Page 11 of Good Graces

I drop onto my bed and let my head tip back against the wall, the quiet settling over me like a second skin. My desk is a mess. Books are stacked in uneven piles, loose papers with half-written annotations, my laptop open to a creative writing project I abandoned three days ago.

Still, I love stories. I always have. I love the way they work, the way people reveal themselves in fiction without realizing it. The way words can be used as both a weapon and a shield.

But I don’t talk about it. Not because I’m embarrassed—just because it doesn’t fit the version of myself I give people.

When I was younger and my parents’ attention narrowed in on my little brother—when their concern, their energy, their love seemed to orbit only him—I had stories. I had magical worlds and classic poetry. I had historical romance and gothic heartbreak. I had characters who felt like they existed solely for me. Who listened when no one else did.

I stretch and grab my notebook, flipping to the dog-eared page where I left off. Drown out the world. Get lost in someone else’s.

Four weeks. That’s all I need. Four weeks of working, reading, keeping my head down. Then the summer will be over, and my ex-boyfriend will be nothing more than a memory again.

* * *

Monday morning comes too soon,too hot, too much like déjà vu.

The air is already stifling by 9:00 a.m., the kind of heat that clings to your skin and makes your clothes feel like a punishment. Somewhere in the distance, a golf cart whirs to life, tires crackling over gravel like a slow reminder that summer doesn’t care how tired you are.

Everything moves in a haze. Lazy swings. Half-hearted conversations. The lull of another long, sun-bleached morning at Sycamore.

I avoided the pool deck today. Skipped the break room. Didn’t even glance at the storage closet. But that avoidance has an expiration date, and I know it. Eventually, he’ll be somewhere I can’t sidestep. Eventually turns out to be now.

I’m halfway through my first shift when Warren walks past the gate.

Same uniform. Same almost-black hair, still damp from an early swim. Same broad, carved-out back as he moves past the cabanas with a towel slung over one shoulder, muscles shifting like they’re built to be looked at.

Of course, I notice. Of course, I look. And it makes my pulse stutter in that way I hate. My grip tightens on the scorecard in my hand.

Mad. That’s what I am.

Mad that he’s here. Mad that I still react. Mad that it still gets under my skin, no matter how many times I’ve told myself it won’t.

I drag my eyes away and force a breath out, trying to shake it. He’s just a guy. A coworker. Interchangeable. Forgettable.

But that’s a lie, and I know it.

Warren Mercer isn’t just a guy. He’s the boy who knew every corner of me, the only one who ever really understood how I worked. He was the sharpest mirror I ever stood in front of—and now, all he sees when he looks at me is the girl who broke his trust.

And maybe that’s all I deserve.

I refocus my attention, shift my bag higher on my shoulder, and tune in to the conversation happening between my golfers.

“. . . if you’re not playing to win, you’re just donating money,” Beckett is saying, adjusting his grip on his club. “Last time I played with Mark, he lost six grand on a bet because he thought he could outdrive me.”

“Some of us play for the sport, not the wallet,” Graham replies, lining up his shot.

Beckett snorts. “You say that now, but the second you lose a couple grand to me, you’ll be rethinking your stance.”

I barely suppress an eye roll. Different day, same conversation.

I shift my weight, already overheated, my water bottle half-drained, my chest tight in the way that means I need to slow down, regulate my breathing, take a damn break. But I don’t have time for that.

I force another sip of water, nod when one of the guys makes some offhanded comment in my direction, and keep moving, even though my pulse feels a little too quick, and I’m a little too light-headed.

By the time we reach the turn, the heat is oppressive, a thick, smothering weight pressing against my ribs. My fingers tingle. My chest feels like it’s full of cotton.

Shit. I need my inhaler.

I tell my group I’ll meet them at the next tee, then duck off the path, cutting through the maintenance lot toward the club’s storage shed. It’s shaded here, away from the worst of the heat, the air marginally cooler beneath the awning.

---