Page 65 of Open Water

“Matteo,” Tom almost whines, letting his hands sink down on the table. “You don’t have to replace things you eat here. We all need to eat.”

“Yeah, but I don’t live here. They’re not my things to use.” He says it like it’s the truth. Like this is how he sees life, and to be honest, it makes Tom want to scoop him up in a hug and squeeze him until he sees what Tom sees. Which he can barely explain to himself right now, with Lukas sitting opposite him at the table, smiling at him like he is trying to figure everything out.

“Look, can we all sit down for a second, so I can say something,” Tom starts. Because things have to be said, and right now he doesn't quite know how. Or what. For fuck’s sake.

“I think we should make this a tradition. Like a family thing,” Max says. Sticking a taco in his mouth and chewing loudly as he continues talking. “Every Friday, we do tacos and sit down and eat. Like a family.”

“I’m up for that. I freaking love this stuff.” That’s Matteo, loading his plate.

“What did you want to say, Tom?” Lukas tries, clearly attempting to help. Because no one listens to Tom, apparently. “Fuck, Matteo, this guacamole is awesome.”

Yeah, Lukas isn’t listening to Tom either, because he is doing some kind of orgasmic face and now, everyone is staring at him, giggling quietly.

“Loads of garlic, and crème fraiche. We’re lucky we are all kissing each other, because we will all bloody reek of it later.”

“You are good, Matteo,” Lukas continues. “Who taught you to cook?”

“Taught myself. Well, I really liked Home Economics in Year 9, and we had a nice teacher who let me borrow her cookbooks. I used to take them home and read them, cover to cover, trying to memorise recipes. I didn't get much chance to try them out, but since I’ve moved into this place where I am now, I sometimes try to cook stuff, but I don’t have like all the spices and stuff.”

What is it with teenagers and talking with their mouths full of food? Tom thinks and puts his fork back down on the table. Looking at the bunch of misfits stuffing their faces around the rickety flea market bargain of a kitchen table. It’s not even straight, leaning slightly to one side. He has meant to fix it since he bought the damn thing, but has never really figured out how. Still, everyone is reaching across plates, passing bowls and loading up more food with the sound of chewing and the crunch of tortilla shells filling the air.

“Can I speak?” Tom tries again.

“We’re listening, Dad,” Max mutters.

“We are family,” Tom starts. “I want usallto be a family, and I want it to start now. Which includes you, Matteo, and don’t look so shocked, kiddo, because Taco Fridays is now your job. We all need to bring something to this if it’s going to work, because Max and I have been on our own for so long, and we will need help to figure this out. “

“I can’t afford to buy all the ingredients like this, but I could make a simpler version maybe.” Matteo isn't even looking up from his plate now. His shoulders hunched down.

“Kiddo,” Tom starts. But then, he wants to cry. What kind of fucked-up world has this kid lived in where he feels he has to take responsibility for every fucking aspect of his life, down to paying for every scrap of food he puts in his mouth? It makes Tom furious. That this kid has so little, when someone should have given him the world. “Look, I didn't mean that you pay for it. I meant you cook it. I’m the one who works full time here to look after my kids, and that includes you. You just turn up and put it all together, and then, we all eat. That is how it’s going to work. Okay? Maybe you can give me a list of ingredients you need for things you like to cook? We can make up a menu for each week, then figure out who cooks what, when and if are all home?”

“Matteo has Theatre during the week, but I can cook one night when we’re all here? Just not after therapy, because I get tired and I would burn everything.” Tom almost falls off his chair. The kid just offered to cook. Not that he doubts he can, because he knows Max knows the basics. They used to cook together, when he was younger. Before they got lazy and lost the plot.

“I can cook too,” Lukas says, and God damn, he’s blushing. Like he doesn't quite dare to believe he belongs in this conversation.

“We need a calendar or something,” Max says, taking another big bite of food, sauce dripping down his chin, “So, we know who is here which nights, and how many are eating.”

“Good thinking, kiddo.” Tom smiles. This is going well.

“So, you are okay with me being here sometimes too?” Lukas tries. He does. Max looks totally indifferent and shrugs his shoulders.

“As long as you’re not an arse to Dad, then it’s chill.”

“Max!” Tom almost shouts. “Don’t be rude.”

“It’s okay.” Lukas sighs. “Max, you and I will make a deal. We both look after your Dad, and we both make an effort to not being an arse to each other, and this will be totally chill.”

“What happens at school, then?” Max has a big grin on his face. Like he’s up to no good.

“Can I call you Dad in class?”

Matteo almost chokes on his food, with Max grinning like a three-year-old. And Lukas has gone bright red.

“I’m not here to be your Dad, Max, and for now, you and I are going to be completely civil at school. I haven't quite figured out how I’m going to play this, but I need to go and see the headmaster and let him know that I am seeing your Dad, because it will look really unprofessional if I don't pre-empt any conflicts of interest.”

“Why would you need to do that?” Matteo sounds genuinely interested. And maybe a little concerned.

“Because someone might say that I am giving you, or Max, special treatment since you are family.”

---