Page 10 of Good Graces

QUINN

I don’t do sharedliving, bonding with roommates. Not in the way most people do.

I have them, technically. Two of them—Alyssa and Jordan. They were looking for a third during their sophomore year, and after a few polite interviews and one awkward group dinner, we decided to stick it out for the rest of college.

It’s a mutual arrangement. One that works because I keep my space, and they keep theirs.

They’re nice enough. Alyssa’s pre-law, Jordan’s on the club volleyball team. They study together at the kitchen table, swap mascara before going out, huddle up on the couch with their matching fuzzy blankets to binge-watch reality TV.

I exist adjacent to all of that.

I don’t borrow clothes. I don’t sit in on study sessions. I don’t braid anyone’s hair while dissecting the finer points of the latest love triangle onThe Bachelor. But when they need me—really need me—I show up.

Last fall, when Jordan’s long-distance boyfriend dumped her over FaceTime? I handed her my best bottle of whiskey, let her sob into my sweatshirt, and helped her torch the hoodie he’d left at our place.

When Alyssa bombed her mock trial and spent three days convinced she’d never get into law school? I left a bottle of wine and a brutally annotated copy of her argument on her desk with one note:This sucked. Try again.

I’m not warm. I’m not cuddly. But I’m loyal. And I suppose that counts for something.

“Where the hell have you been? Back from traveling for three days and already off the grid?”

Alyssa’s sprawled on the couch when I walk in, laptop open, case notes scattered across the coffee table. She peers over her screen, arching a brow.

“Just been at work,” I say, kicking off my shoes.

“At Sycamore?” Jordan chimes in, stepping out of the kitchen with a protein shake. “Thought you weren’t going back this summer.”

Yeah, well. Plans change.

“Figured I might as well squeeze tips out of men who either think I’m their daughter reincarnated or want to fuck me. And sometimes, in a really gross way,both.”

Jordan nearly chokes. “Ew. Though, at least the icky rich old men will tip you just for breathing. That’s the dream.”

Breathing? More like constant pandering coupled with the opportunity to leer at my tits. And while I do have a great set of them, it’d be nice if a man could make eye contact before pretending to care about my thoughts on market trends.

Besides, the tips are rarely generous unless I flirt like I mean it. And even then, they still hand me fives like they’re doing me a favor.

Alyssa grins, stretching her arms over her head. “Please tell me you’re still stringing them along with the business major thing.”

“Obviously.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “I swear, one day, some guy is gonna ask about your portfolio, and you’re gonna have to admit you don’t actually know what a mutual fund is.”

“Oh, please,” I say, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “The day a man at Sycamore asks me a serious question about business is the day I retire.”

They laugh because they know I’m right. The guys who come to the club aren’t interested in actual conversations. They want someone who nods at the right moments, laughs at their bad jokes, and lets them think they’re more important than they are.

It’s easier this way. People love what they can recognize.

A girl studying business? She’s smart. Savvy. Marketable. Sexier because she’s ambitious.

A girl studying English literature? She’s useless in their minds.

So, I let them think I’m one thing when I’m another. It’s not just a harmless lie; it’s survival.

Alyssa shakes her head, amused, and turns back to her laptop. Jordan plops onto the couch beside her, flipping through a magazine.

I take my water to my room and quietly kick the door shut behind me. The solitude is instant, familiar, easy. It’s a good thing I like being alone. I always have. It’s sort of peaceful in a hollow, echoing way.

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