Page 27 of Good Graces

“Morning,” Mom says, setting one of the coffee cups on the bedside table. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Wes shrugs. “Fine.”

Mom presses her lips together, clearly debating whether or not to argue. She doesn’t. Just reaches for his hand, rubbing gentle circles over his knuckles.

Dad’s eyes flick to me. “You should go home, Quinn. Get some rest.”

I stretch my arms above my head, feigning indifference. “I’m fine.”

Mom frowns. “Honey, you were here all night.”

“So were you.”

She sighs, looking between me and my brother. I don’t know why they’ve suddenly decided that my presence is optional, like it hasn’t always been expected. Like I haven’t built a second skin out of showing up.

Dad shifts, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “We appreciate you staying,” he says carefully. “But you don’t have to carry this, Quinn.”

A familiar weight settles in my chest. I know they mean well. I know they’re saying it because they care. But that’s the thing—I’ve always carried this. It’s part of who I am. It’s not going to end just because I’m graduating college soon and suddenly they’ve decided I’ve done enough.

They can pretend the balance was ever even, pretend I didn’t spend years trying to prove I mattered too. But that doesn’t erase the past.

I push to my feet and grab my bag. “I’ll head out. Just let me know when he gets discharged.”

“Text us when you get home,” Mom says.

I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Will do.”

Wes watches as I step toward the door, something flickering in his expression. It’s hesitation, maybe. A kind of guilt that doesn’t belong to him but is there anyway. I don’t wait for him to say anything. If he opens his mouth, it’ll just make it harder to walk out.

So, I push through the door and let it swing shut behind me.

The hallway is bright and clean, stretching out in a sterile blur of white tile and muted colors. Soft greens. Powder blues. The kind of palette meant to calm kids down but just makes everything feel like a waiting room inside a cartoon.

The walls are lined with painted murals: smiling animals, rainbow kites, a sun with wide cartoon eyes. It’s all a little too cheerful, a little too forced. Like the place is trying too hard to make you forget where you are.

This is the Hawthorne Children’s Hospital, which is why the murals make sense. Doesn’t make them less weird. Or babyish. Or kind of haunting when you’ve grown up walking these halls.

I’ve been here more times than I can count. First as a wide-eyed kid trailing after my parents, later as a teenager keeping Wes entertained between appointments. The faces change—new nurses, new doctors, new scared parents—but the feeling doesn’t.

I pass a small girl clutching a stuffed elephant, her IV pole rattling quietly beside her. Her mom murmurs something soft as they head toward the playroom. Another kid, maybe six or seven, sits in a wheelchair, staring blankly at an iPad. His arms are thin, covered in faded hospital bracelets.

Wesley was once just like them, all wiry limbs and quiet bravery. He grew, got stronger, outlived the worst predictions. And now he’s taller, sharper, more sarcastic than ever. Sprawled across that hospital bed like he owns it, tossing out jokes to make me roll my eyes. He seems older.

But seventeen isn’t grown. It’s barely anything at all.

And if seventeen still counts as a kid, then what does that make me?

I’m twenty-one. Technically an adult. Old enough to be on my own, to make decisions that matter. Old enough to be working, studying, building something. But most days, I still feel like I’m waiting for someone to hand me the blueprint. Like I’m stuck on the edge of something I don’t quite know how to step into.

I don’t stop at the waiting area. Don’t glance at the receptionist. Don’t acknowledge the low murmur of nurses at the desk. I just keep walking, straight through the automatic doors and into the thick summer air.

Outside, I blink against the sudden light. The heat hits instantly, clinging to my skin after too many hours breathing stale, filtered oxygen. I move on autopilot—cross the lot, unlock the door, slide behind the wheel.

The drive home blurs past. Stoplights, street signs, late-morning traffic. I couldn’t recount the route if I tried. My brain stays back at the hospital, stuck somewhere between the beep of a heart monitor and the feel of Wesley’s too-cold fingers brushing mine.

I pull into the lot outside my apartment complex, cut the engine, and sit there with my fingers curled tight around the wheel. The AC hums, blowing lukewarm air that barely touches the sticky weight pressing down on me.

I should go inside. Take a shower. Sleep. Pretend I didn’t just spend the last twenty-four hours in a hospital room pretending to be fine.

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