Page 17 of Head Under Water

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.