Page 127 of Good Graces

It feels good, knowing that we both held on. That even after everything, we’re still here. Still choosing this. Still choosing each other.

Now, I don’t know how I’m supposed to step back into that dining room without my heart trying to climb out of my chest.

“You ready to go back out there?”

“Not really,” I mumble.

He laughs quietly and presses a kiss to my hair. “Yeah, me neither.”

I close my eyes for a moment longer, breathing him in. Then I sit up, and his hand finds mine again—soft, steady, sure.

“We’ve got this,” he says, and somehow, I believe him.

38

QUINN

Warren’s roomis calmer than mine. No chaotic piles of books, no scattered notes threatening to avalanche at any moment. That’s why I’m here now, trying to work instead of getting buried in my own mess.

My papers are spread in loose clusters across his desk, and my laptop blinks at me from the corner like it’s waiting for me to get my act together. The coffee I brought over more than an hour ago sits untouched by the window, long gone cold.

I’m slumped in his desk chair, chin resting in my hand, pen tapping an uneven rhythm against my notebook. Every so often, I manage to write a word, stare at it like it betrayed me, then scratch it out until the page looks worse than when I started.

“You know,” Warren says lazily from his bed, one arm thrown over his head as he scrolls his phone. “You could just submit that one about the train.”

I exhale sharply, flick my pen across the page once more, and toss it aside. “I’m not submitting that one.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s depressing as hell, for one.”

“That’s what makes it good,” he argues. “I mean, your main character dies at the end, and it still felt . .. strangely hopeful. Bittersweet, at the very least.”

“Right,” I say dryly. “Totally what the judges are looking for.”

“You’re just overthinking it.” He rolls off his bed, crossing the room until he’s standing behind my chair. “You put too much pressure on yourself.”

“I just want it to be good.”

“It is good.” His hands settle on my shoulders, his thumbs brushing along the curve of my neck. “You’re not the same writer you were when you lost that first contest.”

I let out a breathy laugh. “Wow. Thanks for the reminder.”

He squeezes my shoulders. “I’m serious. You are better now. Besides, you had bad luck last time. Or karmic intervention. I mean, you were up against some kid who wrote about ... what was it again?”

“Her mom’s garden.” I huff. “The whole thing was a metaphor for grief. And the pacing was perfect. And her sentences—God, Warren, they made me want to quit writing altogether.”

“Yeah, well,” he says lightly, “she probably peaked in middle school.”

I snort. “I can’t believe you’re talking shit about a little girl.”

“I’m just saying, I know a thing or two about burning bright too early. Junior champ and all.”

“You did not burn out. You still have your best years ahead of you.”

He grins and drops a kiss to the side of my head.

I hum softly, letting my eyes close for a second. His hands are still on my shoulders, warmth soaking through the fabric of my shirt. The tension that’s been riding my muscles all morning finally starts to ease.

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