something behind me on the counter.
“Olive oil,” he mutters.
He could’ve asked me to move. The old Will would’ve.
I shake my head fiercely, clearing the fog, and scoot to the side. My heart is pounding so hard it’s impossible to form coherent thoughts.
“You okay?” he asks, a hint of amused confusion in his tone. His eyes drag over my face like he already knows the answer.
“Yeah. Um, thanks again for dinner,” I say, backing farther away.
His expression is unbothered, as if he went to no trouble at all. He finishes wiping off the counter and stovetop, then turns abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”
He disappears before I can respond, leaving me lingering in the silent kitchen. I puff out a deep breath, then turn, shaking my hands out at my hips. I open the fridge for a Sprite, relishing the cool air, and lean forward to grab a can.
A hand touches my shoulder from behind. At once, time stops. His skin is warm on mine, his grip gentle.
I’m frozen, waiting.
His thumb shifts forward the tiniest bit, as if stroking my skin, the movement so small it’s almost imperceptible. I’m not even sure he knows he’s done it. I straighten a fraction, but barely at all. Like the slightest shift in my muscles might shatter this moment.
His breath is hot against my skin as he brings his face closer to mine until the moment his mouth is next to my ear.
He hesitates. I feel the pause more than I hear it.
“What are you—”
“I almost forgot.”
Another beat, his breath still there.
“Happy birthday, Opal.”
His mouth lingers close enough that I feel the shape of his words against my skin. Close enough that if I turn my head, our lips might brush.
It takes several seconds to process what he’s said, for my mind to form a fist around it, and when I do, when I finally turn, he’s already gone. Moments later, I hear his door close down the hall.
He remembered.