Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
PRESENT DAY
It’s after four before they arrive, and I have the table lined with bowls of food. I went overboard, clearly, but I needed something to do with my hands as the time ticked by.
It’s nothing extravagant—chicken salad, mashed potatoes, macaroni, spaghetti. It doesn’t even go together, I’m realizing as they come into the house. I was just cooking the things I’m good at. Or, at least, the foolproof foods I trusted myself to make. Things I couldn’t screw up.
I feel useless here, hands tucked behind my back as I watch Cory, Mom, and Will walk into the house. Cory drops onto the couch. Mom pats my shoulder with a sad smile before she makes her way down the hall to the bathroom.
It’s only Will who stops in front of me.
I don’t know what to say. What to ask. How to comfort him. I don’t even know if he wants me to.
“I’m so sorry, Will.”
Tears glisten in his eyes, but he looks away with a sniffle, and when he turns back, they’re gone. He swallows hard, jaw tightening like he’s physically forcing them back. His gaze falls to the table, then slowly returns to me. “You cooked.”
It’s not a question, but I nod, tucking my lips together. “It’s not going to be very good. Not like yours.”
A corner of his lips tips up, still sad but trying. His voice is rough when he speaks, gravelly, like it might fall apart. “So you admit you love my food.”
Just this once, and only because I think he needs to hear it, I lean in, as if exchanging a secret. “I think it might be my favorite.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, but softer. More fragile.
He reaches forward and neither of us seems to know what he’s planning until his hand comes to rest on my shoulder.
His fingers are warm but unsteady. His thumb draws a gentle line over my collarbone.
I suck in a shaky breath. It’s as if I’m an anchor.
As if he just needed to feel something solid to know he’s real.
He withdraws his hand before I’m ready, the loss of contact leaving me cold and empty.
His fingers curl slowly, mouth opens, but he shuts it nearly as fast and folds his hand into a fist. His lips press together, leaving so much unsaid.
With one final look, he moves down the hall and pushes open my old bedroom door, shutting it behind him.
I force out a breath, my hands icy. I wish there was more I could do.
I want to address everything we’ve left unspoken, but it all feels pointless. I don’t want to make this all about me. I just want to help him.
Cory looks up from the couch with a small smile. “It smells nice.”
I don’t know whether to address the fact that I never responded to his text earlier or to tuck that away with things that don’t matter right now.
“I promise it’s nothing.” I pause, gathering myself. “Are you… It’s impossible to ask if you’re okay right now.”
One side of his mouth lifts with a sad smile that doesn’t touch his eyes.
“I just keep thinking about Richie, you know? Like, what am I supposed to tell him? I keep running through the conversation in my head, but it’s always wrong.
” He looks away, eyes scanning the air like an answer might exist there somewhere if he just looks hard enough.
“You’re not going to have to tell him anything because she’s going to be okay.” I take a few steps toward him, lingering until he meets my eyes. “Margie’s going to make it out of this. And she’s going to make some joke about her head being shaved.”
He laughs under his breath. “She’ll probably just start rocking a buzz cut and say she likes it better that way anyway. Less work.”
“She could be like Moira Rose and start a wig collection.”
The smile on his lips looks genuine this time. “You remember when she said she was going to do that?”
A laugh that sounds more like a sob tears from my chest at the memory. “She said Catherine O’Hara’s the only person cool enough to pull it off, but she’d be a close second.”
He rubs a hand through his hair. “She’s right. Coolest person I know.” His eyes flick to mine. “Don’t you ever tell her I said that.”
I draw a line across my lips, pretending to zip them shut. “Is there anything I can do?”
He shakes his head. “You’ve done it already.
I think we probably all just need a nap.
Will you”—he looks toward the kitchen—“save some food for me though? I’m more tired than hungry, but I’ll be starving when I wake up.
” He scoots farther down on the couch without waiting for an answer, stretching out.
Slowly, my smile fades from my lips as my gaze slides to the hall.
I don’t know how I feel about Cory. I’ve just never thought of him in a romantic way. He was always like a brother to me. We’re connected by the same threads as Will and me, but our relationship has always felt different.
Cory is attractive, sure. He was always kind growing up. He included me when Will refused to. He’s safe. Predictable. Easy.
Is it possible I overlooked his feelings all along? A week ago, I would’ve said no. But today? I’m beginning to realize I’ve never understood either of them.
It would be so much easier if I felt for him the way I feel for—
My chest tightens before I can finish the thought. His name skitters in my head, but I stop it. I can’t go there. Will is an enigma. Elusive. He’ll never tell me what he wants, what he’s thinking.
At least Cory could do that much.
The house falls silent, but underneath, I feel a steady current of emotion. Tension.
With Cory tucked against the couch, light snores already filling the room, I walk down the hall toward the bathroom to check on Mom.
I knock on the door. The shower is running, but leaning my head closer, the sound of her sobs is undeniable.
She’s trying to be brave for all of us, and I both love and hate her for it.
She doesn’t have to hold the weight of this alone. But for now, I have to let her process this however she’s going to.
On my way back down the hall, I stop in front of my old bedroom. Maybe Will’s napping, but it would have to be on the floor since Mom replaced my old bed with craft tables. I tap the door so softly it’s almost inaudible. If, by some chance, he is sleeping, I don’t want to wake him.
When he doesn’t answer, I ease the door open.
Will is on the computer at the desk in the corner. At first, I assume he must be researching, but instead, I realize he’s staring at a spreadsheet.
Numbers. Columns.
I push inside farther. His head tilts in my direction ever so slightly. He’s not looking at me, but he’s clocked that I’m here. “You shouldn’t be working right now. You should be resting.”
He scrolls down, clicks on an empty cell. His grip on the mouse is so tight his knuckles have gone pale. “I just need to finish this.”
“Will.” I grab hold of the chair, fingertips brushing his shoulder. I give a gentle tug, waiting to see if he’ll resist. He doesn’t. Slowly, I spin him around to face me. “The work can wait.”
His eyes flick across my face, down my neck, to my hands. His throat works like he’s swallowing something he’s not ready to say. “I can’t sit still. I need to do something. I need to be busy.”
I lift my palms and smooth my thumbs over the stubble on his cheeks, electricity crackling in my veins. “So eat. Shower. Talk to me. But don’t work. Not right now. Please. Give yourself time to…to process.”
His eyes soften in the corners when he meets my gaze. For just a second, he looks younger. The Will I remember from before. Lost.
He leans his cheek into my hand, closing his eyes, warm breath against my skin. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding it in all day.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, and for just a moment, I think he’s going to stop me. But he doesn’t. He’s holding me in place, dragging out the moment like he doesn’t want it to end.
He pushes up from the chair so he’s towering over me, his stormy gaze pinning me in place. Each breath feels like I’m fighting for it.
He lifts a single finger, then runs it down the front of my face as if he’s caressing me, keeping the smallest amount of space between our skin so we never actually connect.
He breathes out like he’s accepting something. Giving in to something. At last, he touches me, smoothing his hand over my cheek, cradling my jaw.
His eyes scan me like I’m something new he’s just discovered.
Something dark flashes across his features. His thumb stills against my skin. His jaw goes stiff, and he nearly withdraws. I see it. I feel the moment it happens.
Instead, he opens his mouth, and the question slips out.
“Did you say yes to Cory?”
“I…” The words slam into my chest. My pulse kicks up. “We don’t have to talk about that right now.”
He just stares, his lips a hard line. “I want to talk about it.” His voice drops, rougher now. Like he’s barely holding on to control. “It’s all I want to talk about.”
His stubbornness ignites a fire in me. “Why, Will?” My heart hammers in my chest, my eyes searching his. “Are you planning to punch him too?”
His lips quirk, more like a muscle twitch than a smile.
We’ve never fully addressed that.
His thumb draws a circle across my jawbone. This touch is suddenly different. Possessive. Something changes in his eyes. He lowers his face closer to mine until our noses brush. It feels like a fever dream.
“I guess you haven’t figured it out yet, Opal,” he murmurs, breath warm against my mouth, “but fucking no one can be mean to you.” He hesitates, then gives a small jerk of a nod. “Except me.”
Then he drops my chin and leaves the room.
I stay frozen for a long, long time, listening to his footsteps fade. The unspoken truth sinks into my skin.
I’ve always been afraid to open this door—to fully acknowledge whatever exists between Will and me. Even the small peeks I’ve taken over the years, the what-ifs, have felt too dangerous.
But the fact remains, undeniable and terrifying. Saying yes to Cory is saying no to Will, and as much as I can’t open that door yet, as much as I know I may not ever be able to, I’m not sure I can lock it either.