Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PRESENT DAY
Which is why, when I open the door and see Will at the stove, my heart sinks. I’ve been here too long already. I promised myself I’d just stay a night or two, but as it turns out, finding an apartment that’s within my budget isn’t going to be as easy as I hoped.
Will looks over, a coy smile on his lips. His glasses from earlier are gone. “Hey, Teach.”
I nod but don’t give him the satisfaction of a snarky response. It’s what he’s waiting for, but I just don’t have the energy for it tonight. Part of me really thought Banks might catch me before George and I left, but he never did.
So now, here I am, feeling foolish, burned out, and frustrated—with myself, with this situation, and with Will.
I just want this day to be over.
“Nice day?” Will asks, watching as I walk across the kitchen toward my bedroom.
I shut the door behind me, ignoring him, and flop down on my bed. My feet hurt. My back hurts. I sniff my shirt—I smell like the school. All I want to do is take a bath and not talk to anyone for the next several days.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Go away, Will.”
He pushes the door open cautiously, and first, I only see his hand, then slowly, his face, eyes closed. “Are you naked?”
“If I was naked, you’d never have gotten the door open.”
He opens one eye, then the other, examining me on the bed. “What’s the matter, short stuff?”
Always with the nicknames. Like he can’t stand to say my name. I cover my face with my hands. “Why do you call me that? I’m not even short.”
He seems to think about that. “Shorter than me. Besides, it rolls off the tongue easier than average-height stuff.”
I groan, and I fully realize I’m being dramatic as I whine, “Why are you here?”
“In my house, where I live, you mean?” He taps his chin with his finger. “Hard to say, really.”
I flop over onto my side. “I assumed you’d be out, drawing sailors to their deaths.”
He chuckles, then comes to sit on the end of my bed without invitation. “Nah, that’s Saturday night. Someone didn’t check the calendar.”
I drop my head against the bed. “Go away, Will,” I repeat. “I’m going to sleep.”
“You’re not going to eat? But then, wherever will you get your energy for sucking the fun out of every room?”
“I’ll order something later.”
He pats my leg, finally moving to stand. “Suit yourself.”
I prop my head in my hand and watch him as he walks away. I hate myself for this already, for asking the question I know he’s waiting for me to ask. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. But also, I need to know. “Since when do you have a kid?”
He turns around slowly, and the grin on his face makes me want to fling myself out the window. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
And with that, he’s out of the room. I wait five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Then, I’m shoving myself up off the bed and meeting him in the kitchen across the island. He’s returned his attention to chopping some green, leafy herb. Parsley? Basil? “Who let you have knives?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “My mommy, because I asked really, really nicely.”
I sit down on a barstool, watching him work. “Seriously, Will. Why didn’t I know you have a kid?”
“Why would you?” he asks, sliding his finger along the knife’s blade to scrape the leaves into a bowl. Then he looks at me. Really, really looks. It’s like being under a magnifying glass. My skin is all itchy and uncomfortable. “Seriously, Opal, why would you know anything about me?”
I look away, pretending to be fascinated with the veining in the island’s countertop. “My mom keeps me updated, against my will.”
He shrugs and returns to his work. The rhythmic chop, chop, chop fills the room, but he doesn’t say anything else.
“How, uh, how old is…” I stop myself. I’m not even sure if he has a daughter or son.
“He’s seven,” Will says.
Second grade, then. There’s a chance I’ll be teaching him next year. That also means Will’s been a dad for seven years, and it’s never once come up over holidays or in conversation. Where has his son been all this time?
“Well, good for you,” I say gently, because what else is there to say? “For sticking around.”
He meets my eyes with a look I can’t read. “You expected something different?”
“It’s not like either of us has much experience with dads sticking around.”
He bobs his head to the side as if to say, fair point.
“Who is—” No. I can’t ask the question I really want answered. It’s too invasive. It’s none of my business. I don’t care who she is, don’t care what their relationship might be. “What’s his name?”
“Richard,” he says.
What a terrible name for a little boy. My brain skids to a stop as the thought crosses my mind. Because…
“But we call him Richie.”
I’ve had that thought before. I know that name.
My face drops. I throw myself forward, grabbing the towel off the island. I wad it into a ball and launch it at his face. He throws one hand up to protect himself with a laugh. “Ow. Hey!”
I burn laser beams through his skin with my eyes. “He’s Cory’s son. Your nephew.”
“Well, yeah.” His face does this stupid little look of realization, then mock embarrassment. “Oh, wait. Did you think…that I was…” He points to himself, then to me. Then back to himself. Thoughtfully, he glances up toward the ceiling. “Ahh, I see where we got our lines crossed there.”
“You’re an ass.”
He laughs, shaking out the towel and draping it over his shoulder.
“Cory had a last-minute emergency at work, and ever since he got joint custody, he’s always terrified Miranda will find a reason to take it away.
So, I offered to go.” He shrugs, turning back to the skillet on the stove and scraping the herbs into the pan.
Whatever he’s cooking, it smells delicious, though I’d never admit it.
“That’s…really nice, actually.” It catches me off guard.
“Yeah, well. It takes a village or whatever. Now, what I really want to hear about is how the reunion with ole Banksy-poo went. Did you guys make out in the closet like old times?”
I curl my upper lip. “You just had to go and ruin it.”
“What? I’m curious.”
“Because you want to tease me.”
“Do I tease you about literally everything?”
“Yes,” I deadpan.
His face drops. “Okay, true.” He lowers two plates from the cabinet and puts a helping of the chicken he’s been cooking onto each one.
It looks…good, unfortunately. It’s in some sort of creamy sauce with sun-dried tomatoes. When he sets the plate in front of me across the island, I pull away. “You don’t need to feed me.”
“Yeah, but if I let you starve, your mom might kill me, and then we’re both dead, so…” He rests his back against the counter behind him, holding his plate. Watching me.
Suspicion stirs in my gut. “Since when do you cook?”
“Since I live on my own and also don’t want to starve.” He’s waiting for me to take a bite.
I look down at my plate, eyeing the food. Then I glance back up at him. He still isn’t eating. I wait, my eyes locked with his.
The moment seems to stretch on forever before he realizes what I’m doing. He throws his head back with a gasp. “Oh my god, you actually think I’d poison you or something?”
“Not poison, but I wouldn’t put a heavy dose of laxatives past you.”
He shovels a large bite onto his fork, then dumps the food onto his tongue, chewing with his mouth open to prove a point. “I’m…waiting because…it’s…hot, you…absolute lunatic.”
I chuckle under my breath at his ridiculous display. Okay, so the food probably was hot. It makes sense. “Oops. Glad we cleared that up.”
He opens the fridge and grabs a can of sparkling water. “Want something?”
“I’ll take a soda, please.”
He hands me a Sprite and takes a drink of his water. The Will I used to know drank Sprite too. Maybe that was always just because he wanted to take something away from me.
“So have you talked to your mom any more about Ruth?” His question draws me out of my head.
“Oh. Um, well, no. I was planning to talk to her in person, but when I was there on Wednesday, we were distracted by the Outlander prequel.”
He shudders. “I still think it’s weird you watch that stuff with our moms.”
“Why?” I already know why. I just want to hear him say it.
“I’ve seen what happens in those shows.” He gives me a discerning look. “Awkward as hell.”
“Our moms know I know about sex, Will.”
He chokes on his food, then grabs the can, sucking down two gulps. He pounds his chest with his fist. Once he’s recovered, though still out of breath, he says, “No, no, I’m fine. Don’t help or anything.”
Shoot. Was I supposed to do something just then? He was fine, right? Either way, he’s okay now. I shrug one shoulder, stabbing my fork into the chicken. “If you die, I get the apartment all to myself.”
He snorts. “Bold of you to think my ghost would give you a second of peace. If I die, I’m haunting the hell out of you, Opie. Forever.”
I shake my head. “Anyway. What should I know about Ruth?” Every time I talk about her, I feel myself slipping into the darkest depths of sadness.
I hear her voice, her laughter. I remember her standing on the porch, calling for us to do a final jump through the freezing sprinkler before she turns it off.
I remember making bird feeders with pinecones and peanut butter.
I remember her painting clear nail polish over our mosquito bites after we’d run through the woods and come home covered in bumps.
I wonder if Will has the same memories, or if the memories he returns to are different. “All I know is that she…”
“Drowned,” Will fills in, his voice gentle too. Reverent. And it’s confirmed. I see it. We share this sadness, like we share so much else. “In the bathtub. She’d been drinking. That’s all we know right now.”
The bathtub.
The image flashes in my head. Ruth sinking under the water. Never resurfacing. I hope it was peaceful. I hope she never knew what was happening. I can’t bear to think she felt even a second of the pain.
It wasn’t unusual. The drinking. Our moms could often be found with glasses of wine or bourbon when we were kids, but Mom and Margie had us to think about, so they had to be responsible. Actually, I’ve never seen them drunk. Even to this day.
Ruth didn’t share the same responsibilities.
I forget about her son because he never lived with her.
Never visited. She ended each night in a quiet house filled with freedom, so it’s no surprise we saw her drunk on more than one occasion.
It wasn’t a big deal, or maybe it was just the only reality we ever knew.
Either way, Mom or Margie always took her home and put her to bed.
I was never afraid of her. She wasn’t a mean drunk, or even an obnoxious one. If anything, she got…quiet. Sad, I’m realizing now.
“But the police think someone might’ve hurt her?” I ask, forcing the heavy fog from my mind. “They must, or the investigation would be over by now, right?”
“There was something about a sleeping pill,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “So, it might’ve been an accident or…self-inflicted. Or…”
“Or someone might’ve given it to her. On purpose.” The sentence feels foreign on my tongue. Impossible.
Will just looks at me, and something sad sits in the air between us. I’ve always assumed it was an accident, and Mom didn’t say otherwise, though I’ve never been able to bring myself to outright ask.
I never once, as a kid, imagined this might be where our lives ended up. Isn’t it terrifying how quickly everything can change?
“Why wouldn’t Mom have told me about this?” I mutter, looking away.
That, too, lingers in the air. Unanswered. Unacknowledged.