Page 4 of The Grief We Hold

The voice isn’t Ma’s. It’s soft. Soothing.

I look up and get caught off guard by the black-haired beauty staring back at me. Her skin’s so pale and smooth, it’s almost ethereal. “Half ‘n’ half, please.”

“I’ll be right back,” she says with a smile.

The diner uniform is laid-back. But her jeans hug her ass, and the black T-shirt with the diner logo on it fits her perfectly. She’s got those perfect high tits. Nice and round, but not too big.

First time I had sex after Hallie died, I almost fucking cried. Missed her softness and warmth beneath me. Missed the way she’d run her fingers through my hair as I lay spent, my head on her chest.

Tried to find something that felt like it with a club girl to ease the loneliness.

Instead, I kicked the poor bitch out of my clubhouse room because I couldn’t face spending the night with a body that wasn’t Hallie’s.

Got better at it over time, because a man has needs, after all.

Sex is sex.

But I’ve never felt a connection to anyone ever again.

Never kissed a woman. Never let one sleep next to me in my bed. Never took one to our home.

Myhome.

Two years on, I’m capable of acknowledging a hot woman is worth fucking.

New Girl is petite. Looks like a stiff breeze would knock her over. Bet she’d squeeze the everlasting shit out of my cock.

She laughs at something Ma says as she hands her the carton. It’s a pretty smile.

Always thought Hallie’s was the prettiest smile, and I’m mad at myself for a millisecond for admiring what New Girl’s face is doing.

“Margie said to hand you the whole thing.” She places it down on the table. “Guess you like your coffee sweet, huh?”

I add an exceptionally generous dollop. “Not a lot of sweetness elsewhere in life.”

She sighs wistfully. Her tits lift at the gesture. “That’s the truth.”

Must be the long black hair that makes her eyes so blue. Or the pink of her lips. All cool colors that make me think of thunderstorms and lightning bolts.

“Well, enjoy your coffee.” She heads to another booth and begins clearing the table as I wrap my hands around the steaming mug.

My fingers ache, a slow and steady throb as blood finally flows back into them.

The new girl is efficient with her movements and her smiles. She’s graceful in the way her hips sway and her arms move, but there’s a tightness and tension in her shoulders that reveal she isn’t as relaxed as she would like us to believe she is.

A bell rings as she hurries to the kitchen, and a few moments later, she reappears at my table holding a generous serving of meatloaf and mashed potatoes that make my mouth water, plus a side of mixed vegetables I could do without.

“There you go,” she says, slipping it in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?”

I shake my head. “What’s your name?”

“Raven,” she says.

“That a nickname because of the hair?”

She runs a section of hair through her fingers. “Kinda. I was supposed to be called ‘Natasha’ until my dad saw my hair. Said it looked like a raven’s wing.” She shrugs, then smiles as if embarrassed. “The blue tone is thanks to my hairdresser. Is Wraith your name?”

She tips her head towards my patch.

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