Grief 7.12b

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the living room curtains, draping uneven golden lines over the scuffed hardwood floor. Taylor sat cross-legged on the couch, a worn paperback in one hand and her other absently tracing the stitching of the couch cushion. The knock at the door startled her, the sound sharp and unexpected in the otherwise still house.

She frowned, her brow creasing.

No one visited unannounced.

Not anymore.

She set the book down, closing it with her thumb tucked between the pages. As she approached the door, her chest tightened slightly, the odd weight of unease settling in. It wasn't fear exactly—just the vague, persistent discomfort she always felt when something unpredictable disrupted her carefully managed world.

Opening the door, Taylor's stomach dropped when she saw Greg standing there. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked completely out of place on her modest porch, the edges of his red hoodie catching the wind as he shifted his weight. Her surprise was quickly swallowed by irritation.

Of all people, it had to be him.

"Greg?" she blurted, her tone edged with disbelief. "How do you even know where I live?"

Greg's sheepish grin spread across his face, and he raised a hand to scratch the back of his head in a gesture that felt far too practiced. "Uh, Winslow isn't great at, you know, keeping records secure," he offered, his voice light, almost teasing.

She stared at him, dumbfounded. "You hacked the school records? Seriously?"

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. "Hacked is a strong word. It's not my fault their password was literally 'admin123.'"

God, that does sound like Winslow. Taylor's frown deepened, her arms crossing over her chest as she leaned against the doorframe. Christ….

She wasn't sure what unsettled her more—the fact that he'd gone to the trouble of finding her address or that he was standing here now, looking far too casual about the whole thing.

"What do you want, Greg?" Her voice was sharper than she intended, but she didn't apologize.

She felt raw, exposed, standing there in her black t-shirt and denim shorts, less armor than her usual baggy clothes. She felt comfortable enough to wear most of her new wardrobe inside the home, at least. Not quite ready to walk the streets of Brockton Bay in them, though. Maybe by mid-summer.

It wasn't just the clothes, though; it was the way he looked at her house, his gaze flicking briefly to the peeling paint on the porch railing and the patchy grass in the front yard before returning to her.

"Relax," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm not here to sell you anything. I just..." Greg hesitated, the grin faltering for a moment before snapping back into place. "Look, I figured I owed you. After, you know, last time."

Taylor's fingers tightened around her arms. She hadn't forgotten their last conversation, the way his usual bravado had crumbled under the weight of what she'd told him about Emma. Seeing him like that—vulnerable and shaken—had been strange, almost disorienting. And now here he was, looking like none of it had touched him at all.

Greg glanced past her into the house, his eyes scanning the dimly lit interior. He let out a low whistle, his tone half-joking but with just enough edge to make her bristle. "So, are we doing vampire rules, or...?"

She blinked, confused. "What?"

"You know, like, you have to invite me in," he said, smirking. "Or I can't cross the threshold or whatever."

The sheer audacity of it made her want to slam the door in his face. Instead, she exhaled sharply, her irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. "You're not a vampire, Greg."

His grin widened. "But you're not saying no."

Taylor fought the urge to roll her eyes.

It wasn't just his words; it was the way he carried himself, like he expected the world to bend around him. It reminded her too much of Sophia, of Emma, of the kind of confidence that came with knowing you were untouchable.

But as much as she wanted to tell him to leave, she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. Maybe it was the lingering guilt from their last conversation, maybe it was the great mood from skipping school to hang around with Sir Prodigy for a couple hours today or maybe it was something else entirely—something she didn't want to examine too closely.

"Fine," she muttered, stepping back and gesturing for him to come in. "Just... don't touch anything."

Greg stepped inside, pausing just past the doorway. He gave her a look, one of those infuriatingly unreadable expressions that made her skin crawl. She closed the door behind him, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the space felt with him in it.

He turned to face her, his presence somehow larger than she remembered it being before, back when they’d gone to the same school.

Taller, broader, more solid.

It wasn't just his size, though; it was the way he stood, the quiet confidence in the set of his shoulders and the way his eyes met hers without flinching.

And for the first time since she'd opened the door, Taylor felt a flicker of something she couldn't quite name. It wasn't fear, exactly. Just... unease.

As Greg stepped over the threshold, Taylor could feel her irritation mounting. He moved like he belonged there, his every step casual, almost leisurely, as though he wasn't invading her space at all.

"Also, little note," Greg said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "If I was a vampire, you really shouldn't have invited me in."

Taylor narrowed her eyes. "The sun's still out." Her tone was flat, every word deliberately devoid of interest.

Greg smirked, unbothered as always. "I could be a daywalker."

She let out a sharp breath through her nose and closed the door a little harder than necessary. "I don't care. I don't care. I don't care," she muttered under her breath, each repetition quieter but no less forceful, more for herself than him.

He followed her into the living room, looking around with an expression she couldn't quite read. It wasn't judgment, but it was something close enough to make her skin crawl. The silence between them stretched thin, the kind of awkward that made Taylor's thoughts louder, more insistent.

Finally, she broke it, her voice cutting through the air with more edge than she intended. "So why are you here?"

Greg stopped, half-turning to face her. For a moment, he looked genuinely taken aback, but the expression vanished almost instantly, replaced by a grin that was too smooth to be real. "Whoa, rude. Not even a 'Can I offer you a drink' first?"

Taylor stared at him, deadpan. "Can I o-"

"Not thirsty, don't bother," he interrupted, waving her off like she was an NPC in a video game. He glanced around the room again, his eyes landing briefly on the secondhand furniture, the mismatched curtains, the faint water stain on the ceiling. When his gaze swung back to her, there was something in it that wasn't quite pity but came close enough to make her chest tighten. "But seriously, I'm just here because I need to know more."

More. The word hit her like a thrown pebble, small but sharp. It echoed in her head as she stared at him, confusion and annoyance swirling together into something heavier, more uncomfortable.

"More what?" she asked finally, her arms crossing over her chest once more, a defensive wall she didn't even realize she was building.

Greg shrugged, but it wasn't the easy, carefree gesture she was used to now. His shoulders were too tight, his expression slipping for just a second into something raw before the smirk returned, smaller this time. "Just… more. You told me about how bad the locker was, but..." His voice faltered, and he looked away, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

Taylor's brows knit together. He looked... uncomfortable, almost uncertain, and it was such a familiar jump right back to the old Greg she remembered that it threw her off balance.

"And Emma's been calling me nonstop for days now," he continued, his words picking up speed like he was trying to outrun whatever was chasing him. "I haven't picked up because... I don't know if I can talk to her without just... believing her and giving in... and I... I know I never really paid attention to how bad you were getting it, I just... it was Winslow, you know? Everyone got their shit pushed in. You know, I… and yeah, kids are weird, and they stare at the weird kid like a zoo exhibit and that was me and I thought that was just you too and that that was also normal... and we... "

He trailed off, licking his lips like he was searching for the right words and coming up empty. Taylor watched him, her arms still crossed, her irritation shifting into something more complicated. The way he was rambling, stumbling over his own thoughts—it was the old Greg, the one she'd known back at Winslow, the one who couldn't hold a conversation without tripping over himself.

It was almost comforting in a way, like slipping into a pair of old shoes you forgot you owned. But it was also frustrating, like those same shoes pinching in all the wrong places. The Greg standing in her living room wasn't the same boy she remembered, but moments like this made her wonder if he was trying to be.

"I just..." Greg's voice broke through her thoughts, softer now, almost hesitant. "Why is Emma like this? Why would she-?"

The silence that hung between Taylor and Greg after his question wasn't just heavy—it was suffocating. It pressed against her ribs, settled in her throat, and buzzed faintly at the back of her mind like an old TV left on in another room. She wasn't sure how to answer him; she wasn't sure she wanted to.

But the look on his face—earnest, pleading, almost desperate—made her falter.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, forcing the tension in her shoulders down as she motioned to the sofa. "Sit down," Taylor murmured, her tone more resigned than inviting.

Greg nodded, his movements awkward, a little jerky, as though he was trying to match her sudden seriousness. The blond boy who had waltzed into her living room with a vampire joke seemed far away now. He took the armchair opposite her, perching on the edge like he might spring up at any second. Elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced, his posture radiated nervous energy.

His eyes didn't leave hers, and she couldn't decide if that made it better or worse.

Taylor tucked her legs beneath her as she sat down, the worn fabric of the sofa familiar beneath her fingertips. It creaked faintly under her weight, a sound she usually ignored but now seemed deafening in the quiet. The living room felt too small suddenly, the walls closer than they'd been a moment ago, and the distant hum of traffic outside only made the silence between them more unbearable.

"I just... I need to know more," Greg said finally, his voice low but insistent, as though he was afraid she might cut him off. "About Emma. About what you said last time."

His words settled over her like a weight, dragging her back to the memories she'd been trying not to think about. She looked down at her hands, fingers knotting together in her lap, the familiar nervous habit grounding her just enough to meet his gaze again.

"Emma," she began, the name alone sharp enough to make her mouth go dry. Her voice was steady, but the effort to keep it that way was exhausting. "Emma used to be my best friend."

Greg leaned forward slightly, his expression softening with what might have been sympathy. She hated that. She didn't need his pity. But there was no stopping now; the words were already spilling out, dredged up from the dark corners of her mind where she usually kept them locked away.

"That was before high school," she continued, her voice tightening despite herself. "Before... everything changed."

She glanced at Greg, half-expecting a flippant comment or an interruption, but he just nodded, urging her silently to go on. The weight of his attention was uncomfortable, but also... steadying, in a strange way.

"It started two years ago," Taylor said, her hands clenching the fabric of her shorts without realizing it. "When we started at Winslow. Emma changed over the summer before school... turned into someone I didn't recognize."

Greg's brow furrowed, his confusion plain on his face. "Changed how?" he asked, his voice cautious, like he was afraid of pushing too hard.

Taylor's lips pressed into a thin line. "She used to be kind. Funny. Caring. She was... she was my person, you know?" She forced the words out, even as they tasted bitter. "And then, all of a sudden, she wasn't. It was like... like a switch flipped. She wasn't just distant—she was cruel."

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Greg stayed quiet, but his jaw tightened, and she caught the way his knuckles whitened slightly where his hands rested on his knees. It was almost enough to make her stop. Almost.

"It wasn't just her," Taylor added after a moment, her voice dropping to something closer to a whisper. "Sophia and Madison followed her lead, but Emma was the worst. She made it... personal."

Greg finally broke his silence, his voice low and rough. "Personal how?"

Taylor hesitated, her nails digging into the palm of her hand. The memories were sharp and jagged, but she pushed forward anyway. "Sophia was physical," she said, her tone flattening as she forced herself into a clinical detachment. "Shoving, tripping, a punch when no one was looking. But Emma..." She trailed off, the words catching in her throat.

Greg leaned forward, his eyes wide, waiting.

"Emma destroyed my mom's flute," Taylor said finally, her voice cracking just enough to betray her. "She mocked her death, called me... horrible things. She spread rumors that I was a whore, a druggie. She made it a game for everyone else to join in."

Greg's fist tightened against his knee, the tension in his shoulders coiling like a spring. His earlier lightheartedness had evaporated, replaced by something darker and more serious. "That's... that's just sick, Taylor," he said, his voice low but steady. "How did you even deal with that?"

The question caught her off guard. Taylor looked away, her gaze fixing on a spot in the corner of the room as the faintest shimmer of tears began to blur her vision. She refused to let them fall. "It wasn't easy," she admitted quietly, her voice thick. "I felt trapped, like every day was a test of how much I could endure." The words felt like they were being pulled from her, one by one, as if they didn't want to be said aloud.

Greg leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and the usual restless energy that clung to him seemed to ebb. "And Madison?" His tone was softer this time, almost hesitant.

Taylor gave a short, bitter laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Madison," she repeated, the name tasting like ash on her tongue. "She did things that seemed small, but they weren't. They were insidious." Her fingers curled into the fabric of her shorts, nails digging into the material. "Stole my homework. Hid my books. Messed with my locker. Little things, but constant. Like she was trying to chip away at me day by day, piece by piece."

Greg sat back, exhaling through his nose. "Taylor, I..." He trailed off, stumbling over his words as he glanced around the room, searching for something that wasn't there. "I uh... I mean, I wanna say I'm sorry I didn't see it. I saw it, but I thought it was just... normal, you know? Just Winslow."

She shook her head, the movement slight but deliberate. "It's whatever, Greg," she said, her voice flat. She couldn't decide if she believed herself. "I didn't let anyone see the really bad stuff. I thought I could handle it, that it would stop. But after the locker..." She stopped, her voice cracking slightly as the weight of the memory pressed down on her chest, making it hard to breathe.

"The locker," Greg echoed, his voice barely more than a whisper. There was something in his tone that made her look up.

Taylor swallowed hard. "They shoved me in an old locker," she said, her tone detached, as though she were reading from a script. "I told you how bad it was already, how it was full of..." She faltered, her throat tightening. "It doesn't matter. I was in there for hours before anyone found me."

Greg's jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white where they gripped the edge of the armchair. He nodded slowly, once, as though the motion cost him something.

"It's why I told you about Emma. What she did," Taylor continued, her voice firmer now. She met his gaze, her expression sharp and unyielding. "Because people should know what she's capable of. Why she's not this perfect person they think."

The silence that followed was thick, almost unbearable. Greg nodded again, his head dipping lower this time, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy. "I needed to know this. Thank you for telling me, T-"

"It's whatever," Taylor interrupted, her words rushed, her voice trembling. She dropped her head into her hands, the weight of everything she'd said finally crashing down on her. "I'm at Arcadia now. It's fine... I guess." She felt exposed, raw, like she'd been flayed open and left to bleed. "I just... I just need a moment."

She barely registered the sound of Greg shifting in his chair, the faint creak of the springs as he adjusted his position. After a moment, there was more movement, and then the sound of footsteps crossing the floor.

Taylor stiffened as she felt a hand on her back. Her entire body went rigid, her breath catching in her throat. She raised her head slowly, fixing Greg with a look that was equal parts incredulous and annoyed. His hand was still there, resting in the middle of her back, and she could feel the warmth of it through the thin fabric of her shirt.

"What do you think you're doing?" She asked, her tone sharp enough to cut.

Greg's awkward smile did little to mask the uncertainty in his eyes. "Just thought you could use a hand," he said, his voice light but unsure.

"You want to move it?" She shot back, raising an eyebrow.

Greg hesitated, his mouth opening as if to respond, then closing again. His hand didn't move. Finally, he opened his mouth once more, his words coming out haltingly. "Do you... want me to move it?"

Taylor's eyebrow arched instinctively, skepticism etched into her expression as Greg's words hung awkwardly in the air. "Why wouldn't I?" She repeated, her voice clipped, laced with her signature brand of doubt.

Greg leaned back slightly, his face morphing into an exaggerated attempt at nonchalance. "Well, you know," he started, waving a hand as if the rest of the sentence were obvious, "sometimes people need a shoulder to cry on and, not to toot my own horn, but I've got some pretty nice shoulders."

The sheer absurdity of his delivery made Taylor's brain stall for half a second. What did he just— Her gaze flicked involuntarily to his arms. Even through the jacket, she could tell. Damn it, they are broad.

Realizing where her thoughts were going, she yanked them back like a runaway kite in a storm, narrowing her eyes. Wait... Is he flirting with me? Now?! The thought struck her like a low blow, her suspicion sharpening. "...What's that supposed to mean?"

The words came out more confrontational than she intended, but she wasn't about to let him think she was impressed, much less flustered. Her narrowed gaze locked onto his face, daring him to explain.

Greg's eyes widened in panic, his hand retreating from her like it had been burned.

"No, no, no! Nonono, not like that!" The words tumbled out so quickly they tripped over each other. His hands shot up defensively, palms out like he was surrendering to a cop. "I just thought you needed some comfort or something. You know, friendly comfort."

Her lips twitched at the sheer awkwardness radiating off him. God, he looks like a kicked puppy. The image nearly made her laugh out loud. For all his new swagger and occasional moments of surprising competence, there was still plenty of the old Greg Veder under there, bumbling and clueless. She tilted her head, letting a sliver of amusement slip into her voice. "And what kind of ‘comfort’ were you trying to provide, Veder?"

Greg froze, his expression hovering between embarrassment and determination. "...Not the kind that would get your dad mad at me, Hebert."

"And what do you think my dad would get mad at?" She shot back, folding her arms across her chest.

Greg hesitated for a beat, then his mouth quirked into a lopsided grin. "C'mon, I think I know what a dad would get mad at. I got a B in health class, okay?"

Taylor blinked, thrown by the randomness of the statement. "Let's say I believe you," She said slowly, as if humoring a small child.

"Why wouldn't you?" Greg countered. He cupped his face dramatically with both palms, dimples appearing as he gave her a closed-mouth smile so forced it belonged on a toothpaste commercial. "You don't trust this face?"

Taylor rolled her eyes so hard she practically saw the inside of her skull. "Not in the slightest."

"Darn." He clicked his tongue and dropped his hands, snapping his fingers like an old man as he shook his head. "Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued despite herself. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

His eyes flicked up to hers, blue meeting brown in a moment of wordless challenge. The smirk returned, sharper this time. "Well, you wear glasses. You're smart enough to put two and two together."

Her tongue pressed into the side of her cheek as she hummed, trying not to laugh at the audacity of it all. He's impossible. "Wow. Is this how you comfort people, Greg?"

"Usually, yeah. What's wrong with it?"

The sheer casualness of his response broke her resolve. A short, sharp snort escaped before she could stop it. Once the first laugh slipped through, the rest followed easily, spilling out in a quiet, uncontrollable wave. Greg grinned, the sound evidently contagious as his own chuckle joined hers.

"You're unbelievable," She muttered, shaking her head. “Something’s definitely wrong with your brain.” Despite her irritation, a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. This is better than the wings at least. He's not as much of a dickhead as he was there.

He mirrored her gesture, shaking his own head with mock solemnity. "That's what the counselor said too," He said, his tone teasing.

She shook her head again, the smile lingering despite herself. Something about this feels kind of familiar.

Taylor tilted her head slightly, eyeing Greg with a mix of disbelief and reluctant amusement. "Now I feel like I'm the dumb one," She said, her voice carrying a teasing edge she couldn't entirely smother. "I can't believe I thought you were trying to make a move on me."

Greg blinked at her, an exaggerated look of mock offense spreading across his face. "Hold on. ‘Now’? Was I supposed to be the dumb one before?"

She smirked, arms crossing in front of her as she leaned back slightly on the sofa. The movement was casual, but she realized too late it mirrored his relaxed posture. "I think you're smart enough to put two and two together."

He rolled his eyes with all the drama of someone enduring a great injustice. "I bet you tell all the pretty boys that."

Her retort came without hesitation, sharp and dry. "Is the pretty boy in the room with us right now?"

Greg's grin widened, and for a split second, it was infuriatingly disarming. Leaning back further, he shot her an open-mouthed smile, his tongue flicking against one of his oddly sharp canines.

Since when did he have sharp canines? The stray observation made her swallow reflexively, heat rising unbidden to her cheeks.

"You tell me, Hebert," He said, his voice laced with that maddening confidence he'd somehow acquired. "How good are those glasses?"

She tightened her arms across her chest, her expression guarded as she glared at him with mock suspicion. "See, now I'm not sure if you are trying to make a move on me or not."

"Again, not true," Greg replied, his grin undeterred. "Just being friendly."

Her lips twisted into a disbelieving snort. "Is this how you're friendly with guys?"

His brows furrowed as he blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. After a moment of apparent deep thought, he tilted his head slightly, his mouth opening just enough to make her think he might say something profound. "...Yeah, actually."

Taylor blinked back, incredulous. "You flirt with guys?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Greg said, hands flying up in mock surrender again. "I didn't say that. I don't even know what flirting is. I don't even know how. I just talk until people either laugh or want to punch me in the face. Usually, it's the second." He paused, tilting his head in mock contemplation. "Sometimes, both."

She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a faint twitch of amusement. "I can tell."

Greg snickered at her dry tone, the sound irritatingly infectious. "Is this how you flirt? Being a jerky jerk?"

Heat crept up her neck, and she knew her face was reddening even as she shot him a glare that had less bite than she intended. "I don't really know how to flirt either," she admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop herself.

Greg simply looked at her, his expression softening into something she couldn't quite place. There was no smirk, no exaggerated gesture, just a small, genuine smile that made her suddenly very aware of how quiet the room had become.

The silence stretched, and she felt herself bristle under the weight of his gaze. Finally, unable to take it anymore, she grunted, her tone edged with irritation. "What?"

"Nothing," Greg said, his smile unwavering. "I'm just nice enough to say, 'I can tell.' You could learn something from that."

She scoffed, the sound sharp enough to cover the way her stomach flipped. "Only thing I could learn from you is how to be more of a jerk."

"Honestly," he said, leaning forward slightly, "you've got that pretty locked down."

Her response was immediate, her lips curving into a saccharine, exaggerated smile. "Thank you."

Greg leaned back again, his grin returning with full force. "But for real," he said, his voice quieter now, more sincere. "You've never been this nice to me."

Taylor frowned, caught off guard by the abrupt turn in Greg's tone. "What?" The word slipped out before she could stop herself, her confusion plain.

Greg stretched his arms, the movement causing his blue zip-up hoodie to pull snug over his shoulders. "Yeah, you know…" he began, his voice carrying that casual lilt that somehow always sounded half-joking. "I mean, before the last time… Not the wing place, before that — You kinda just ignored me or didn't say much. This, and the last two times we've talked… Well, it's the first three times we've actually talked."

He blinked, his face settling into a slightly blank smile, as though the thought had just crystallized in his mind. "You know?"

Taylor swallowed, her throat suddenly dry as she searched for a response. "I… I guess." The admission felt heavier than she wanted it to, but it was the truth.

She hadn't given Greg much thought before.

To her, he'd always been a mild annoyance, a background fixture at Winslow she did her best to tune out. He wasn't malicious like Emma or Sophia; he was just… there. When he'd tried to include her in his rambling conversations about video games, software, or flashy shows she had no interest in, she'd dismissed him without hesitation.

He hadn’t been worth the energy.

He'd been an obstacle. Not a cruel one, but an obstacle all the same.

Greg nodded, his expression softening into something that could almost be described as genuine. "It's nice… I mean, you've been nice. Mostly. You even went to dinner with me."

Her snort came unbidden, a sharp exhale of air that she didn't entirely mean to let slip. She couldn't help it—the memory of their "dinner" at the wing place surfaced immediately. Greg had demolished an ungodly amount of wings, leaving her stunned and slightly horrified as he powered through plate after plate while she nibbled on her modest order of five pieces.

"Well," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "I felt like I owed you a favor. And I was hungry, so you kind of did me another favor."

Greg's brow furrowed slightly, and she could almost see the gears turning in his head as he worked through what she'd just said. After a moment, he straightened, his eyes brightening with realization. "So… you're saying you still owe me a favor?"

Her blink of surprise was immediate, her mind stumbling to catch up. "I… guess?" The word left her hesitantly, her tone more question than answer.

Greg's lips quirked into a smirk, the kind that made her both want to roll her eyes and smack it off his face. "So I can cash in another favor?"

Her gaze narrowed, suspicion creeping into her voice. "I… guess?" She echoed, though this time her tone was sharper, warier.

He leaned slightly closer, his smirk widening. "Can I… kiss you?"

Taylor's entire body stiffened, her mind stalling as the words hit her like a rogue wave. For a split second, she didn't know how to respond, her thoughts tangling in a mess of indignation, disbelief, and something else she refused to acknowledge. Then, her glare sharpened into something with enough force to pierce steel.

"Get out of my house, please," She said flatly, her tone brooking no argument.

Greg didn't flinch. Instead, he nodded, his movements casual and unbothered as he stood. The complete lack of reaction only served to needle her further, her irritation bubbling beneath the surface.

He took a step toward the door but then paused, glancing back at her with that maddeningly familiar grin. "Actually, about that drink from earlier—"

Her hand shot out, pointing quickly and firmly at the front door as her other hand came up to cover her face. She sighed heavily, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Out."

Greg didn't argue. He simply waved over his shoulder as he walked out, his voice light and teasing as he called, "Bye, Taylor."

She waited until she heard the door close behind him, the sound solid and final in the quiet house. Only then did she lower her hand from her face, the flush on her cheeks still stubbornly present.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she let out a whispered, "Bye, Greg."