Page 130 of Good Graces

“Okay,” he murmurs.

We step out of the car and cross the lot together. Warren’s hand stays in mine, his grip never faltering, and I match his pace. The doors slide open for us. Inside, the air is stale and cold.

We pause just past the entryway and wait. I squeeze his hand once. He squeezes back.

He’s learned to lean on me, to trust that I won’t let go when things get hard. And I’ve learned to lean back, to trust him just the same. We’re not perfect, but we’re better now. We know how to stay when things get messy, and we know how to savor it when things are good.

“I’m right here,” I whisper.

“I know,” Warren says.

And then we step forward, hand in hand, into whatever comes next.

EPILOGUE

WARREN

Maggie’s is mostly empty,just a few scattered tables and a jukebox in the corner that’s humming faintly. The dinner rush is over, but the faint scent of grilled something still lingers in the air.

I reach for my glass, turning it slowly in my hand. The ice clinks, water tracing lazy lines down the sides. Across from me, Quinn’s twirling her fork in what’s left of her pasta, barely eating.

I presume it’s because she’s too busy being happy. Beaming with the kind of smile that starts slow and stretches wide until her whole face is glowing. It’s radiant.

And I can’t stop staring at her.

“You’re still floating a little,” I say. “Still grinning, too.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah, like a little weirdo.”

“I’m just happy,” she says with a half-shrug. “I think I’ve earned it.”

She has. Quinn doesn’t just look lighter; shefeelsit. The weight she used to carry around, the tension that clung to her like armor, it’s ... softer now. She’s figured out how to breathe easily again.

“You should be happy,” I say. “Winning the Blackthorn Prize is a big deal.”

She worked for it. Bled for it, in her own quiet way. I know because I watched her do it.

Stretched herself thin to finish a brand-new short story. Ten thousand words about a girl who returns to her coastal hometown to clean out her grandmother’s house, only to find a salt-stained journal filled with entries she doesn’t remember writing—entries dated weeks after she supposedly left.

A story with teeth, a little bit horror-edged and aching.

On top of the writing, the rewrites, and the gnawing self-doubt, she also picked up a few weekend shifts at Sycamore just to cover the submission fee. Bar backing, not caddying, so she could avoid running into the three stooges entirely. I offered to spot her, but she waved me off, said she wanted to pay for it herself. That it mattered more that way.

And after the contest, she finally plucked up the courage to talk to her parents. Really talk. Not just about the contest but about everything. About how it felt growing up a little off-center, the third wheel in her own family.

And for once, they listened. They asked questions. They even framed the letter she got from the contest committee—her first-place award—and hung it in the living room like it belonged there.

“I’m not just happy because of the contest or because my parents finally saw me as more than background noise. I mean, yeah, it’s all great stuff. But I’m also just so happy because you made it.”

What she means is that I made it to Nationals. Placed ninth in the prelims. The kind of finish that didn’t just mark the end of the season; it rewrote how I’ll remember it.

“You’re proud of me?” I ask, half-joking.

“Of course I am.” She leans forward, elbows on the table. “You were incredible out there, Warren. B-class cut or not, you swam your ass off this season. You earned it.”

I huff a laugh, staring down at my glass. “I barely scraped by. Qualified last-minute.”

---