Page 31 of The Grief We Hold

“Don’t touch the glass, sweetie. Someone has to keep it clean,” I say.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” says the woman behind the counter. “We have one child who comes in and regularly licks it. Says it helps them choose. Their mom dies of embarrassment every time it happens, but we think it’s lovely, if a little gross, and always have to do a quick swipe with disinfectant when they leave.”

She’s probably the same age as me. Thirty, maybe. Her hair is a natural dark auburn. A line of piercings in one ear and a single stud in the other catches the light. And her beautiful tattoo sleeve incorporates mountains and flowers and lakes.

“I want that one, please,” Fen says loudly.

The woman chuckles. “A glazed doughnut. Good choice. You can’t beat the classics.”

She grabs a bag and slips it inside before handing it to Fen. “Anything else?”

The nutty aroma in here smells so good, I can’t resist. “I’ll take a cappuccino.”

“Are you the new girl who just started at the diner?” she asks while setting the espresso to drip before frothing the milk.

“I am. Raven.”

“Quinn,” she says as she wipes the spout of the milk steamer. “It’s nice to have some new faces in town. You should come join our book club.”

I can’t remember the last time I read a book. But making friends, if only for a short while, sounds like fun. “I’d love that.”

We make some small talk about the book club logistics, and I pay the bill, feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time.

A sense of belonging.

“Can I eat my doughnut now?” Fen asks when we leave the store.

“No, sweetie. I said it was for after dinner today. A treat.”

Fen sticks out his bottom lip. “I promise I’ll eat my dinner if I eat it now.”

I sip my coffee, realizing the hypocrisy of getting my treat now, while he has to wait for his, but hey, there have to be some perks to being the adult in this relationship. “Asked and answered, bud. You keep asking me and I’ll save it until after dinner tomorrow.”

He mimics zipping his lips and throwing away the key, and the gesture makes me laugh.

But the smile slips from my lips when we turn the corner of the hardware store and see not only the dresser, but a motorcycle, Smoke, one truck…

And Wraith.

10

WRAITH

“You want to tell me why you aren’t on your bike on a fine day like today and why you got those bags in the back of your truck?” Smoke asks.

He knows the bags.

Has seen me grab them many a time.

They contain everything I need for torture: Tarps. Weapons. Rope. Bleach. Cleaning agents.

End-to-end is my specialty. Got no problem whatsoever cleaning up any mess I make. In fact, there’s a piece of me that enjoys it. It’s like a second orgasm. Weaker, but still a sturdy aftershock.

“If I tell you, you become complicit. So don’t fucking ask.”

Smoke leans back against the siding of the hardware store. “I’m asking because I overheard Butcher giving you a clear order to not leave the fucking state.”

Smoke is probably my closest Outlaw brother. I worry about him every fire season. Smoke jumping is as dangerous as it sounds. Remote wildfires are no joke, and steering a parachute into them is fucking heroic. Butcher gave him his name to honor it.

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