Page 125 of Good Graces

“Wasn’t my best moment, but I hate the sleazebag. Seeing his face again made me see red.”

I should be mad at him for stirring things up, but all I feel is this tight, aching gratitude. Warren’s always been like this—fiercely loyal, always ready to fight for me, even when I’ve tried to handle things myself.

I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that, you know. Stick your neck out for me like that.”

“Yeah, actually,” Warren says quietly. “I do.”

For a second, I can’t speak. The words get stuck somewhere in my throat, tangled up with everything else I don’t know how to say. I’m grateful, of course I am. But I don’t want him to get in trouble while protecting me, not again.

“Was he . . . alone?” I ask carefully.

Warren shrugs, eyes still on the road. “His same old buddies were there with him.”

My stomach twists. I slouch lower in my seat, arms curling tighter across my chest.

Of course Davis and Mancini would still be hanging around. They told me they’d “take care of it,” that they’d talk to Preston. And in a way, they had. He backed off, dropped the complaint with the club.

But that didn’t mean they dropped him.

“Right,” I say bitterly. “Of course they were.”

For a second—one foolish, fleeting second—I thought maybe they’d actually cared. Thought maybe I mattered enough for them to draw a line somewhere. But that’s not how it works. There’s always a divide between the people wealthy enough to belong to the club and the ones who were only ever allowed near it to serve.

I should’ve known better than to mistake proximity for loyalty.

* * *

Dinner’s been... nice. Better than I expected, at least.

Daniel and Willow are warm, relaxed in a way that makes the whole thing feel less like some intimidating family dinner and more like an overdue catch-up. There’s a bottle of wine on the table, Willow’s hand curled loosely around her glass as she tells a story about their latest trip to Charleston.

Daniel chuckles along, adding the occasional detail or dry commentary. It’s easy to see where Warren learned how to read a room. He knows when to chime in with a sharp one-liner and when to sit back and let everyone else take the lead.

I’ve always liked his mom. She’s sharp but kind, her smile quick and genuine. I forgot how easy she makes it to relax, like you’re not being evaluated. You’re being welcomed.

“So, Quinn,” Willow says, turning her attention to me. “What’s been keeping you busy this semester?”

I take a small sip of wine and smile. “Mostly drowning in essays. I’m in a really tough lit seminar this term.”

Willow laughs. “You’re an English major?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Careful,” Daniel says with a teasing look in Warren’s direction. “Writers are always trouble.”

Warren’s hand finds my knee beneath the table, steady and warm. “I know. That’s why I like her.”

We talk about the past a little after that. Stories about Sycamore and old memories from the so-called glory days. Daniel mentions his twin daughters, who are in the middle of their sophomore year of high school.

“Miracle they’ve stayed out of trouble so far,” Daniel says. It’s loving but laced with that particular exasperation only a father can get away with. “We were sure they’d give us hell. Two teen girls under one roof? We braced for chaos.”

“We’ve been very lucky with all three of our kids,” Willow adds, shooting Warren a pointed, teasing look. “You’ve always been a stickler for following the rules. Aside from a minor blip here and there. Freshman year really threw us for a loop.”

I freeze, my fingers tightening around my fork. Freshman year. Eighteen and taking the fall for his girlfriend without ever once telling them the truth.

Warren just laughs under his breath. “Yeah, well. We all make mistakes.”

“Some of us more spectacularly than others,” Daniel jokes.

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