Page 18 of Head Under Water

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…”