Page 4 of Head Under Water

I decide to leave the boxes in the car and first go check the place out. If I get a weird vibe from the girl or the apartment itself, I’ll head straight back to Mom’s.

I walk around the building toward the single door on the side, then go through and follow a set of wooden stairs up. They creak under my weight, but the inside is nicer than I expected. The walls have been painted white with patches of exposed brick peeking through. Wall sconces brighten the space with warm lighting, making it all feel cozy.

As someone who has always preferred lamps to overhead lights, I appreciate the ambiance.

On the top floor, I realize I was right about there only being one floor of apartments, but wrong about the number. Instead of two, there’s just one apartment here. A…penthouse of sorts, though as nice as this is, only someone pretentious would call it that.

There are no penthouses in this small town.

The stairs end at a little landing just outside of a black front door. I take a deep breath, adjusting my shirt and running a hand through my hair.

I almost turn around.

Then, with a smile plastered on my face, I knock.

It takes a few seconds to hear footsteps.

And they last…a really long time. It’s like the woman is pacing the house. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. My skin prickles. Are there multiple people here? Maybe it’s a family. How would that even work?

Maybe it’s three little old ladies, and I’m about to be their Blanche Devereaux.

I consider bolting, but it’s too late.

The door is wrenched open, and I’m staring into his face.

His face.

His dark hair is longer than it was at the funeral, messy around the ears. His blue eyes narrow, studying me like he’s not sure he’s actually seeing me, and then, at once, we both grimace.

Our protests overlap.

“Ew. You?”

“Hell no.”

CHAPTER FOUR

AGE 15

The air smells like Sharpie ink and cheap bourbon. It was Ruth’s turn to bring the drinks. Margie always goes for sparkling white wine, while Mom likes red.

The three women are at the kitchen table, glasses half full, a stack of postcards between them. I’m used to this. Election season means the evenings that might’ve once been dedicated to TV or card games are relegated to postcard parties, writing to remind people to vote or sharing information about their favorite candidates. The radio hums softly in the background—local news, always local news.

“Hey, honey,” Ruth says, looking up from her work and lowering the glasses on her nose. “My god, you’re getting tall. Every day, it’s like you’ve grown an inch. But sometimes it still sneaks up on me. Betty, she’s gonna be taller than all of us before long. Look at her.”

“Tell me about it,” Mom says, not looking up. She dots the end of a sentence like it personally offended her.

“Still looks shrimpy to me.” The gruff voice comes from behind me, and I don’t bother to glance in his direction. Will bumps against me to prove a point, and when I finally give in and look at him, he holds a hand level with his forehead, still a whole half-head above mine.

I glare. “Go home, Will. And by home, I mean your home planet.”

He mocks my sneer, moving past me to the fridge. He smells like cut grass and sweat and summer. “Betty, you got any Sprite?”

“In the drawer,” she says. “Be nice, Opal.”

“Yeah, Opie, be nice,” he says, his head buried in the fridge.

“Mom!” I cry, waving a hand at him.