Page 13 of Entangled

“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.”

Grayson changes the subject. “How’s your mom? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

That makes two of us. I switch the tap off and place the chopping board on the dish rack. After drying my hands, I take a seat at the kitchen table. Grayson joins me. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

“She leaves you alone a lot, doesn’t she?”

“It’s like she’s never there,” I admit. “It sucks. I was always envious of Chloe. She had a loving family who turned up for every school show and every ballet competition. Even when your wife disappeared, you still showed up. Chloe was never alone. I don’t think my mom turned up to a single event.”

Grayson rubs the back of his neck. “I had no idea it was that bad.”

“No one notices,” I reply, stroking my fingers over the tablecloth. “Mom, she…” I clear my throat. “She feeds me, washes my clothes, keeps the house clean and the lawn mowed. People only start to notice the neglect when the grass grows, the dishes pile high, and the weight starts falling off.” My eyes flit up to his. “It’s why I knocked on your door tonight. I don’t want to be alone all the time. Now that Chloe is gone, I…”

“I know,” he replies softly.

“I have no one. I’m not like Chloe, who had lots of friends. Now that she’s gone, no one knocks on my door.”

That’s the thing about grief—it alienates you from others. It’s a disease. Once it digs its claws into you, everyone else gives you a wide berth. I’m now the girl with the dead best friend, and no one at school wants to associate with death.

Grayson’s chair scrapes on the floor. I watch in silence while he pours the water out of the pan and plates our food. His house smells of a home-cooked meal for once instead of pizza, beer, and misery. Almost as if a tendril of warmth has seeped through the floorboards to ward off the darkness.

We eat in silence. That’s the thing about grief, too—it doesn’t need conversation. It doesn’t speak in words. Its language is subtle, gentle even. Haunted eyes, a shared look, a weak smile. It is heavy sighs and wishing you could fill the silence but not having the strength to try. That’s me now, hunting for a subject to chase away our grief.

He speaks first. “This tastes so much better than pizza and microwave meals.”

His words have me blossoming like a flower in spring. “You like it?”

Nodding, he says, “It’s the first home-cooked meal I’ve had since…”

And there it is, creeping back out from the shadows to steal the glimmer of light from his eyes, snatching it away like a thief in the night.

“We should make it a thing.”

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