Page 22 of Head Under Water

“He thought we were on a date. Clearly, he could sense our undeniable sexual chemistry. How badly you want me.”

I pretend to barf.

Will’s voice levels out, suddenly serious. “He was jealous.”

Impossible. My breathing stalls. Slowly, I glance over my shoulder. Banks is watching but looks away the second I meet his eyes. I turn back to Will. “He was not.”

“Trust me, he was.” His face remains steady for several seconds, thoughts dancing behind his eyes. He’s always looking at me like that, like he’s deciding something. “So, if you want me to flirt a little, make him even more jealous…” He lifts his hand, and for just a second, I’m almost positive he’s going to touch my cheek, brush the hair from my face, but then his arm falls, and he grips the edge of the table instead. He looks away, returning his gaze to the laptop screen. “I could be persuaded to suffer through it. Just, you know, say the word or whatever.”

“Please don’t.”

He shrugs. “Your loss.”

“I can get dates all on my own, believe it or not. I don’t need your help.”

“Feel free to prove it.”

“Maybe I will.”

He lifts his head, watching me again. Like before. But this time I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

As the evening drags on, his eyes return to me more than his screen. He thinks I don’t realize it, but I’m very aware.

I wish I wasn’t. I wish I could focus.

There’s something strange about the way he’s watching me now, like I’m the experiment he’s trying desperately to understand.

I don’t say another word the rest of the night.

Thankfully, neither does he.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PRESENT DAY

When I wake up, it’s Saturday morning, and the apartment is quiet. Will is nowhere to be found. I breathe a sigh of relief as I make avocado toast in the kitchen. It’s one of the only things I’ve ever mastered on my own. In the city, I ordered most of my meals. Here, though we have meal delivery services, it’s rarely worth the chance that dinner might appear at my door in the hands of an ex, or an old teacher, or someone equally awkward.

And why bother, since Will is apparently a chef now—a reality that’s especially strange considering the many, many times he ruined meals when we were kids. Margie tried to teach the boys, she really did, but Will was hopeless. Always forgetting an ingredient, swapping sugar and salt accidentally, or salt and baking soda. And then there were all the meals he tried to invent, like the time he was convinced he’d created the next big thing by boiling cereal and milk, just to end up with soupy mush.

Once, we were both hopeless in the kitchen. Now it’s just me.

There’s a flash of the memory again—me in the kitchen working tirelessly on a volcano for the science fair. Will ruined it the day of, allegedly by accident. Like he ruins everything else.

I shake the thoughts from my head as I finish my breakfast and get dressed for the day, then zip out to the car. I’m going to surprise Mom. It’s weird now, being able to visit her any time I want to. I’m so used to being hours away, only seeing her for special occasions.

Growing up, Saturday mornings were one of the only times I had Mom all to myself. I’d wake to the smell of cinnamon rolls or apple fritters or blueberry muffins. It was practically the only time Mom baked outside of Christmas and Thanksgiving. She’d turn music on while we ate and leave it going as we cleaned the house together. By the afternoon, Margie, Ruth, Cory, and Will would be over, or we’d be at one of their houses. Or out in the yard if the weather was nice.

But the mornings were just ours.

The drive to Mom’s is short, and the sun is shining despite the cool temperature. I roll down the windows, letting my hand ride the wind, my favorite Maisie Peters album playing loud through the speakers.

When I turn into her driveway, the first thing I see is Will’s truck parked in front of his mom’s house. Huh.

I step out of the car, hoping he didn’t hear me pulling up, though he’ll definitely realize I’m here when he comes outside later. Maybe he’ll just leave us alone.

Maybe.

Mom’s door isn’t locked, it never is, and I don’t knock—she’d be offended if I did. I just push it open and step inside.