Page 18 of Good Graces

Alyssa stretches, her tank top riding up slightly as she lifts her arms over her head. Soft brown skin peeks above her waistband, glinting faintly with leftover body shimmer. “Must be really annoying if it got toyou.”

I wrinkle my nose. “What’s that mean?”

Jordan snickers, digging through the takeout box with her chopsticks. “It’s just that you usually don’t give a shit about anyone.”

I force a smirk, tilting the bottle back again. “Still don’t.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.

I cross the kitchen in slow, deliberate steps, letting the cold water press against the heat of my palm. It’s grounding, a small relief. But my thoughts still buzz, Warren’s voice still sitting there at the base of my skull, looping through every last word.

I stopped being mad a long time ago. Now I just really don’t fucking care about you.

Flat. Hollow. A lie that somehow still managed to land like a fist between my ribs.

I exhale through my nose. Slam the water bottle down on the counter. My chest feels tight again, like I’ve been holding something in for too long, and now there’s no room left to breathe.

Alyssa doesn’t look away from the screen, but she catches it anyway. “You good?”

“Fine.”

She hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push.

Jordan tosses her chopsticks into the takeout box, leaning back against the couch cushions. “You know what you need?”

I don’t look at her. “A million dollars and a secluded island?”

She snorts. “Close. You need to hit something.”

That gets my attention. I blink, turning toward her. “What?”

Alyssa perks up, twisting toward Jordan. “Oh, you could try that old boxing gym down the street. Emberline, I think it’s called.”

Jordan nods. “Yeah, I pass right by it on my way to work. It’s a little old and dingy, but it’s legit. You should check it out.”

I scoff. “Right. Because what I really need is a mouthguard and a reason to sweat more.”

Alyssa grins. “No, but youdoseemlike you’d enjoy punching things.”

I shake my head, but something about the suggestion sticks. Not because it’s a good idea. Not because I actually want to go. But because Idowant to hit something.

The thought lingers as I start absentmindedly cleaning the kitchen, picking up discarded napkins and stacking takeout cartons that aren’t mine. I don’t really care about the mess, but it gives me something to do. Something to control.

Alyssa watches me from the couch, expression vaguely amused. “Quinn, you know we have a dishwasher, right?”

I rinse out a coffee mug that isn’t mine, shake the water off my fingers. “You guys are animals.”

Jordan rolls her eyes, flipping to another channel. “Oh, the horror. God forbid a crumb touches your sacred countertop.”

I don’t respond, just wipe down the counter and keep moving.

I like Alyssa and Jordan. They’re good people. Fun. Easy to live with. But they don’t know me. Not really. They know I work at Sycamore every summer. That I’m an English lit major. That I can drink tequila without flinching.

They think I’m cool. Tough. Unbothered. The kind of person who doesn’t dwell.

And I let them think that. Because people don’t ask questions when they think they already have the answers. Because the moment you hand someone the real parts of yourself, they get to decide what to do with them.

Keep them. Twist them. Discard them when you become inconvenient.

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