Page 118 of Glitched Play

"It's adorable," I say.

"It has excellent soup."

"That's the most practical recommendation ever."

"The soup is objectively excellent."

Halfway through lunch, my eyes drift toward him wanting to ask him the question that’s been on my mind since the early morning hours. I don’t know if I should, it’s kind of coming out of the blue, but I have a need-to-know things. Once I know that I don’t know something, it eats through me. It’s half the reason I am good at what I do.

I take one more bite, chew twenty-seven times like my mom taught me. I never do this but I’m wobbling on whether to ask. Finally, I blurt out, "Were your mom and dad divorced?"

His sandwich pauses halfway to his mouth.

"No."

"Oh."

“Why?”

“I saw the family picture in your room.”

"My mother died."

His voice stays even.

Matter-of-fact.

My heart sinks because even though my mom doesn’t understand me, she was there. "I'm sorry."

He gives one small nod.

That's all he says. No dramatic pause. No invitation to dig deeper. So, I let it be.

Instead, I smile, softly. "Okay."

He studies me. "Okay?"

"You'll tell me more someday."

"Perhaps."

"But today...," I steal one of his fries. “Today I want to know embarrassing little-kid Witt stories."

"You assume they exist,” he says with no inflection in his tone.

"I know they exist."

"They're classified."

“I’ll bribe Noelle."

He tilts his head and considers the thought and says, “She is vulnerable to baked goods."

"I knew it."

He sighs. “But do you bake?”

“No but I can order them from the bakery with the pecan braids.”