Page 122 of Good Graces

“Like this?” I ask, motioning to our bare skin.

Her smile curves, a little wicked. “Like this.”

She stands, walks to the edge, and holds out her hand. I take it, threading our fingers together. We jump at the same time, crashing into the water in one smooth, reckless motion.

The cold hits hard, stealing my breath, but when I break the surface, I’m laughing.

So is she, her head tipped back, eyes closed, hair slicked against her cheeks.

Despite scrubbing myself under the hot spray of the shower for hours on end, only now do I feel clean. New. Like maybe I can let it all go, as long as she’s here with me.

I swim to her and pull her into my arms. Her legs wrap around my waist, arms locking around my neck like she never wants to let go.

“Quinn,” I murmur. “Promise me you’ll stay?”

We both know I’m not just talking about tonight. Not just this weightless moment, the quiet hush of the water holding us steady. I mean all of it. What comes next. Whatever rough waters may still be ahead.

I need to know I won’t lose this, won’t loseher.

“I think,” she whispers, “I made you up inside my head.”

I blink, turning the words over in my mind.Mad Girl’s Love Song.

“You’re quoting Plath to me right now?” I ask, half a laugh caught in my throat.

She just smiles and ducks her head.

“Though I appreciate the sentiment, it’s probably not the time to hit me with existential despair. I’m a little too fragile for that.”

“I’m here, Warren.” She swallows hard, her fingers curling tighter around my shoulders. It’s like she’s trying to make me believe it, like she’s trying to believe it herself. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be here.”

I close my eyes for a second. “Thank you, Quinny. That’s all I need.”

37

QUINN

I stareat myself in my bathroom mirror, twisting this way and that, trying to decide if I look ... good. Good enough. Appropriate. Whatever that means.

My dress clings in all the right places. It’s fitted through the waist, just enough movement at the hem to feel casual but still nice. The color’s deep blue, almost black in this light, and I thought it looked elegant when I pulled it from my closet.

Now, I’m not so sure.

The neckline dips a little too low. My collarbone feels too sharp, my shoulders too narrow. The bruised shadow of an old pimple lingers stubbornly near my chin.

I press my hands down the front of the dress, trying to smooth the doubt away.

I want to look good. I want to look right. Like someone who belongs at Warren’s side, someone his family won’t immediately question.

I turn again, checking the back. The fabric skims my hips, clinging to the curve of my waist. My hair’s loose in soft waves, but I can’t tell if it looks styled or just messy. My makeup’s fine—maybe too light. I should’ve done more with my eyes. Or my lips. Or ... something.

I blow out a breath and slump against the edge of the sink.God, this is ridiculous.

I’m overthinking again. Spiraling because this isn’t just dinner. It’s dinner with Warren’s mother and stepfather. A dinner I was invited to at the last minute.

They heard Warren’s been seeing me again through the grapevine. Apparently, Liam’s mom blabbed after she ran into Mrs. Mercer at Sycamore last week, and now, here we are.

I groan softly and drag a hand through my hair.

---