Grief 7.15
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
The school day ended like it always did at Arcadia High: a burst of energy as the doors opened, halls erupting with bodies in motion, the building exhaling its occupants in a chaotic but somehow choreographed release. Taylor’s hand tightened on her backpack strap as she stepped out of the stream of students and onto the sidewalk. The sun hit her face, warm but not comforting, a spotlight she hadn’t asked for.
She stepped aside as a trio of students surged past her, their chatter bouncing in a flurry of voices.
“-o way she actually said that…”
“-riiiight, and then he…”
She caught fragments, bits of a conversation so trivial and so happy it felt foreign.
Not unfamiliar like a word you might’ve once known the meaning of, but alien.
It was the kind of easy joy that didn’t exist at Winslow.
Not for her. Too polished and far too bright.
Her eyes followed them for a second longer than she meant to, watching the way their laughter carried them through the crowd like they belonged. As if they couldn’t imagine a world where they didn’t.
Taylor’s feet dragged a little as she stepped back into the flow of bodies. She was still on the edge of this place, not quite a part of it, not really outside of it either. A month here and she still hadn’t figured out where she was supposed to fit. She wasn’t sure she could.
Arcadia High was... different.
Impossibly so.
She could accept that maybe it was just her; after all, the sheen of newness hadn’t worn off. Not really.
But still…
Everything about this place felt sanitized, curated. No fights in the halls. No whispered insults slipping under the teacher’s radar. No deliberate trips or spilled drinks. Not a single gum wad stuck under a desk, as far as she could tell.
It was Winslow’s polar opposite, and yet…
It felt wrong.
Like a set.
Like she’d walked into a Disney Channel original movie, complete with bright-eyed extras and a suspicious lack of real-life grime. The students here laughed too easily, smiled too brightly. They acted like the world wasn’t waiting to stomp them into the dirt the second they let their guard down. It wasn’t even a rich kid’s school like the other one… Immaculata, her brain supplied after a moment. What gives?
She hadn’t even seen a locker slammed shut once—not in anger, not for intimidation, not for emphasis. That was weird, right?
It had to be weird.
Normal wasn’t supposed to look like this.
Maybe she was just too used to horrible. Maybe she’d warped herself into someone who couldn’t trust good things when they came.
But that thought didn’t make her feel better, either.
Was this what it was like to have money? She couldn’t help but think, the blank line that was her mouth threatening a scowl. Maybe Brockton Bay only sucks if you’re poor.
The PRT had also made sure of that, too, if her brand-new clothes weren’t obvious enough.
A settlement for her trauma.
Another for her silence.
Add that to a boost in both her salary as a Ward and her trust, with said increases also applying to her future salary in the Protectorate and it meant that she had pretty much jumped several tax brackets.
And she barely even knew what a tax bracket was.
She sidestepped a group of laughing juniors, their voices carrying snippets of conversations—“...he totally asked her out, but she said…” and “…did you see his shoes? Like, bro...”—and watched as they flowed past her like a wave around a rock.
She blinked as a pale-skinned girl with curly dark hair and glasses passed her, and then another. For a second, her heart jumped before logic caught up, leaving Taylor feeling stupid as her expression darkened slightly. Still not used to that.
She scanned the crowd, her eyes snagging on familiar patterns: pale-skinned girls with dark, curly hair. Tall, thin builds. Glasses.
She’d never realized how common her features were until it was basically thrust in her face the day her transfer was final, and now they were everywhere, a small scattered army of almost-Taylors blending into the throng.
My own little camouflage. She didn’t even have being the new girl to make her a novelty at her new school. No, Taylor Hebert had been mixed in with so many other similar girls just enough to be invisible.
Part of her appreciated the effort for many reasons other than the most obvious of the fact that the PRT was just doing their job. The rest of her hated it—hated the reminder that even her looks, her individuality was disposable, a cog swapped out for another just like it.
She sighed, rolling her eyes at herself. “Be grateful,” she muttered. “You’re not at Winslow anymore. No one here even knows who you are.”
And wasn’t that the problem?
The people here were polite, sure.
Even damn near friendly, in that surface-level, “Oh, you’re new here, how cool!” way.
But they didn’t know her.
Not really.
And they didn’t really want to know her, she could tell, not with less than a month left in the school year and their own friend groups already formed. A month wasn’t long enough to stop feeling like a placeholder, a ghost walking halls she wasn’t even familiar enough to haunt.
She clicked her tongue and started walking toward the bus stop. The crowd thinned as students started to peel off in groups, their voices fading into background noise. Her footsteps felt loud against the pavement, a steady beat beneath the chatter.
She adjusted her grip on her backpack and let out a small sigh. The protection was good, obviously. Necessary.
She knew that. But it made her feel like a placeholder—a part of someone else’s meticulously designed picture, rather than a person.
She stepped over a stray flyer on the ground advertising the upcoming school dance, the words "Spring Spectacular!" printed in obnoxiously large letters, cheery as all hell. The edges of the paper were already curling, caught in the wake of passing feet. Even Arcadia’s litter felt curated.
Taylor rolled her eyes and moved on, weaving through a cluster of students gathered around a boy showing off a skateboard trick that ended in a loud crash and collective laughter.
By the time she reached the sidewalk, the press of students had thinned, dispersing into clusters that trickled into cars or wandered off toward buses. Taylor glanced down the street, the shadows of buildings stretching long in the late afternoon sun. She could feel the weight of the day in her legs, a dull, dragging kind of tired that made her eager to sit, even if it was just for the bus ride home.
Then she stopped.
It wasn’t a conscious choice. Her foot just froze, her body jerking slightly as her brain caught up to what her eyes had landed on.
Her heart stuttered before picking up speed, like it had been shoved into high gear.
Across the street, waving like they were old friends, stood Greg Veder.
No.
She blinked, her stomach doing something complicated—like it had dropped and turned over at the same time. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
And yet there he was.
Behind him, a car honked, and Greg glanced back briefly with a raised eyebrow and a thumb pointed behind him that said ‘get a load of this guy’ before resuming his wave. Taylor’s hands tightened on her backpack straps, her palms damp.
Fuck.
Her first instinct was to deny it as her brain scrambled for explanations.
Coincidence?
Hallucination?
“Maybe he’s just…” she muttered to herself, face reddening, “waving at someone behind me.”
But no.
His grin was aimed directly at her, wide and eager.
What the hell is he doing here?
Greg didn’t go to Arcadia, didn’t belong at Arcadia. Greg belonged to Winslow, to awkward jokes and thick arms and that irritating voice of his.
He belonged to the life she was trying to leave behind. Hell, considering who his family was and the way he looked now, he belonged more to the life she had now than even she did.
And wasn’t that a bitch?
Her stomach twisted as a bitter resentment bubbled up, hot and irrational, and she bit down on it hard.
He’s not doing anything wrong. He was just… Greg.
Which in a just world would have been a crime of its own.
Smiling. Waving. Being his oblivious self.
And she hated how much she didn’t want him there. What did that say about her?
Her fingers clenched the strap of her brand-new backpack as if squeezing it hard enough could snap her out of this. She could feel her pulse in her palms, fast and uneven.
She should ignore him. Walk away. Pretend she hadn’t seen him. Except she couldn’t. Not because she cared what Greg thought, but because she knew Greg… even this all-new different Greg.
Ignoring him would just make him louder, more determined to get her attention.
She imagined it; heads turning, eyes landing on her, her anonymity cracking wide open.
Taylor let out a slow, steady breath and started moving again. Her steps were deliberate, measured, but her grip on her backpack strap stayed tight.
Fine. She’d say Hi.
Be polite.
Two minutes, tops.
Then she’d be done.
She couldn’t help but wince as Greg winked at her as she finally stepped off the sidewalk, the expression making her want to turtle into her hoodie. Fu-
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
“-ck me, this is a good milkshake.”
Greg set the glass down, licking away a little of the sugary dairy that had spilled from the blue straw. The taste of stale blended birthday cake lingered, sweet and synthetic in a way that stuck to the back of his throat. It was a good distraction—a necessary one—from the oddly silent part of his brain that had been circling itself since yesterday.
Squirtin’ Bessie’s was lively enough for a Tuesday afternoon, the hum of conversation weaving through the clinks of glass on linoleum. The neon pink glow from the “Udderly Delicious!” sign overhead buzzed faintly, a soft undercurrent to the chatter. A group of kids in the corner giggled over a sundae piled far too high with whipped cream and sprinkles, their fingers sticky and leaving smudges on the chrome edges of the table. Greg leaned back in his vinyl chair, shoulders sticking slightly to the red cushions as he shifted.
It was an obnoxiously cheerful place. Bright, loud, and just a little too clean, like the kind of setting where a laugh track might suddenly kick in.
A girl behind the dessert counter scooped ice cream into cones with the robotic ease of someone who’d done this for far too long. The cow-print bow in her hair was crooked, and greg found himself wondering how many hours it had taken for her to stop re-tying it perfectly. He'd give it another week before it vanished entirely, lost to the entropy of retail.
Across from him, Taylor stirred her milkshake with a straw, her expression carefully blank except for the telltale twitch of her fingers on her hoodie sleeve. It was subtle, but Greg had a talent for noticing the little things, even when he wasn’t trying. Her fingers curled tighter around the fabric, pulling at the threads as if she could unravel the whole thing if she just fidgeted hard enough.
“You shouldn’t curse,” She muttered, eyes darting to the group of toddlers near the window. One of them was licking the window, his tongue leaving a faint smear on the glass. Taylor's lips pressed into a thin line. “There's kids here.”
“Noted,” Greg said, nodding solemnly as he took another sip of his milkshake.
He made a point to slurp loudly through the straw, dragging the sound out until she shot him a glare. He set the glass down and gestured vaguely around the parlor. “Glad you could make it, Tay Tay.”
Taylor froze mid-stir, her head snapping up so fast he half-expected her glasses to fly off. “First of all, don’t ever. Second, make what? You were outside the bus stop at Arcadia waiting for me as soon as school closed.”
Greg shrugged, lifting the straw back to his mouth.
“Don’t shrug at me,” Taylor continued, her voice sharpening. “How were you even there? Winslow’s like minimum an hour away from Arcadia by bus, at least. It takes me almost that long to get home.”
He shrugged again, slower this time, just to emphasize the motion. The exaggerated purse of his lips around the straw was a cherry on top.
“What did I just say about shrugging?” Taylor hissed, leaning forward slightly, her hoodie’s cuffs pooling around her hands as she gripped the edge of the table.
Greg leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. He tilted his head, wagging his eyebrows with deliberate slowness.. “Drink your shake, Tee-Tee.”
Taylor blinked, her jaw tightening. “What did I just say?”
“Not to shrug.”
“No! I mean—” she groaned, visibly shrinking into her hoodie as a couple of nearby patrons glanced their way. Her voice dropped even further, barely audible. “About the weird nicknames. Don’t give people ideas.”
Hisgrin widened as he leaned back, his chair squeaking faintly. He raised his eyebrows again, this time with a little bounce for emphasis. “About w~what exactly, Tee Bert?”
Taylor groaned, dragging her oversized sleeve over her face. “Oh my god, I must have done something horrible. Like killed a baby in a past life. That’s the only thing that makes sense. This must be my punishment.”
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“...I’m right here, you know,” Greg replied, pressing a hand to his chest. “I have feelings.”
Taylor raised her head a little, just enough to glare at him from behind her glasses, her expression flat. “Do you actually?”
Greg felt his smile blank for a moment, his eyes losing a bit of their shine. He leaned back slightly, spreading his arms with exaggerated nonchalance. “No. I’m a stone cold killer. Can’t you tell?”
The words came out smoothly and calmly, a bit off from the slight whine that he put into the last thing he had said, but he honestly couldn’t help it. He was being entirely honest on this one, even though he didn’t know exactly why.
For a moment, Greg’s gaze lingered on the tabletop. He traced a finger along the chrome edge, feeling the cool metal beneath his skin as the hum of the milkshake machine filled the silence.
Across the room, the waitress in the checkered blue dress leaned over a table, her cowbell choker jingling faintly as she delivered a tray of milkshakes. The smell of vanilla and sugar mixed with the faint metallic tang of freshly wiped chrome counters, grounding Greg in the present.
Maybe it was just because he had to tell somebody.
Anybody.
And it wasn’t like Taylor would believe him no matter how he said it. Hey, Tay, I sent five killer capes right to the gates of Hell, first class.
Telling Sparky? Well, that would be spitting right in his face. His friend was trying so hard to keep him on some imaginary line, and Greg wasn’t exactly helping. I mean, the blond allowed, I didn’t exactly break his rules this time, at least. I used exactly as much force as I needed and no one died that wasn’t supposed to.
He raised an eyebrow, still silent as the girl sitting on the other side of the table tilted her head to the side and stared at him curiously through her glasses. Yeah, that’s gonna hold up in court.
He allowed himself a snort.
Taylor’s voice cut through his internal spiral. “I… I don't really get your jokes sometimes.”
Greg snapped back to the present, forcing his grin wider as he leaned forward. “Yeah, me neither.”
Taylor rolled her eyes, her expression softening as she took another sip of her milkshake.
Bessie’s winking face stared back at him from his glass, her cartoon cow lips puckered in mock flirtation. Greg glanced at the menu on the table, the same smirking logo etched onto the back, and let out a soft laugh.
Taylor raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing.” He picked up his glass and took another sip, the sugary sweetness settling on his tongue. “Just thinking about how weird this place is.”
Taylor glanced around, her gaze lingering on the framed poster of Bessie lounging on a hay bale. “Yeah,” she said slowly, her lips twitching into the faintest smile. “It’s… a lot.”
Greg chuckled, the sound low and genuine as he gestured toward the counter. “Bet you five bucks the girl behind the counter hates that bow.”
Taylor glanced over, watching as the girl in the cow-print bow scooped another round of ice cream into a sundae dish. Her expression was a blank smile, her movements belonging to some sort of world-class animatronic. “I’m not taking that bet.”
“Smart,” Greg said, leaning back again. The vinyl chair squeaked under his weight, and he let the sound hang for a beat before adding, “I always win.”
Taylor didn’t respond immediately, her gaze flicking back to him as she stirred her milkshake again. “Is that so?”
Greg shot her a lopsided grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. “Yep. Stone cold killer, remember?”
Taylor rolled her eyes again, but this time, the corners of her mouth twitched upward. She shook her head and took another sip from her straw, the faintest hint of amusement flickering across her face.
“So what’s Arcadia like?” Greg asked, leaning forward slightly with his elbows propped on the table. “How’s the school for the rich and Glory Girls of the world?”
Taylor stirred her milkshake absently with her straw, watching the whipped cream swirl into the chocolate. “Well… uh… you know, it’s… nice.”
Her voice carried the kind of awkward hesitation Greg was too familiar with, every word weighted like she had to measure them out carefully. “Nice?” he prompted, keeping his tone light, even teasing. “That’s it? Come on, Tay-Tay, give me something to work with.”
Taylor shot him a half-hearted glare, her lips twitching like she wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “It’s just… nice, okay? I’ve made some friends. They’re nice. But, uh… I’m still settling in, I guess. It’s not crazy… right? I showed up a month ago and only… two weeks left of school, you know? ”
Greg nodded slowly, watching her eyes flit down to her milkshake, her fingers tapping idly against the glass. She wasn’t lying exactly—at least, not exactly—but there was enough hedging in her tone to make it clear she didn’t want to talk about it.
“Cool,” he said finally, leaning back in his chair with a deliberate squeak of vinyl. “Nice is… well, nice.”
Taylor gave him a look, her expression unreadable, and fell silent. The hum of the milkshake machine buzzed faintly in the background, blending with the low murmur of the parlor.
Greg shifted in his seat, his fingers tracing idle patterns along the chrome edge of the table. The silence stretched, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “I… uh… I went to see… uh, Emma yesterday.”
Taylor’s gaze snapped up, her body tensing like she’d been caught off guard. She wasn’t scared, exactly, but there was a sharpness in her posture, like a hyena catching sight of a lioness. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Greg said, scratching the back of his head. He hated how his voice wavered, hated how she could still make him nervous without even trying. “Uh… she called me after I left your place. Right after, actually.”
Taylor tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Huh.”
Greg fiddled with his straw, spinning it slowly between his fingers. “I think you… you were right.”
Taylor didn’t relax, her posture still stiff. “…About?”
“Emma might be a bitch,” Greg admitted, his tone dry.
Taylor’s eyes went wide behind her glasses, and Greg could practically see the gears turning in her head. Then came the snort—sharp, quick, and utterly unintentional. He savored the sound like a rare loot drop, his grin creeping wider as she tried and failed to smother the laugh that followed. “That is a strong might, you know?” She managed between laughs, her words lighter, less sharp. Even her shoulders seemed to lose some of the tension she carried like armor.
Greg leaned back, letting his chair squeak in protest.
His laugh came easier now, following hers like it was on cue. "I know, I know. It's just…" He paused, licking his lips. Why was this question so hard to say out loud? It wasn't like Taylor was going to roast him over it. "Does… does it make me a bad person if I wish she wasn't a bitch so I could still like her?"
The question hung in the air for a beat too long, long enough for Greg to feel the prickling unease of second-guessing himself.
But then Taylor's gaze softened, her brow furrowing slightly. She didn't snap back at him with some deflection. She just… looked at him.
"I guess you'd have to call me a bad person too," She said, her voice quieter than usual.
Greg blinked, caught off guard by her answer. It wasn't what he expected, and he couldn't tell if it made him feel better or worse. But the corners of his mouth curved upward despite himself, his default setting when things got weird. "Wow, way to bring the mood down, Hebert."
Taylor's jaw dropped, her glare sharp but edged with something playful. "What? Me? You brought the bitch up."
"You made it worse, you negative Nancy," He shot back, his grin taking over his face. The words felt automatic, almost like muscle memory. Banter was a language he spoke fluently.
"Shaddup," Taylor sighed, shaking her head with exasperation, but there it was—that faint, barely-there smile tugging at her lips. Greg felt like he'd won something, though he wasn't sure what.
"As you wish," He replied with a mock bow of his head, the phrase rolling off his tongue before he even registered saying it.
Taylor froze for half a second, her brow lifting slightly as she watched him, and Greg could feel the air shift, at the exact same moment he felt something niggling at the back of his mind.
Something in the way she looked at him, though he couldn't put his finger on it. He tilted his head, blinking, but Taylor had already leaned back, her expression smoothing out again.
Something was off…
"So… how's Winslow?" Her voice broke the tension.
Greg blinked at the question, his arms crossing lazily over his chest as he forgot what he was just thinking about. “Well, I wish I could say nothing’s different, but that’d just be a lie.”
"What?" Taylor asked, her confusion tilting her head slightly.
He let out a theatrical sigh, throwing in just the right amount of melodrama. "Yeah, without you, it's just…" He trailed off, his face shifting into a mock-grim expression, letting the silence drag for effect. "...not the same."
Taylor's stare hardened into something flat, unimpressed. "What."
Greg grinned, sly and sharp. "No more color in the halls. No joy in class. I've been skipping because it's just not worth it."
Her response was a long-suffering rub of her temple. "I swear to God…"
"No, I've tried praying too," Greg interrupted smoothly, raising his hand as if to swear an oath. "Doesn't make up for no pretty girl sitting next to me in Mr. Gladly's class."
He delivered the line with his best poker face, but Taylor's reaction wasn't what he expected. She didn't roll her eyes or fire back immediately. Instead, her expression shifted subtly, her glare narrowing but carrying an edge of something else—something more focused. It felt like she was studying him, dissecting him in her head.
"What did I say about the flirting?" Taylor finally asked, her voice sharper than before, but it wasn't cutting. More… annoyed. Like a teacher dealing with a student who wasn't paying attention.
"I didn't know the truth was flirting," Greg said, plastering on an exaggeratedly innocent look.
Taylor leaned forward slightly, her glasses catching the light as her eyes narrowed further. "What if I walk out of here right now?"
Greg shrugged, gesturing toward her milkshake. "I'll drink your milkshake."
The challenge in her stare deepened as she wrapped her arms protectively around her glass, pulling it closer. "Stick to your garbage."
Greg's smile widened into a full-faced grin as the blond tipped his imaginary hat. "Attagirl."
Taylor rolled her eyes, but Greg knew she wasn't really annoyed. It was a show, the kind of performative reaction people gave when they couldn't decide if they were exasperated or just mildly entertained. Her milkshake straw made a soft sucking sound as she took a long sip, the frost on the glass smearing under her fingers.
Greg stirred his own milkshake absentmindedly, watching the sprinkles swirl into the mix like tiny, multicolored whirlpools. It was a birthday cake flavor—basically dessert pretending to be dessert. Perfect.
"But yeah, I mean…" He started, letting the words drag as he tilted the straw back and forth. "Winslow's Winslow. Everybody's a dick of various shapes and sizes."
Taylor raised her eyebrow over the rim of her glass. "Wow. Gross."
Greg grinned, leaning into the theatrics. "I'd say the other word, but I'm a good boy."
Her expression didn't shift, except for a slight narrowing of her eyes. "Mmm."
"Speaking of dicks…" Greg continued, pausing just long enough to enjoy her exasperated sigh.
"Were we, though?" She asked, cutting him off with just enough sarcasm to make his grin widen.
He ignored her interruption, tapping his spoon lightly against the table for effect. "Haven't seen Sophia since school started back up," He said, his tone almost conversational. "She's not dead or in the hospital as far as anyone can tell, but no one knows where she is. Weird, right?"
Taylor stiffened, just slightly, but Greg caught it. Her hand on her spoon clenched a little tighter, her shoulders going just a little straighter. It wasn't much—just a flicker of something before she covered it up—but Greg noticed. He always noticed.
"Yeah," She said lightly, her voice perfectly even. "Weird."
His eyes narrowed slightly, his brain catching on the way her tone didn't quite match the grip she still had on her spoon. Huh. Maybe it was nothing. Sophia wasn't exactly a happy subject for a lot of people, and Taylor had more reasons than most to find the topic unpleasant.
"Maybe she finally pissed off the wrong person," He added, smirking. "Karma or something."
Taylor's gaze flicked to his for just a second before dropping back to her milkshake. "Sure," She said, the word clipped and neutral. Greg frowned, trying to figure out if it was just awkwardness or something else. The tension in her hand hadn't gone away, though.
Okay, new topic. "Taylor," He started, his tone shifting to something a little more serious. "Can I ask you a question?"
Her eyes narrowed instantly, her suspicion clear as day. "If it's to kiss me again, I swear to God…"
Greg held up a hand, his expression solemn. "No, I'm being real right now."
Taylor's gaze lingered on him, still clearly skeptical, but after a moment she sighed and shrugged. "…Okay, go ahead."
He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as he gestured for her to do the same. For a second, she hesitated, her eyes flicking to the other tables around them before she finally leaned in. Her movements were careful, almost too careful, and Greg noticed the way her shoulders stayed tense.
When she was close enough that their heads were almost touching, Greg whispered, "...Did you kill Sophia Hess?"
Taylor's reaction was immediate. She jerked back with a groan, one hand dragging across her face as Greg leaned back in his chair, letting out a snorting cackle loud enough to turn a few heads in the diner. It wasn't subtle, but then, that was the point.
"Are you ever gonna give up the bit?" She asked, voice dry as she glared at him over the rim of her milkshake glass.
Greg blinked, his laughter fading just enough for that odd itch at the back of his brain to resurface. Her glare wasn't just annoyed—it was… something else. Something sharper. The thought slipped away before he could grab it, though, and he shrugged, forcing his grin back into place. "What bit?"
"The whole 'Greg Veder, class clown' thing," Taylor said, her voice steady but not unkind. Her tone shifted just enough to make him pause, though, his smile faltering for a fraction of a second. "Do you ever turn it off? It's a lot funnier than Greg Veder, video game nerd, I'll admit."
Greg leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, letting his grin stretch just enough to be cocky but not obnoxious.
Well, maybe a little obnoxious.
"Careful, T-Hizzle," He said, his voice low, "you said no flirting."
Taylor rolled her eyes so hard he half-expected her glasses to fall off.
She didn't respond, though, just shook her head and went back to her milkshake, her expression vaguely unimpressed but not exactly annoyed either. He watched her carefully, his fingers idly spinning the straw in his drink. Was she smiling? No, not quite.
But the corner of her mouth twitched, didn't it? Yeah, she was holding something back.
She thinks I'm funny… wait, I already knew that. Greg leaned back, his vinyl seat squeaking faintly as he let the silence linger just long enough to be awkward.
Taylor's sharp brown eyes weren't quite on him, though. They had this faraway focus, like she was halfway out of the conversation and halfway in some deep thought he couldn't see. It was unsettling in a way, like she was looking through him and at him at the same time. He wondered what was going on in her head, what her version of this moment looked like.
"You know," Greg said finally, breaking the quiet deliberately, "if I ever do give up this bit, you're gonna miss it."
Her eyebrow arched in perfect disbelief as she gave him a look so flat it might as well have been asphalt. "Oh, yeah. I'll be devastated."
He smirked, stirring his milkshake with the straw like he was conducting an orchestra. "You say that now, but what happens when you're sitting here all alone, wondering where all the joy in your life went? Who's gonna spice up your boring-ass milkshake runs then, huh?"
Taylor tilted her head slightly, her expression shifting into something he wasn’t really sure how to decipher. Then she shrugged, her tone so dry it could've started a fire. "Probably someone who doesn't ask if I've murdered people."
The words landed with that perfect mix of snark and deflection that he didn't entirely expect, but before he could react, there it was—the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips. A near-smile, barely there but impossible to miss.
Triumph flared in his chest. Another one on the board for Veder.
"Fair point," He conceded, leaning back again and twirling his straw. The motion felt automatic, almost meditative. "But let's be honest—no one does it quite like me."
She rolled her eyes again, but this time, her lips twitched upward for another half- second before she hid it behind her milkshake. He felt another flicker of victory, but it was short-lived.
Her focus shifted back to the table, her fingers absently tracing the frosted glass, and something about her body language felt… different. He couldn't pin it down exactly, but she wasn't just here.
"Sophia, huh," Greg said abruptly, the words slipping out before he could think better of it.
The reaction was subtle, but Greg caught it.
Taylor's posture shifted, just barely—her grip on the milkshake tightened for half a second before relaxing again. If he hadn't been watching her so closely, he might've missed it.
"Weird how no one knows where she went," He continued casually, swirling his milkshake like he wasn't paying attention. Maybe this’ll get her attention again. "You'd think there'd be rumors or something, right? Like, somebody has to know what happened."
"Maybe she's just laying low," Taylor said, her voice carefully neutral.
Too neutral. "People disappear all the time."
Greg squinted slightly, not at her but at the words. There was something under that statement, but it was buried deep, wrapped in layers of casual dismissal. He wanted to poke at it, but he didn't.
For now.
Instead, he leaned forward with a grin. "Okay, but if she did disappear, you have to admit it's kinda poetic. Without you, Sophia just melts like the Wicked Witch of the East."
"West," Taylor corrected instantly, her voice sharper than he expected. "The Wicked Witch of the West melted. East got a house dropped on her."
Greg blinked, caught off guard by the automatic response. "Okay, Dorothy," He said, smirking as he tried to recover.
She let out a soft snort, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
"Nah, I'm Greg," He said, flashing her his best grin. "Impossible's my middle name, though. Fun fact."
Taylor sighed, her hand coming up to rest against her chin as she gave him a look that was half-exasperation, half-amusement. "Why do I even talk to you?"
Greg straightened up, leveling her with an exaggeratedly wounded look. "Because I'm charming," He said, draping an invisible cloak of smugness over himself, "And also, you secretly find me hilarious."
"I don't," Taylor shot back, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
It wasn't much, just the barest flicker of amusement slipping past her defenses. The kind that someone like Greg would notice immediately. Gotcha.
He let out an overly dramatic gasp, clutching at his chest like the world's cheesiest soap opera star. "You wound me, Taylor Hebert. Truly, I am but a shell of a man now."
For a second, her smile faltered, dropped like she wasn't sure if she'd let it slip too far. Then it came back, shaky but brighter, almost like she was forcing it into place. She ducked her head and took a sip of her milkshake, her straw absent-mindedly forgotten as the glass made a soft clink against her teeth.
Greg watched her closely, the small shift in her demeanor catching his attention. Something was going on behind those glasses, some kind of gears turning.
Maybe she was thinking about the joke.
Or maybe something else entirely.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the vinyl creak under his weight. "You really love that milkshake, huh?"
Her response came so naturally, so casually, it almost didn't register at first. "Yeah, you know, chocolate's a girl's best friend, right?"
Greg froze.
It wasn't an obvious kind of freeze—no sharp intake of breath or dramatic pause, just a subtle shift. His grip on his straw loosened, his brain stuttering for a fraction of a second. There was something about that line, something that rang a little too familiar.
Huh… Where had he heard it before?
"Wait," He said, his voice slower, almost tentative as the words formed. "Isn't that diamonds?"
Taylor blinked at him, her head tilting just slightly to the side. "What?"
Greg scrambled, his thoughts tripping over themselves in their rush to explain. "You know," He said, forcing a chuckle that sounded almost real, "Diamonds. Like the saying. 'Diamonds are a girl's best friend.' Classic line, right? Marilyn Monroe, or… or something."
Her squint was subtle but pointed, her gaze narrowing just enough to feel like it was cutting through him. She didn't answer right away, letting the silence hang just long enough to make him squirm a little.
Then, finally, she shrugged, the movement sharp and contained. "Sure. Whatever you say."
She turned back to her milkshake, her expression unreadable, but Greg couldn't shake the nagging weight in his chest. The line—it wasn't just the words, it was the way she'd said it.
The exact cadence, the easy throwaway tone.
It sparked something at the back of his mind, an itch he couldn't quite reach.
He blinked at her, his gaze lingering on the dark waves of her hair. They framed her face in a way that felt suddenly… off.
No… not off.
Familiar. Familiar in a way that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
No. No. No! That was ridiculous, right?
…Right?