Page 23 of Head Under Water

My heart sinks.

There, at the kitchen table on the far side of the room, sit Mom and Will.

Mom beams. “Well, look who finally stopped by.”

I shut the door behind me. “I was here on Wednesday.”

She bobs her head. “Come on in. We’re having breakfast. Want some pancakes?”

I swallow. My throat suddenly feels like I’ve already shoved pancakes into it, like I’m choking. Drowning.

Ruth.

Her face flashes in my mind at the word. The reminder.

I blink it away, then cross the room and stand next to the table. Will is sitting there, hands resting on either side of the plate in front of him, looking too calm. Far too happy.

“What are you doing here?”

“I—”

He starts to answer, but Mom is faster. “Will fixed my sink for me.”

“Fixed your sink?”

“Oh, yeah. It wasn’t draining again. He has to come fix it for me every once in a while.”

“Well, that’s…” I clear my throat, trying to form sentences. “Since when do you know how to fix sinks?”

“Oh, Will fixes all kinds of stuff for me. The sink, the back porch steps, a few cracks in the walls, some loose shingles on the roof.”

I don’t know what to make of this. The Will I know can’t do any of those things. I can’t even imagine him holding a hammer. He’s…a jerk. He’s not helpful.

What does he want?

“Sit down, now,” Mom says. “I’ll get you some breakfast.”

“I’ve got it,” Will says, standing up. He moves past me, his hand brushing my wrist, chest nearly touching my arm. I don’t hold my breath quickly enough to avoid the scent of him. No longer all grass and sweat and boy. There’s something older there, something heavy like driftwood and rain-soaked earth. Almost electric. All grown-up.

I hate that I still notice. I hate that I remember.

He opens the cabinet and draws down a plate. Maybe this is how he’ll poison me. Get me to let my guard down last night, then strike to get the job done today.

I move forward toward the stove, but as I reach, he’s quicker. He leans around me, boxing me in as his hand slides down over mine to take the spatula.

“Sit with your mom,” he says, his voice low, controlled. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure your pancakes are swimming, just the way you like ’em.”

My breath hitches as I feel his exhale on the back of my neck. I jerk away, but only slightly. Not enough. “You don’t know what I like.”

There’s a laugh from somewhere deep in his chest. “I think we both know I do.”

I pull back farther until he retreats, giving me two more steps of space. I hold out one hand, then the other. “That’s okay. I’ll do it.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking over mine for longer than necessary. The faintest twitch of amusement lifts his lips. “Whatever you want, Opal.” He sets the plate and spatula in my palms.

My chest tightens. Rage flares. I hate that he knows how I like my pancakes. I hate that he’s here helping my mom. And at the same time…I don’t.

And I hate that too.