Page 24 of Waiting Game

“Figured one of everything would suffice.”

Mia reaches for the orange pop. “This is my jam.”

After she pulls the tab and takes a sip, she sighs again. “Thank you, Cole. For… everything.”

“My pleasure. I’ll gladly be your pizza purveyor. We can even hang out after my sessions.”

“Split a pizza?”

“Or we can each have one of our own.” My brows bob. “Dirty talk, am I right?”

She whistles. “Sure is. Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

Once I’ve demolished the slice in my hand, I go through the rest of my half like a lawnmower while gently prompting her with what I think she can handle.

I might not know her well, but I understand grief.

I know that it’s a category one hurricane that can trigger an earthquake and a volcanic eruption in one fell swoop.

I know that it can shift into a torrential downpour one minute and the next, be nothing more than a bunch of gray clouds in a bright blue sky.

Grief is love that has nowhere else to go—that’s floating around in a vacuum.

Humans don’t like vacuums—be they the ethereal variety or the ones that suck up dust from a rug.

Before she starts on her third slice of pie, she asks, “Do you think badly of me for inviting you over?”

That gives me pause. “Should I? And why do you care anyway?”

Her gaze quickly drifts over to me before darting to the can of orange pop she’s still holding in her other hand. “I don’t normally invite my students here.”

“I’m not an ordinary student though. I brought pizza. That’s better than an apple.”

Mia hides a grin. “Much better than an apple.”

“Do you think badly of me for coming over?” I counter, watching as she relaxes at my question.

Only a jerk would judge her for not wanting to be alone on a night when she lost the last member of her family.

In silence, we continue eating until she peeps at me again as she takes the last bite of her third slice of pie.

“I don’t want to remember. Not tonight,” she says eventually.

There’s no denying what she’s talking about. Not that I want to hide from it.

I’ve had a slow streak for the past five or so months. It pains me to acknowledge that I’m getting to the point where puck bunnies aren’t doing it for me anymore. Orgasms are great and all but…

This doesn’t feel like one of my regular hookups.

“We don’t have to do anything.”

“That’s not why I invited you over.”

“No, you invited me for pizza.”

This time, she huffs out a laugh. “I really didn’t.”

“Man, my profile reeled you in.”

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