“Why are you here, Willow?” he asks, sounding tired and defeated.

“You never leave the house.” I hesitate, then add, “I brought groceries.”

The door opens the rest of the way, and Grayson walks ahead, disappearing down the hallway. I scan my eyes across the empty street before entering the house and closing the door. The blinds are drawn; it’s dark. “Grayson?”

I find him sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

“I thought I could cook us something to eat.” I place the bag on the counter and unpack it, softly placing the items down. I don’t want to startle him or make him feel uncomfortable in his own home. The silence that follows is only disturbed by the ruffling of the paper bag.

“I don’t know what you like to eat, so I bought a range of items.”

After packing away the milk, eggs and bread, I unearth a chopping board in one of the cupboards. Grayson says nothing while I chop the onion in silence or when I start to fry the pieces. Sprinkling more oil in the pan, I reach for the minced garlic. It fizzles loudly. Using a wooden spatula, I separate the meat. “I hope you like spaghetti Bolognese.” I don’t tell him that I know he does. Mrs. Reid cooked it for Chloe and me when we had sleepovers involving face masks and Disney movies.

When he doesn’t respond, I talk for no other reason than to fill the silence. “I’ve been back at school for the last two weeks. It’s not the same, you know? The gossip has died down until the trial. At least there’s that. I still can’t get over that Dylan did it… They were the golden couple.”

Silence descends again while I pour in the chopped tomatoes and give it a good stir. My heart is in my throat, thumping heavily.

“The house is so fucking quiet,” he whispers.

My breath catches, and I pause stirring the Bolognese.

“I just want her to come back and make some fucking noise. Play her Taylor Swift album full blast. Smoke cigarettes with her window open, thinking I won’t notice.” His raw chuckle breaks my heart. “I always noticed. You girls weren’t discreet. I just chose not to give you a hard time for being teenagers.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Reid.”

“It’s Grayson.”

“Grayson,” I whisper. “I miss her too.”

Rising from his seat, he joins me at the counter, reaching for a pan in the cupboard. He fills it with water and puts it on the stove. We prepare the food in silence. It’s comfortable. Peaceful, even.

When the pasta is boiling and the Bolognese is simmering, he leans back against the counter. I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t meet his gaze as I rinse the chopping board and knife.

“Thank you for this. Grief is a dark and lonely place sometimes.”

“You don’t have to be alone with your feelings.”