Grief 7.13

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

His footsteps felt heavy as he dragged his feet on the pristine pavement.

The neighborhood was almost offensively perfect—each lawn manicured to within an inch of its chlorophyll-laden life, the kind of green that practically glowed. Greg was pretty sure if he lay down on one of those lawns, the HOA would materialize out of thin air to scrape him off with a rake.

Even the air smelled wrong, all fresh and clean, like someone had Febreezed the entire block.

No exhaust fumes, no old trash cans, no stale whiffs of burned toast from some guy forgetting his breakfast — nothing.

Greg glanced around, half expecting to see a drone patrolling the area to keep out riffraff like him. "Welcome to suburbia," he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with sarcasm. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, fingers curling tight around his keys like they were the last real thing in this unnervingly sterile environment.

Everything was too quiet here.

No kids yelling.

No barking dogs.

Just the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional creak of a swing set moving slightly in the breeze, like a ghost kid had taken up residence. If Greg didn't know better, he'd think he was walking through one of those dystopian movie sets where everything looks normal, but something's just... off.

He slowed as the house came into view. Emma's house.

Or... the place that used to feel like Emma's house. Now it was just a building, beige siding and dark shutters staring blankly back at him like it didn't know him anymore. His feet stopped just short of the driveway, as if some invisible barrier had sprung up to hold him back.

His gaze flicked to the brass numbers above the door. Yep, still the same. Not like they'd change them, but he still felt the need to check, like maybe he could pretend it wasn't the right house. Wouldn't that be convenient? "Oops, wrong place, guess I'll go home," he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible even to himself.

But no, it was the right house. And he was here. Again.

Why the hell am I here?

He didn't have an answer for that. Not really. Except for the phone call. Her voice. Her name lighting up his screen like it still had the same power over him it did back then.

Maybe it still did.

"Greg."

Just his name. No greeting, no pleasantries. Her voice was soft, too soft, like she was testing the waters, seeing if he'd bite.

And he did. Of course, he did.

His jaw tightened, the memory of that breathy tone sending an annoying jolt of something—regret? nostalgia? anger?—through his chest. It pissed him off that she could still do that. That she could call him out of the blue, say his name like it mattered, and he'd just... show up. Like a damn idiot.

Greg took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus.

The house loomed in front of him like a mausoleum. Same siding. Same shutters. Same faint knot in his chest.

He took a step forward before he could think better of it, the driveway cracking faintly under his weight. The numbers over the door caught the light just enough to feel smug about it. “Fuck me running,” he muttered, the words barely audible.

His feet wouldn’t move.

He stood at the edge of the driveway, staring up at the brass numbers on the door like they’d rearrange themselves and let him off the hook. What the hell was he even hoping for? Closure?

Maybe.

Probably not.

All Greg knew was that “closure” sounded better than "pathetic hope."

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, his shoulders hunching slightly against the cool afternoon breeze. The air here wasn't just cleaner—it was thinner, too. Harder to breathe. Suffocating in its perfection.

He glanced at the house again, his eyes scanning the windows for any sign of movement. Nothing. No shadows, no curtain twitches. Just stillness.

Fuck me running.

His heart thudded in his chest, a heavy, uneven rhythm that didn't match the calm he was trying to fake. He could still hear her voice, clear as day, and it made him want to punch something. Or run. Or both.

But he didn't do either. Instead, Greg just stood there, staring at the house like it was some kind of puzzle he couldn't figure out.

Why did I pick up the damn phone?

He knew why. And that was the worst part.

"Greg," she'd said, her voice softer than he remembered. Like she was trying to be... what? Sincere? Apologetic? Manipulative? He couldn't tell anymore.

Not "hey." Not "hi." Just his name. Like it was supposed to mean something on its own.

And it had.

For a second, it felt like someone had knocked the air out of him. Even now, the memory was enough to make his fingers twitch, his jaw tighten.

Greg stared at the doorbell like it might bite him. His thumb hovered, hesitant, the button's plastic surface catching the light in a way that suddenly seemed menacing. Was this some kind of metaphor? Probably not, but his brain didn't care; it was busy replaying Emma's voice on loop, the way her tone had shifted, how rushed it had sounded at the end.

He flexed his free hand in his jacket pocket, the keys biting into his palm again. Grounding, yeah, but also annoying. His other hand stayed frozen midair, the doorbell just inches away. One more second.

His reflection stared back at him in the glass of the storm door, the shadows under his eyes a little too dark. Greg looked like he'd been hit by a truck and considering last night's fight... that wasn't exactly off the mark.

The glass distorted his face just enough to make him look even more haggard than he already felt, his hair doing its best impression of a haystack post-tornado. He probably should've done something about that before walking over here. Like… anything.

Great first impression, Veder. Absolutely stellar. Emma's totally not going to think you crawled out of a dumpster before coming here.

His lips twitched into a half-smile, but it didn't stick. His chest felt tight, like someone had shoved a weight onto it and then walked away whistling.

"Tomorrow. My house. Around 4. No one's gonna be home."

Why did she emphasize that?

The thought had been gnawing at him since the call. Like, he knew why but…

It was the kind of detail you'd drop casually, not deliver like a headline.

Or maybe that was just how he was reading it now, standing here like an idiot in front of a house he'd known as good as his own not that long ago.

But the rushed goodbye—that was what really stuck in his head.

Like she didn't actually want to hear his response, like she was afraid if she stayed on the line any longer, he'd say something that made her regret calling. Or maybe she just regretted calling.

His thumb brushed the edge of the doorbell again, still not pressing it. His breath fogged the glass as he exhaled slowly, staring past his distorted reflection to the faint shadows moving behind the curtains.

Okay, Veder. You're here. You said you'd do this. Standing on the porch looking like a moron isn't helping anyone.

But the longer Greg stood there, the more his mind spun in circles.

The house felt too quiet, the whole neighborhood like a snow globe that hadn't been shaken in years. Pristine, untouched, and completely foreign now.

It didn't feel like Emma anymore.

He frowned, his hand lowering slightly, his knuckles brushing the edge of the doorframe. Was that why she'd called him here? Because she wanted it to feel like her again? Because she wanted him to—what, fix something?

His stomach churned at the thought.

You're not her handyman, Greg. You're not her… whatever she thinks you are.

But the problem was, he wasn't sure what she thought he was. Hell, Greg wasn't even sure what he himself thought he was anymore. The guy who'd said yes to this? The guy who'd answered the phone in the first place?

Greg let out a short laugh, low and bitter. You're the guy who doesn't know when to let go. That's who you are.

His fingers clenched tighter around the keys in his pocket, the jagged edges digging into his skin.

He hated this. Hated the way his chest felt hollow and heavy all at once, hated the way her voice had shaken something loose in him. Hated the way he couldn't stop himself from being here, standing on this stupid porch with his stupid hand half-raised like an idiot.

But most of all, Greg hated the way he still wanted to see her.

Just press the damn button.

But for a second, all he could think about was the chipped scuff mark on the frame.

Just get it over with.

And what was he supposed to say? “Hey, Emma, remember me? The guy you ignored for a week?” Or maybe, "Hey, Emma, why do I feel like throwing up every time I think about you?”

Or maybe nothing.

Maybe Greg wouldn't say anything at all. Maybe he'd just stand there and let her talk, let her explain whatever this was supposed to be.

Except... what if she didn't?

What if she expected him to start? What if she just stared at him with that look she used to get, the one that made him feel like he was six inches tall?

His hand dropped back to his side, his chest tightening as the back-and-forth in his head got louder.

No. No. Stop. Don't think about it. Just... do it.

His jaw clenched, and he shoved the thoughts down, locking them somewhere deep where they couldn't get to him. Where they couldn't make him turn around and walk away.

Without allowing himself a moment to hesitate—well aware he might cut and run if he overthought it for even a second—the blonde boy rang the doorbell.

Greg barely registered the sound of the bell finishing its chime before the door opened, too fast for it to feel normal. It swung wide with a polished ease that spoke of well-oiled hinges and a household where appearances mattered.

There she was, framed in the doorway like she'd been waiting for him.

Emma.

Her hair caught the late afternoon sun just right, the warm red strands almost glowing.

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Her smile was bright, too bright—like stage lights cranked up to eleven. It hit him square in the chest, not just emotionally but physically, like an unexpected shove. The familiarity of her face clashed with the unreality of the moment, leaving him momentarily frozen. She was mesmerizing.

"Greg!" she said, her voice pitching upward in an almost musical lilt. She dragged his name out like it was her favorite song, the kind she hadn't heard in forever, as she stood there in a pink crop top and white shorts.

It was so... enthusiastic that it made his skin itch.

He opened his mouth to say her name—”Em”—but didn't get further than the first syllable.

She launched herself at him like a missile. Suddenly, her arms were around him, her face pressed to his chest. The scent of her shampoo—something floral and expensive—hit him before her weight did.

"I missed you," she murmured, muffled against the fabric of his hoodie. The warmth of her words seeped through, and his mind sputtered, caught between the comfort of the moment and how wrong it felt.

His hands hovered awkwardly in the air for a moment before he managed to mutter, "I… I missed you too."

Did I?

She pulled back as quickly as she'd jumped forward, blinking up at him. The closeness made him acutely aware of just how much he'd changed in the past few months. Her head tilted back slightly to meet his eyes, the subtle wrinkle of confusion on her brow like a small crack in her polished expression.

"You got taller?" she asked, her tone almost accusing before it quickly softened into genuine surprise. "Did you get taller?"

Greg shrugged, his hands finding refuge in his jacket pockets. "Yeah, a little bit."

"A little?" Her eyes widened, her incredulity almost playful. "We were, like, the same height before."

"I guess." He tried to sound indifferent, but the way her gaze darted up and down, sizing him up, made his neck heat up. She was scrutinizing him like he was a puzzle she'd thought she'd solved already but had suddenly found extra pieces for.

Her expression brightened again, the momentary crack sealing itself. "What happened? I mean, I know I was out of it for a while, but..."

Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Puberty."

Her lips parted slightly, as if she had more questions, but then she laughed, the sound high and practiced, like something she'd rehearsed. "...Okay!" she chirped, grabbing his hand in one smooth motion before he could even think to stop her. Her grip was firmer than he expected. "I can't wait to show you my new room. My parents bought me a bunch of new stuff because they were so happy I was okay. They said you carried me out of what happened. That's crazy. You gotta tell me all about i—"

"Emma."

Her name left his mouth flat, almost deadpan, cutting through her rapid-fire enthusiasm like a dull knife. He hadn't meant for it to sound so heavy, but it did. She stopped mid-step, her hand still around his wrist, and turned to look at him.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice syrupy, her smile softening into something teasing but not quite genuine, the slightest crack in her perfect face. "Are you scared to go in my room? I know you've never been in there before, but nobody's home. You won't get in trouble, I promise."

His feet stayed rooted to the pavement outside the threshold, his body tense despite the forced casualness of her words. He stared at her hand still on his wrist. "Emma... I just wanna talk."

Her fingers loosened, and she let go of his wrist, her smile freezing in place for a beat too long. It didn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. "Yeah, let’s talk. I’ve got some… some stuff I need to tell you too." she said, her eyes dulling slightly with the words, an edge creeping into her voice even as it somehow managed to stay light and airy. "Come in and let’s talk."

But he didn't move, his stance stubborn, his voice firm. "No, because if I go inside, I feel like we're not gonna talk about anything we need to talk about."

The air between them grew heavier, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before she plastered it back on, brighter than before. "I...I don't know what you mean."

Greg rubbed the back of his neck, his hand dragging over the stiff fabric of his hoodie. The silence between them felt loud, somehow heavier than Emma's bright, expectant gaze. She was still standing there, her expression a perfect mix of teasing and confusion, like she couldn't fathom why he was hesitating. Like the concept of someone pushing back on her didn't compute.

"Yeah..." He started, letting the word hang in the air before finishing with a shrug. "I'm not so sure about that."

Emma's smile faltered, just a touch, but enough for him to catch it. She tilted her head, her auburn hair catching the light in a way that felt almost too deliberate. "What's that supposed to mean?" She asked, her tone airy but her eyes narrowing slightly.

Greg looked away, letting his gaze drift to the pristine sidewalk, the edge of the doorway, anywhere but her face. He didn't want to see that look of hers—the one that made him feel like he was on the wrong end of some inside joke.

He knew he had to bring this up before anything else.

He was weird around Emma, Greg knew that for a fact, as much as he knew anything else. It had been a while but he remembered how easily she could simply make him go along with whatever she wanted.

Even when hindsight proved how bad those choices were.

The thought of how he hadn't simply rushed Emma outside of the collapsing restaurant came back into his head and he fought back a grimace.

What are you even doing here? The thought scraped at the back of his mind like nails on a chalkboard, but he shoved it aside. Too late to second-guess himself now.

Greg sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I don't know." His voice came out lower than he'd meant it to, and he could see her shift her weight, her stance going a little stiffer.

Honestly, he didn't know.

He had so much going on in his head that he didn't know what to get out first. Part of him wished he was just talking with Taylor again. That had been so much easier and flowed better and there wasn't this huge weight on his chest that didn't make sense. Although, thinking about it… Taylor was kinda the whole reason he was here right now.

"I just... don't get you."

Emma blinked, the slight furrow of her brow the only sign of her confusion. "What do you mean?" She asked, her voice dripping with faux innocence. "What's there to get? I just wanted to see my boyfriend."

The word hit him like a thrown brick, not because of what it was but because of how casually she said it. "Boyfriend." The word felt... wrong, somehow. Like wearing a shirt two sizes too small. Greg let out a bitter laugh before he could stop himself, shaking his head. "Really?"

Emma frowned, her lips pressing together tightly for a moment before she spoke. "What's that supposed to mean? You're being super weird right now, Greg."

Greg ignored the jab, meeting her gaze again. "Are we, though?" He asked, his voice quiet but steady. "Are we really... boyfriend-girlfriend?"

Her expression shifted, her confusion melting into something sharper. "Yeah…" She said, dragging the word out like it was obvious. Then she added, her tone clipped, "As long as you promise me you'll never say it like that again."

Greg couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Promise."

Her demeanor softened, her smile returning like she'd won some unspoken game. "Great," She said brightly, grabbing his arm again and tugging him forward. "Now come inside already."

But Greg didn't move.

His feet stayed planted firmly on the concrete, his arm stiff against her pull. "Wait," He said, his tone sharper than before. "Before that..."

Emma stopped, letting go of his arm with a dramatic sigh. "Okay." She said, her voice dripping with exaggerated patience. "Greg, if this is about me not calling—"

"No," He interrupted, his words coming fast and tripping over each other. "No, I don't care ab—" Greg paused, frowning as he caught himself. "No, that's a lie. I do. I care about that a lot, actually. It kinda fucked me up for a little bit, but no..."

He shook his head, the motion quick and jerky like he was trying to shake off a bad memory. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the cool air biting at his knuckles. "I need to know why you lied to me."

Emma blinked, her eyes widening for a fraction of a second before she smoothed her expression into something more composed, almost placid. "Lied? I... I've never lied to you." Her voice carried a perfect blend of confusion and hurt, the kind of tone that might work on anyone who didn't know better.

Who wasn't expecting it, at least.

Greg felt his jaw tighten as he stared at her, her wide, innocent eyes locking with his. Maybe it was his bias—or maybe it was something stupider, like hope—but there was a part of him, deep down, that wanted to believe her. To buy into the act. Because what if she wasn't lying? What if he was just overthinking things again, spinning everything out of control?

But then Taylor's face flashed in his mind. Her tear-streaked expression, her voice cracking as she told him the worst of it. The locker. The rumors. The flute. Everything he had willingly blinded himself to. But now? Greg couldn’t keep his eyes shut anymore. All of it, crashing down on him again like a broken faucet that wouldn't stop running. His fists clenched in his hoodie pockets.

"C'mon. Don’t do that." He muttered, his words heavy with frustration. Greg dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a breath that felt like it burned on the way out. "Don't lie to me about not lying, okay?"

Emma tilted her head, her brows furrowing just slightly, the picture of wounded confusion. "Greg..."

"No," He cut her off, shaking his head. "None of that. That very first day at my house... You came and lied to me. And then you kissed me, like it was nothing."

Her lips parted slightly, as if she were going to respond, but instead, Emma let out a faint laugh. It wasn't a friendly laugh—it was sharp and bitter, the kind of laugh someone uses to cover up a misstep. "I don't know what you're talking about," She said finally, her voice low and defensive, her gaze flickering to the side for a moment before snapping back to him.

Greg's eyes narrowed, his voice rising before he could stop himself. "I'm talking about Taylor, Emma!"

Emma's jaw tightened, her polished poise cracking just enough to reveal something raw underneath. "Wow..." She clicked her tongue, her lips curling into a small, incredulous smile. "I can't believe you're doing this right now. It's literally unbelievable. I thought you were better than this, Greg. Like, I mean... really?"

He blinked, his frustration spiking higher at her tone—half-dismissive, half-condescending, like he'd just asked her for a million bucks instead of an ounce of honesty. "What do you mean, 'really'? Better than what? I haven't done anything yet!"

"It's just..." She shook her head, her hands gesturing vaguely in the air like she was trying to shape an argument out of nothing. "It's really fucking unfair to me, as your girlfriend, to have to deal with this kind of shit from you. Like, do you know how hard it's been for me since I woke up? And it's just kinda weird how you haven't even talked to me—"

Greg’s hands curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms.

"BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T RETURN MY CALLS!" The words exploded out of him, his voice echoing down the empty street. He felt the heat rush to his face, a mix of anger and embarrassment at how loud he'd gotten, but he didn't back down. His heart pounded in his chest, every beat screaming at him to just turn around and walk away, but his feet stayed planted.

Emma's eyes widened, her lips parting slightly in surprise before she recovered, her expression hardening again. "And you didn't return mine," She shot back, her voice icy but controlled. "But sure, let's go ahead and talk about other girls."

Greg blinked, caught off-guard. "I'm not talking about other girls!"

Emma raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a smirk that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm sorry, I guess Taylor's a fucking man now?"

His fists clenched again, the knuckles pressing hard against the fabric of his hoodie. "Emma..."

She took a step closer, her smile dropping as she tilted her head slightly, her voice dropping into a softer, almost sweet tone. "Why are we even talking about her right now? What do you mean, Greg? Why do you think I'm lying?"

Greg opened his mouth, but she didn't give him the chance to answer. "Why do you even care about Hebert?" she snapped, her words coming too fast, like she was trying to outrun the accusation. "We've been over this. It was all Sophia and Madison anyway."

Her tone softened, just barely, as she added, "You believe me, don’t you?"

Emma's arms crossed tighter against her chest as Greg hesitated, her sneaker tapping against the threshold in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Her expression was unreadable—too still, too calculated, like she was waiting for a cue to start her scene. Greg took a slow breath, trying to steady his nerves.

His eyes twitched as he forced the words out. "Look..." He breathed. "Taylor came to my house the other day."

Emma's brow lifted slightly, the motion almost imperceptible, but her voice came out sharp and clear. "She did what?"

Greg bit his lip, his mind racing to keep up with her tone. "But I was hungry, so... I took her with me to grab some wings."

Emma didn't even blink. "Uh-huh..."

"And she told me a few things. About what you did. How bad it was."

The tapping of her foot slowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. Greg thought he saw a flicker of something in her eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "I'm sure she did."

Greg swallowed, feeling like he'd just stepped into a trap he couldn't see. "And then yesterday, I had more questions. So I went to go talk to her."

Emma's head tilted slightly, her voice dripping with an almost mocking curiosity. "And let me guess, you went to her house?"

He nodded, hesitating. "Yeah... Emma, I went to her house."

"Don't mind me," She said, waving a hand in the air as if to clear the space between them. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I'm just making sure I have all the details. Continue."

Greg exhaled through his nose, trying to ignore the growing knot in his chest. "I asked her more questions. She told me everything. About... about you specifically. How you've been torturing her. Mentally, I mean." He stumbled over the words, his voice lowering as if admitting it made it worse somehow. "Like, that's messed up, Emma. I didn't think about it much when you explained your side, but from what Taylor told me, you lied to me. Why did you do all of that?"

Silence.

For a few seconds, Emma didn't say anything. She stared at him, her arms still crossed, her foot tapping again—faster this time. Her pink crop top shifted slightly as she adjusted her stance, her face unreadable but sharp. "So... while I’ve been stuck in a hospital bed, you’ve been what? Grabbing lunch with her? Catching up? Talking to her while I was in a fucking coma?" Her tone was light, too light, but her eyes narrowed as she spoke, voice growing more clipped towards the end.

Greg's eyes widened. "That is not what I'm saying. No."

Emma's eyebrows arched as her arms dropped to her sides, her head tilting like she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "And you've been hanging out with her."

Greg's words spilled out, too fast and too defensive. "No."

"Buying her food."

"I bought myself food!" He threw his hands up, his voice rising. "She was just there! Anything she got was like... a rounding error in comparison."

Emma's eyes narrowed, her voice cutting in sharply. "And you've been going to her house, too? Like, you know where she lives for some fucking reason."

Greg felt like the air was being sucked out of his lungs. "I got it off Winslow's records," He said quickly. "I didn't ask her for it."

"Oh wow," Emma said, her voice dripping with exaggerated surprise. She took a step back, her hands resting on her hips. "So you wanted to be around her so much, you put the effort in to hack the school."

Greg's mouth opened, then closed. "Hack is a big word. I mean—"

"Did you kiss her?" She asked suddenly, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.

Greg blinked, the question slamming into him like a truck. "What. Huh. I mean... Hm?" He swallowed hard, his brain scrambling for something—anything—to say.

Emma's eyes narrowed further, her voice dropping to a deadly calm. "Did. You. Kiss. Hebert?"

Greg felt his throat tighten, his words coming out uneven. "No! I promise you, I did not kiss her."

Emma's lips curled into a cold smile, one hand reaching for the doorknob. "Go fuck yourself, Greg."

The door slammed in his face before he could even process what had happened. For a second, he just stood there, staring at the painted wood, his mouth falling open slightly.

"Come on, Emma..." He muttered, his voice barely audible as he threw his hands up in exasperation. He turned around, his shoulders sagging as he took a step away from the house, his mind racing with everything that had just unfolded.

"Wait... wait a minute..." Greg said, more to himself than anyone else. She never even answered my questions. His arms dropped to his sides, his head tilting back slightly as he stared at the sky. "How am I the bad guy here?"