Grief 7.9b

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Tuesday, May 31st

Greg was three wings deep into his third round—half buffalo, half honey sriracha—when Taylor finally spoke again. he barely registered her voice over the muffled hum of the restaurant, the crackle of frying oil from the open kitchen, and the general buzz of people chewing, chatting, and occasionally daring the nuclear options on the menu.

“…so why’d you pick this place?” she asked, her tone as flat as the untouched celery stick on her plate.

Greg paused mid-bite, the drumstick still inches from his face, its spicy sheen glistening under the restaurant’s warm, faux-halo lighting. His eyes flicked up to meet hers.

Taylor, in all her big-haired glory, was watching him with what could only be described as a look.

Not quite disgust.

Not quite confusion.

More like someone staring at a lab experiment they weren’t sure had gone right.

He set the wing down, licking the sauce off his thumb as he took a second to glance around the eatery. “Why this place?” Greg repeated, voice muffled through the napkin he pressed to his mouth. “You mean besides the fact it’s basically heaven with a cholesterol problem?”

Taylor didn’t answer. she just gave him a deadpan stare, her five-wing plate still mostly untouched. Greg sighed, setting the napkin down and gesturing vaguely around the restaurant.

The halos on the servers’ heads gleamed, hand-polished by a guy named Gabe who didn’t know what boundaries were. Under the low-hanging lights, the golden glow caught the edge of every perfectly waxed tabletop. Wingdom Come was a masterclass in trying too hard—it had that weird balance of “we’re upscale” and “but not, like, fancy-fancy” that screamed corporate focus-groups.

The walls were soft blue, freshly painted, dotted with framed posters of angelic clouds and stock-photo sunsets. One even had a slightly pixelated dove soaring toward the light, which was either intentional irony or an oversight from their “everything looks better after you eat” department. Below the posters, the tile floors sparkled with an unnerving amount of effort, reflecting the servers’ movements as they bustled like caffeinated cherubs.

Greg nodded toward the mural on the back wall.

It was obnoxious in the way only restaurant decor could be: golden gates flung open like they were inviting you to the buffet table in the afterlife, surrounded by clouds so detailed they might’ve been edible. Beneath the gates, a row of LED candles flickered, giving the whole scene a weird, almost holy glow. The neon sign overhead read “Your Wings Are Ready” in big, looping letters.

“I mean, look at this place,” Greg said, leaning back in his chair and gesturing with the half-eaten drumstick in his hand like it was a pointer. “It’s themed. It’s greasy. and it smells like… like…”

He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for effect. “Like divine intervention in chicken form.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “It's a chicken joint.”

“A chicken cathedral,” Greg corrected, pointing at her with the drumstick before popping the rest into his mouth. He chewed dramatically, savoring the mix of buffalo sauce and that vaguely honey-adjacent sriracha, then swallowed. “Where else are you gonna find a flavor like Seraphim Sweet Heat?”

The girl across from him pursed her lips. “No idea.”

Greg shrugged. “Besides, do you know anywhere else can you find servers with halos? That’s gotta be some kind of OSHA violation.”

One of the servers passed their table at that exact moment, balancing a tray loaded with wings and sauce cups. Her halo wobbled precariously, held in place by what Greg guessed was a strategically hidden headband. Her smile was big—too big—and faded the second she turned her back to the customers.

“Totally OSHA,” Greg muttered under his breath.

Taylor just stared at him, her expression unreadable but definitely unimpressed. Greg shrugged, reaching for another wing. “My type of place,” he added, dipping the drumstick into a cup of ranch and taking a huge bite.

She nodded slowly, finally tearing a sizable piece off one of her wings and nibbling at it like it was toxic. “I can see that.”

Greg grinned, finishing off his wing and leaning forward on his elbows, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “Soooooo…”

Taylor frowned, her fork pausing mid-air over a celery stick. “What?”

Greg waved his hand in a circle, motioning at her face. “I dunno. You’re the one who showed up at my place. you’re the one with the whole mysterious ‘Let’s Talk’ thing. What’s up?”

Taylor hesitated, her gaze drifting down to her plate as she pushed a wing bone to the side. “I just…” she started, then trailed off, her shoulders tensing like she was bracing for something.

Greg tilted his head, watching her closely.

He could feel it—the weight of whatever she wasn’t saying, the way it hung in the air between them. Part of him wanted to crack a joke, defuse whatever tension was building, but something about the way she wasn’t looking at him stopped him.

Instead, Greg leaned back, giving her space to speak.

“You don’t have to tell me, y’know,” he said, his tone lighter now, less probing. “I'm not exactly licensed for emotional deep dives. But if it’s about homework, I'm gonna need a better bribe than wings.”

Taylor almost smiled. almost. it was fleeting, like a flicker of light through clouds, but Greg caught it. She exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just enough for him to notice. “It's not homework,” she said quietly.

Greg raised an eyebrow, waiting. When she didn’t elaborate, he leaned forward again, resting his chin on his hand. “Is it about Emma?”

Taylor flinched, and Greg immediately regretted asking. but before he could backtrack, she shook her head, her messy hair falling into her face. “No,” she said quickly. “It’s— it’s not her.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve been, like there were too many words trying to fit into too small a space. Greg let it hang for a moment, then picked up another wing, because sometimes the best move was to do nothing at all.

“Okay,” he said simply, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. He didn’t push, didn’t prod.

He just waited, letting the sound of the restaurant fill the void between them.

Greg finished his latest wing with a theatrical sigh of satisfaction, reaching for the napkin while Taylor sat across from him, silent, fidgeting with her untouched plate. Her fingers tapped against the edge of the table in a rhythmic, uneven beat, the kind that screamed I’m thinking too much, and it’s annoying me.

Kinda annoying him too, honestly.

After a half minute of nothing but that awkward tapping and the muffled noise of the restaurant, she finally pushed her hair back and let out a long sigh. “Okay, it is kinda…” she hesitated, and Greg raised an eyebrow mid-reach for another wing.

She frowned, glancing away as if the words were hiding somewhere under the neon lights. “It's kinda about… about Emma, okay?”

Greg nodded, slow, his expression carefully neutral. “Okay.”

She shifted in her seat, her discomfort practically radiating off her. “But it’s more about me…” another flinch, this one sharper than the last, her eyes darting to Greg’s for just a second. “Well, you… you and me?”

Greg froze for half a second, chicken wing still in hand, before letting out a low whistle. “Oh… Well, I’m flattered, you know.”

Taylor’s head snapped up so fast it was a miracle her neck didn’t crack. “Wait, n—”

Greg smirked —because of course he was smirking— and leaned back in his chair, suddenly in no rush to finish his wings. “I get it,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself. “I know it's a lot — the hair, the bod...” He pointed at each with exaggerated precision, nearly dripping buffalo sauce onto his white shirt as he motioned at his chest.

Taylor stared at him, her mouth slightly open, but her narrowed eyes gave away her irritation. except… was that a flicker of surprise? She glanced at his chest for half a second too long before snapping her gaze back to his face.

“…Are…Are you done?”

Greg pretended to think about it, tapping a clean finger against his chin. “Well, I am single, so if you’re offering—” The joke almost hurt to make, Greg barely hiding a wince as he thought of Emma again.

“Stop,” she snapped, her cheeks going pink.

You have gained 1 CHA.

Greg let out an unintentional snort. Wow, a CHA level up. Been a while. “Okay.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Taylor glared, her flush deepening. “You’re impossible.”

Greg laughed, wiping his hands clean. “Okay, okay. But seriously, this is… a weird jump from last time.”

“Last time,” she said slowly.

“Yeah..” he tilted his head, thinking back.

The last time they’d spoken was, what, two months ago?

That whole mess in the hallway after school? Taylor had snapped at him in front of like five percent of Winslow's population, and he couldn’t even remember exactly what it had been about.

Probably Emma-related.

Everything seemed Emma-related back then.

Of course, a lot’s happened since then, Greg thought, rubbing at his temple like he could erase the mental replay of recent chaos.

On top of that, he had also gotten a bunch of brain damage since it all went down.

Like, a lot, he thought with a slight frown. How many concussions was that?

He was pretty sure his gray meat might have actually been more red meat at one point, honestly, considering Bakuda’s hospital bomb — that Boston bitch — and pretty much all the times he had been slammed through walls and hit with fists that were more like sledgehammers than anything else.

Granted, his brain had probably healed up better than before but still, that was his excuse and he was sticking to it.

“Anyway,” Taylor said, cutting through his spiraling thoughts, “I came to see you because…” She hesitated, her hands curling into fists against her thighs. “Because I was talking to some people about… how I acted. And I — I realized I might've been…”

Greg leaned forward, interested now, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Go on…”

“...Unintentionally mean,” she finished quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. she cleared her throat, looking anywhere but at him. “And I wanted to… apologize.”

Greg blinked. “Oh.”

Taylor sighed. “...yeah.”

He nodded, setting down the wing in his hand and folding his arms on the table. “Well, go ahead.”

Taylor blinked back at him, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

Greg shrugged, gesturing with his now-clean hands. “Apologize.”

She frowned, her eye twitching ever so slightly. “I did.”

“No,” Greg said, shaking his head slowly. “You said you want to apologize. I'm still waiting.”

Taylor’s jaw tightened. her hands curled into fists again, and her voice was almost a growl as she said, “I’m… sorry.” The last word came out through gritted teeth.

Greg held her gaze for a long moment, his expression carefully serious—then broke into a snort, a grin spreading across his face. “You… You didn’t have to do that. I was just fucking with you. Wow.”

Taylor groaned, leaning back and looking half-disgusted, half-exasperated.

“Oh, c’mon,” Greg said, still laughing. “Laugh a little. It’s good for you.”

A pair of eyes narrowed at him. “Why are you like this?”

“Well,” Greg replied, without missing a beat, “I was hugged too much as a child.”

“Yeah, sure,” Taylor said, rolling her eyes—then froze, her expression shifting. “W-wait. You’re single? You and Emma broke up? When? How?”

Greg blinked at her, thrown by the abrupt topic change. “Uh, well, I mean, when a girl doesn’t like you anymore, she usually calls it off.”

“Shut up,” Taylor said quickly, her voice sharper now. “I mean, sorry, but isn’t Emma, like… you know, in the hospital?”

“Oh, you mean, the coma thing.” Greg shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Well, I mean, she was. Got released last week. It was all super quick — private Medhall hospital and all that. Probably cleared the beds or something. Space issues, you know how it is.”

Taylor stared at him, her expression unreadable. “...What?”

Greg tilted his head, confused. “Yeah, what?”

“What do you mean, ‘yeah, what’?!”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, okay?” Greg spread his hands. “Like I said: Emma’s out, and she’s ignoring my calls. Her family, too. So, I figure we’re broken up. I don't know the rules to this.”

Taylor blinked, clearly trying to process everything he’d just said.

Greg picked up another wing, shrugging as he took a bite. “So, yeah.”

Greg sipped at his lemonade, letting the straw squeak against the ice as he leaned back in his chair. The pink drink was aggressively sweet, like the kind of sugar rush that came with a free side of regret. The condensation beaded down the tall plastic cup, dripping onto the table, but Greg barely noticed. He was too busy watching Taylor squirm in her seat, her expression flickering between a bunch of emotions he wasn’t sure he could define.

He leaned back in his chair, his pink lemonade abandoned for the moment, though his fingers still drummed lightly on the edge of the table. “You know, I used to wonder, what if she wakes up but I’m not there, and the first guy she sees is some hot doctor, like that gay guy off that hospital soap opera?”

Taylor, who had been mid-sip of her water, nearly choked. She set the glass down harder than intended, giving him a look that could’ve flattened a lesser man. “In reverse order… It's not a soap opera, the doctor’s probably not gay, and Emma's fifteen. How the hell would a fifteen-year-old even get with a grown man who wasn’t a sicko?”

Greg tilted his head, considering. “Well… I guess. But if she was in Germany, she could.”

Taylor froze, blinking at him in disbelief. “I know I'm gonna regret this, but what?!”

“The age of consent in Germany is fourteen,” Greg explained matter-of-factly, like he was giving a history presentation. “It's like the Alabama of europe.”

Taylor stared at him, her expression torn between horror and sheer exasperation. “We’re not in Germany, Greg!”

He shrugged, his tone as casual as ever. “Tell that to the Nazis, Taylor. It feels like the nineteen-fucking-forties sometimes.”

The restaurant bustled around them, a background hum of conversations, and the occasional laughter from a kid who was probably hopped up on too many of Wingdom Come’s “Heavenly Cake Fries.” One server rushed by with a precariously stacked tray of wings, her halo wobbling dangerously. Greg watched it, half-expecting the whole thing to topple over.

Miraculously, it didn’t, and she disappeared toward the back, her wings brushing the mural as she passed.

Greg took another long, loud sip. Taylor shot him a look, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“What?” Greg asked, pink lemonade still in his mouth. His voice came out muffled and slightly ridiculous, which only made her glare harder.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, breaking eye contact to stare down at her plate again.

“Aw, c’mon,” Greg said, setting his drink down with a clink. “Impossible? Really? You make me sound like the final boss in a video game.” He tapped his fingers against the table, pretending to think. “But, like, a fun one, right? not one of those ‘ugh, can’t handle this guy again’ bosses. No Gilgamesh. I'm talking Sephiroth. Or maybe Ganondorf—classic, but always a good time.”

“Greg,” Taylor said, her tone teetering on the edge of exasperation.

“Fine,” Greg said, throwing his hands up dramatically. “Bowser. I’ll be Bowser.”

“Greg!”

“What?” he grinned, reaching for another wing. “You were saying?”

She sighed, leaning forward slightly, her elbows resting on the table. Her eyes darted around the restaurant, like she was trying to gather her thoughts. “It’s just… you seem weirdly okay about everything.”

Greg blinked at her, mid-bite. “Define ‘everything.’”

“Emma. The breakup. Her ignoring you. The hospital thing. Everything,” she said, gesturing vaguely, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

Greg swallowed his bite and set the wing down, dusting his hands on a napkin. “Oh, that. Yeah, no — it sucks. But what am I supposed to do? Storm her house with a boombox over my head, all John Cusack, Say Anything-style? Feels a little overkill.”

Taylor frowned. “But you don’t even seem mad. Or… or anything.”

Greg tilted his head, studying her. “What, you expect me to go full telenovela? Throw myself on the ground, tear my shirt open, scream ‘Por qué?!’ at the sky?” He put a hand to his forehead for dramatic effect, earning another glare from Taylor.

“You’re not funny,” she said, but her lips twitched, betraying her.

“Eh, debatable,” Greg replied, picking up his drink again.

The straw squeaked as he took another sip, the sugary lemonade hitting him with a fresh wave of artificial bliss. He set it down and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Besides, you’re the one who brought her up. So spill. What's the deal? You miss her or something?”

Taylor flinched, her shoulders tensing.

She didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the table like it held all the answers she couldn’t say out loud. Greg waited, his smirk fading slightly as the silence stretched on.

“It's not that,” Taylor said finally, her voice quieter now.

She reached for her glass of water, but didn’t drink from it, her fingers just tracing the rim. “It’s not about… missing her. It’s just…”

Greg raised an eyebrow, watching her carefully. “Just what?” he asked, keeping his tone light, like they were still joking around.

Taylor swallowed, her throat bobbing visibly. “You wanna know the truth?” she said suddenly, her voice sharper now, cutting through the ambient noise like a blade. She looked up, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since they sat down. “Why I hate Emma Barnes?”

Greg’s heart skipped a beat, caught off guard by the weight in her words. His smirk slipped completely, replaced by something quieter, something closer to concern.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softer than he expected. “I do.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The room was dark, but Greg saw everything clearly. Shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs, the faint glow of streetlights threading through the blinds just enough to paint the edges of his cluttered desk, the chair he never used anymore, and the heap of laundry he kept promising himself he’d deal with. The silence felt thick, pressing, broken only by the occasional hum of a car passing outside.

He sat on the edge of his bed, back hunched, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. The faint light caught on his knuckles,bloodied but healed from the rustbucket of a car he’d punched. It wasn’t like he hadn’t meant to hit it—it was more that he hadn’t meant to hit it that hard. But Greg hadn’t been thinking clearly at the time.

Still wasn’t, to be honest.

His mind spun in circles, thoughts crashing into each other like a slow-motion car wreck he couldn’t look away from. Taylor’s words replayed in his head, sharp and heavy, chipping away at everything he thought he had understood about Emma.

Everything she’d told him about her.

Everything he’d wanted to believe about her.

Greg exhaled through his nose, his jaw tight as he stared at the floor, unmoving. The wood grain blurred in and out of focus, and for once, his usual stream of snarky commentary was silent.

The buzz of his phone broke the stillness, its vibration rattling against the nightstand. The screen lit up, casting a cold, pale glow over the edge of his bed.

Greg didn’t reach for it immediately. His gaze flicked to the screen, and he froze, his body tensing as the name burned into his retinas.

He didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared at the name.

"Emma."

And, once again, Greg Veder didn’t know what the hell to do.