Page 19 of Good Graces

So, I keep my cards close. Offer up just enough to be understood, never enough to be known. Because the only person I trust to hold on to me—is me.

* * *

The apartment isquiet by the time I make it to my room. My roommates have gone to bed, leaving behind silence and the occasional creak of the walls settling. Dark, still, and humming with the kind of tension that doesn’t let you rest.

I should sleep, or try to, at least. But it’s useless. So, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, hands fisted in the sheets, chest tight with the weight of everything unsaid. Warren’s words are still there. Still pressing.

I stopped being mad a long time ago.

I scoff into the silence. Such a lousy little liar. I squeeze my eyes shut, turn onto my side, and try to will myself to sleep until something else creeps in. It’s a flash of a memory. A gut punch.

We’re tucked away under the shadow of the Sycamore’s clubhouse awning, hidden just enough from view but not enough to be entirely safe. Rain drenches us both, dripping from his hair, his breath warm against my lips. His hands grip my waist, voice rough, low, desperate.

“Christ, Quinn. You’re trying to kill me.”

I sit up so fast it makes me light-headed. Cursing under my breath, I throw off the blankets, shove my feet into my sneakers, grab my bag. This restless, spiraling bullshit is eating me alive. I need to do something. Need to hit something, actually.

I think of Emberline. And then, not even five minutes later, I’m slipping out the front door, careful not to let it slam behind me.

Outside, streetlights flicker—some buzzing faintly, others already dead—leaving patches of darkness along the cracked sidewalk. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, stretching long and low before fading into the night.

I check the time. 10:42 p.m.

The gym might not even be open. But it doesn’t matter. If I don’t do something—move, run, fight—I’m going to lose my mind.

I take the stairs down, two at a time, and step out onto the street, the heat still clinging to the pavement, thick and unmoving. The city is different at night. A little sharper. A little more dangerous. But I’m not afraid to be out here alone.

I keep my pace even and steady, my breath measured as I jog down the street.

I stopped being mad a long time ago.

I push harder, pick up speed, let my muscles strain with the effort.

Now I just really don’t fucking care about you.

I suck in a sharp breath, ignoring the way my chest tightens, the slow burn climbing up my ribs. I’m fine. It’s fine. I just need to move. Need to quiet the noise in my head.

The gym appears at the end of the block. A squat, nondescript building with a faded sign that reads: EMBERLINE BOXING CO. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t care about aesthetics. Old-school. No frills. The air inside probably smells like sweat and tape and bruised pride.

I slow my stride, jogging to a stop in front of the door. My hands brace on my knees as I catch my breath, lungs dragging air faster than they should. I’ve been walking miles all summer, but this kind of movement hits different.

I’m out of shape for it. Unused to running like I’m trying to outrun something.

I dig into my bag and pull out my inhaler, take a quick puff, wait for the tightness in my chest to ease. The lights inside are still on, but I hesitate, shifting my weight, my pulse still uneven.

What the hell am I doing here?

I should turn around. Go home. Sleep it off. But something about the thought makes my skin itch, makes the anger coil a little tighter in my chest. So, before I can overthink it, I pull the door open.

There’s a worn-out ring in the center of the floor, ropes sagging slightly at the corners. A few beat-up dummies stand in a crooked line near the wall, arms stiff at their sides like they’re bracing for whatever’s coming. Speed bags hang in a lopsided row by the back wall.

In the far corner, a heavy bag swings gently, still moving from the last person who took something out on it. Every few seconds, a low grunt echoes from somewhere behind a partition, followed by the sharp thud of glove on leather.

I take a hesitant step inside, feeling instantly out of place. It’s not polished or welcoming. And I don’t like feeling unsure of myself.

“You lost, kid?” The voice is rough, sandpapered with age, cutting through the quiet like a challenge.

I glance over. The man is probably in his sixties—wiry but solid, the kind of build that doesn’t fade with age, just hardens. He’s nursing what’s left of a cup of coffee, scowl etched deep into his face like it’s been there for years. His T-shirt, once black, is now faded to a dull gray, the Emberline logo barely legible beneath the wear.

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