Page 13 of Good Graces

Not just any smirk—a knowing one. The kind that says he sees right through me. That he knows exactly how much this is getting under my skin. That no matter how hard I try to act unaffected, he can still spot the truth in my eyes.

Then, just like that, he steps back. Calm. Controlled. Like he didn’t just invade every inch of my personal space and leave me reeling.

He shakes his head once and walks off without another word. Somehow, that pisses me off more than anything else.

By the time I make it back to my group, the tightness in my chest has eased, but the frustration lingers, buzzing under my skin like static. Thankfully, the rest of the round passes by without incident. I move on autopilot—haul the clubs, smile when expected, nod at conversations I’m not really listening to.

But my thoughts won’t let go.

They circle, restless, dragging me right back to the look in Warren’s eyes. The tension in his voice. The edge in the way he said my name. He says he doesn’t care, says I don’t matter, but something slipped through the cracks just there.

A flicker. A fracture of feeling.

And for a girl who’s spent the last two years trying not to feel anything at all, that’s dangerous.

5

WARREN

The club is already fillingup when I step into the dining room. White tablecloths, polished silverware, servers moving smoothly between tables with trays of mimosas and fruit plates.

It’s still early, but that doesn’t mean much here. Sycamore mornings start with espresso, neatly pressed linens, and weekend warriors talking too loudly about their golf handicaps. It’s a performance—one they’ve all rehearsed a hundred times.

I catch sight of my mom first, seated near the window, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, a plate of untouched croissants between her and my stepdad. She looks relaxed, content in a way I don’t remember from when I was younger.

Her hair is pulled into a neat twist, her nails freshly done. Those are small details, but they say everything. She’s not struggling anymore. Not scrubbing coffee stains out of her uniform or counting tips in the back of a diner.

She’s taken care of now, which is why I don’t totally begrudge Daniel.

He’s sitting next to her, reading something on his phone, a perfectly ironed golf polo stretched across broad shoulders, the picture of a man who’s got it all under control. He’s never been unkind to me, never treated me like a burden, never tried to act like my dad. And that last part is why we get along.

He looks up first, nodding when he sees me. “Look who’s on time.”

Mom turns and smiles. “Warren, sweetheart.”

I slip into the chair across from them, letting the club’s signature too-expensive, too-stiff cushions swallow me. A server appears almost instantly, dropping a menu in front of me.

“Your usual, Mr. Mercer?”

I almost sigh. The fact that I even have a usual here is embarrassing. I’ve worked at Sycamore on and off for years, but I’ve never belonged here. Still, I nod. “Yeah, thanks.”

Mom tilts her head. “How’s the summer job treating you?”

I fight the urge to run a hand through my hair. “It’s fine.”

Daniel snorts. “That’s convincing.”

I shoot him a look. “What do you want me to say? The pool’s wet. The members are rich. The lifeguard chair is still uncomfortable as hell. Nothing’s changed.”

Mom hums, her knowing gaze flicking between me and my stepdad. She sees everything, always has. But she also has the good sense not to press me on it. Instead, she stirs a bit of sugar into her coffee. “And swimming? Training?”

I nod, absently drumming my fingers against the table. “It’s been good. I’ve been hitting all my splits, times are solid. If I keep it up, I’ve got a shot at Nationals. Probably a B-cut, but it’s doable.”

I’ve been there once before—sophomore year. Barely made the cut, swam the 200 free like my life depended on it, and placed somewhere in the middle of the pack. Solid, not spectacular.

It wasn’t like Junior Nationals, where I used to win heats and hit the podium. Back then, people thought I had a real shot at going pro. Now? I’m consistent. Strong. My coach still calls me one of our best. But sometimes I wonder if that’s just experience talking—or if I really did peak five years ago.

Daniel sets his phone down, finally giving me his full attention. “That’s big.”

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