Page 44 of Head Under Water

“Fine.” I almost bring up the birthday crown. I’d been so excited to show Mom a picture of it. But it seems silly now. “How…how were things here?”

My mind flashes back to the sounds. To the scene I keep imagining on the other side of his door. My eyes flick to his hands, then away.

Heat blooms thick like smoke in my chest.

“Good. Good.” He opens the oven door more fully, and the warm, cheesy, garlicky scent fills the room.

It’s to die for.

“I don’t know how long it’s been since I had homemade pizza,” I admit, just to fill the silence.

Why do I care about silence? Silence was always better than talking to Will. But for the first time I’m finding that I don’t mind talking to him so much. Or maybe I’m just hungry. Or trying to distract myself from the embarrassment of earlier.

“Mom used to make it for us all the time,” he says, voice low and thoughtful as he places the pans on the stovetop.

“Yeah. Honestly, that’s the only place I’ve ever had it.”

His eyes twinkle. “Well, we’re going to fix that right now.”

He cuts my pizza first and maneuvers two slices onto the plate, careful not to burn his fingers.

“Thank you.” I hate the way the words taste on my tongue when directed toward him.

“For what?” he challenges, licking sauce from his thumb and looking pleased.

“You remembered what I like on pizza.”

His face falls, strangely. The silence stretches for a beat too long. Then he looks away, busying himself with cutting his own pizza. “It’s, uh, Cory’s favorite too. You’re both weirdos.”

Plate in hand, he moves around the island and toward the living room without waiting for me. I briefly consider eating in my room. I don’t need to assume he wants company. He plops down on one end of the sectional and holds up the remote. “You pick.”

He’s already eating before I take a seat a few cushions away. He tosses the remote to me, barely looking my way.

We eat mostly in silence, except for Will occasionally complaining about the choices the characters are making in my latest favorite miniseries.

“You should write the show runner. Let her know how you feel,” I tease.

He pretends to laugh. “Maybe I will.”

“Or you could write your own show. You know, if you’re not too busy being a chef.”

“So, you admit I’m good.” His lips spread into a wide grin.

“I admit you didn’t burn the pizza.”

He tosses a throw pillow at me without warning, and I narrowly avoid getting hit. I set my plate down and grab the pillow, launching it back his way. He catches it and tucks it behind his back. “You always had a bad arm.”

This time, the insult doesn’t land the way it usually does. Even his tone sounds different. Soft. Laced with familiarity because he has known me as far back as always.

Outside, the sun has set, and the world is dark before I notice the time. It’s late. We’ve watched three episodes already.

Will’s eyes catch mine.

There’s a beast in my chest, and it swells with something primal and alert. What is this feeling? Why is he looking at me like that?

His jaw tightens. He swallows once.

The room feels smaller somehow, like the walls have inhaled and are holding their breath right along with me.