Page 43 of Head Under Water

The words sit with me, the fact that he’s put any thought into it at all. Who I’ll end up with and what he might be like.

Strange. This man who was once just as hopeless in the kitchen as I am.

“I wouldn’t starve,” I argue, clearing the fuzzy thoughts from my head. “I’m much too resourceful for that. I’d just eat cereal or peanut butter and jelly for every meal.”

“So, basically, the way you live now,” he says, setting the timer.

“Exactly. Only until I find my chef husband.”

He watches me from the corner of his eyes, still half turned toward the stove. Finally, he sighs. “Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, Teach, but you moved to the wrong town for that.”

I blink, feigning shock. “You mean Clinton isn’t booming with five-star restaurants? Someone should really update the brochures.”

He licks a bit of sauce from his thumb. Slowly. Without thought.

My eyes linger on his mouth until I’m caught. He doesn’t look away immediately, just watches, eyes almost intrigued. It’s his turn to drop his gaze. He swipes his thumb across the towel on his opposite shoulder.

“Best I can offer you is my five-star cooking right here.” He pats the counter, then pauses and squints one eye in thought. “Or…barbecue from a restaurant that used to be a tire shop.”

I breathe a laugh full of relief.

He’s not wrong, though. Beckett’s Barbecue is some of the best food you’ll find. The only food, really.

Too bad there are no Italian restaurants so close.

He draws in a slow breath, eyes searching mine.

I study him. It’s like there’s something he wants to say, something on the tip of his tongue, but he’s unwilling to budge. He pulls his focus away, back to the stove. “Of course, generous and selfless as I am, I’m willing to share tonight. If you admit I’m a good cook regardless of my chef-adjacent status.”

“I’ve only eaten a handful of your meals since I started staying here. I’m not ready to judge.”

He leans forward over the island. “They haven’t all been delicious?”

I want to lie, but I can’t. Because they have been. “Fine. You’re not the worst.”

He smacks the counter with his palm, beaming with pride. “I’ll take it.”

I draw in a deep breath, my mind wandering. “So, I’ve been thinking about everything with Ruth.”

“Which is more than the cops are doing,” Will mutters, tossing the towel off his shoulder and brushing the flour toward the sink.

“Your mom’s the one who found her, right?”

Slowly, he nods.

“Did they see anyone else around? She never got visitors.”

He thinks for a while. “Well, Cory said she’d had something delivered like a week before. Or, well, he said he saw a blue truck there one day when our moms weren’t home. When he brought it up later that day, Ruth told him it was a piece for her washing machine, but the police didn’t find any packaging to suggest that was true. Mom thinks…” He pauses, pressing his lips together with a breath. “They thought Ruth might’ve been seeing someone.”

“Seeing someone.” The words leave my mouth slowly, feeling impossible. As long as I’ve known Ruth, she’s never dated anyone. None of our moms did. They were content with the family they built together.

“I think that’s why the police haven’t closed the case,” Will says. “Just, you know, until they locate the guy.”

“And they still haven’t? How long does it take? It’s been over a month now.”

He shrugs but he doesn’t seem to have an answer for me.

Instead, he busies himself with cleaning up and putting things away, still refusing my help. When he’s finished and the countertops are sparkling again, he checks on the pizzas and pulls plates down from the cabinet for us. “How did things go at school today? Anything exciting?”