Page 114 of Good Graces

“Like we’re waiting for the next thing to go wrong.” I hesitate, pressing my fingers to my temple. “Or worse—like we’re the ones who screw it up ourselves. And even if you try to fix it, even if you’ve done everything you can to atone ... sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter. Like your life’s still off-kilter somehow, like you’ll never quite get it back on track. And you’re just waiting for the next bad thing to hit.”

“I know what you mean, but no, Quinn,” he says firmly. “That’s not you. I know you’re good. You’re a good person, and good things are meant to happen to you.”

I smile, but it’s faint and doesn’t quite stick. “I wasn’t just talking about myself.”

“Quinny,” he says softly, like he knows I’m lying.

“Fine,” I murmur. “I kinda was. Thank you for the reassurance, though.”

“Anytime.”

“Good night, baby.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk more?”

“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “I just need to pass out in bed and forget I’m a person for a while. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Good night, then.”

I hang up, feeling that familiar hollow space open inside me again. I know I’ll wake up tomorrow and fill it with something else—work, school, the gym. More soft, steady check-ins from Warren. Small things that keep me anchored when I start to drift.

It’s not perfect. Some days, those old feelings creep back in. The way my parents used to diminish me without even trying. I had to work hard to be noticed and even harder to be valued. I spent so long chasing their approval that now, I don’t always know how to let myself be cared for. How to let myself be fully seen. Half the time, I’m not even sure I want to be.

But at least I know I’m not alone, and that’s what keeps me steady. Because I have Warren, I have Wesley, and they see me—really see me—for exactly who I am.

35

WARREN

The locker room’sbuzzing before warm-ups. The guys are joking around, slapping shoulders, and running through pre-race routines. I tune most of it out, dragging my fingers down the knots in my shoulder blades and stretching through my lower back.

It’s the last weekend in September and our first dual meet of the season. We’re swimming against Coastal University, a team that’s practically made of fish. They train year-round by the beach, which means they’re used to open water, longer swims, rougher conditions.

Rumor has it their coach throws them in the ocean when they slack off.

Today’s meet is here at Dayton, though. Home pool advantage. Our natatorium’s warm and humid. The ceiling lights flicker sometimes. And I know every corner of this place—the scuffed tiles by the starting blocks, the crack in the wall by lane five.

But familiar or not, Coastal’s still good. None of us can afford to let our guard down.

Coach Voss went over my lineup earlier: 200. 50. Medley anchor. Middle of the 400. Four chances to prove I can step up when it matters. Four chances to be solid.

I sit on the bench and start rolling out my calves, working through the tension that’s been building all week. I meant to visit Dad again on Wednesday. Thought about it the whole drive home from practice.

But then Quinn called, asking if I wanted to meet her for coffee. And then I had a paper due. And swim. And ... everything. Now it’s been a week, and I’ve run out of excuses.

As I shift to stretch my hamstrings, my phone vibrates inside my locker. I ignore it at first. Then it buzzes again. And again. I grab it, figuring it’s Quinn or maybe my mom checking in before the meet.

It’s my dad.

Seventeen missed calls.

I sit back hard against the locker, phone clutched in my hand. He’s generally overzealous, but he’s never called this many times back-to-back before.

Another call flashes across the screen. I don’t answer. I can’t.

I hit Decline and shove my phone under my towel, dragging my hand down my face.

Maybe he’s just restless. Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe Oakview’s got him frustrated again and he wants to complain to his one and only son.

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