Page 112 of Good Graces

It’s a nod to something old, something ours. Back at Sycamore, he used to mess with me, rattling off lines half-wrong and half-serious, rewriting classics in a way that was equal parts poetry and provocation. But there was one night, after hours in the pool, where he recited them quite perfectly.

A Dickinson poem that didn’t like performance, but like confession.

“For Occupation—This

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise.”

He spoke slowly, carefully. He knew exactly what he was doing, and I knew, too.

It was before we’d even kissed, before the idea of him and me anduswas anything more than a fairy tale. Some dream I’d only ever dared to imagine in the quietest corners of my mind.

But after that night, he kept up with the lines. He’d whisper them in my ear when no one was around. Shoot them across the break room when we were meant to be folding towels or cleaning up.

When we got to Dayton, he started writing them down, too. Scribbled notes tucked in my pockets, slipped between the pages of my textbooks. Little reminders, like breadcrumbs leading me back to him.

Now, Lang’s voice pulls me back to the front of the room. I shift in my seat, the paper crinkling in my pocket. When I stand and head to the front of the class, I glance behind me.

Warren watches, calm and steady, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll smile at him.

And I do. Of course I do.

* * *

The next night,I’m at Emberline again. Three times a week now, sometimes more if I can swing it. I haven’t been reading or writing as much, but I tell myself the trade-off is worth it. The way my body feels stronger, steadier, like I’m gaining something solid after years of feeling a bit frayed.

It’s easier to push myself now, too. To drown out whatever’s still rattling around in my head with the sound of my fists hitting the bag. Easier to burn off the tension instead of letting it knot up inside me.

I’ve already made a mental note to shut down any unnecessary flirting or touching from Gage’s end. Even if I find it harmless, Warren doesn’t, and I want to respect that.

But when I step into the gym, Gage isn’t here. No sharp smile, no easy swagger as he circles the floor, running drills. I pace by the heavy bags, scanning the room once, then again. He said he’d see me Tuesday night. I know I didn’t imagine that.

Still, the floor is quiet. No sign of him.

So, I tape my hands and get to work, running through my warm-ups alone. I hit each rep harder than usual, moving faster, longer, sharper. Sweat gathers at the base of my neck and trickles down my spine, but I keep going. I’m not finished yet.

I keep going until my arms burn and my chest aches, until the frustration starts to bleed out of me. It’s cathartic, I guess, but it’s also exhausting in a way that feels more emotional than physical.

“You alright?”

I blink up to find Marcus watching me from the side. He’s got his towel slung over one shoulder, hands braced on his hips.

“Fine,” I say, breathless.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” I shake out my arms and tighten the tape around my wrist. “Hey, you know when Gage is working next?”

“He’s not.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Fired him just yesterday,” Marcus responds. “Caught him skimming money off me. Tried to lie and say it wasn’t him, but I had two witnesses.”

A sharp, familiar pang cuts through me, like a tug behind my ribs. It’s not anger, not exactly. There’s something colder threaded through it—disappointment, maybe.

When I was robbed this summer, I was gutted. At first, I felt violated, exposed. But after that? I just felt tired. Because anger never lasts forever. Eventually, it burns out, and you’re left with whatever’s underneath.

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