Page 371 of Devil’s Disciples

“What’s on the onions?” I asked. “Holy crap. I could eat a bowl of those things.”

“I roast them after drizzling them in a balsamic vinaigrette. It’s on the artichokes, too. A little on the salad afterward sets it off.”

“It sure does.”

A sample of the chicken parmesan followed. The chicken was tender and juicy, while the breading was crisp and flavorful. “Where in the world did you learn to cook like this?”

“A lot of practice. I’ve been cooking for the club since we were kids.”

“You guys moved here right out of high school, right?”

He nodded. “I keep forgetting you spent two months talking to Ghost. You two must have become pretty close.”

“We talked every day until the day of the accident.”

“Did you see him the day he died?”

“I did,” I admitted.

His gaze dropped to his food. “He uhhm. He didn’t come around as much as normal after Abby died. We all figured he just needed some time and a little space. When we did see him, he was in good spirits. At least he seemed to be. I guess he was just hanging out in the diner, huh?”

I sipped my wine. “He spent a lot of time there.”

He nodded. “I’m glad he had someone to talk to during that trying time. Losing her had to be tough on him.”

When my father died, I hated being asked about it. Although people gave condolences out of kindness and with sincerity, the constant reminder that he was gone did more damage than good.

I hated to ask, but I also hated more not to.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m okay.”

He wasn’t. I could tell it was eating him up from the inside out. “He thought the world of all of you guys. You know that, right?”

He picked at his food. “We thought the world of him, too.”

“It gets better as time passes,” I explained. “I know it’s tough. All I had was my father, and when he passed, I was alone. It wasn’t easy, but I got through it. I still think about him today. Every day, actually. I guess the difference is that I smile now when I think of him instead of crying. Crying is required to heal, though.”

“I’m not a crier.”

“Just this once, you should try it,” I said. “It’s part of the healing process.”

He continued to flip the back of his fork through his salad. “According to you. I need time to pass. That’s all.”

“Our eyes are the vessels through which our soul weeps,” I said. “There’s only one way to relieve the pressure building up in your soul, and that’s to shed a few tears.”

He slowly raked his eyes upward until they met mine. “Who said that?”

“Said what?”

He cleared his throat. “Our eyes are the vessels through which our soul weeps?”

“I just made it up.”

His gaze fell to his food. “I like that.”

While he picked through his salad, I ate my food—slowly, for once. Midway through my chicken parmesan, he spoke.