Page 34 of Good Graces

QUINN

The text is still there.Unread. Unanswered. Sitting on my screen, glowing in the dark like it’s waiting for me to do something about it.

Warren

heard about Wesley. hope he’s okay.

It’s ridiculous how much I want to respond to him.

Because twice now—twice in two days—he’s made it feel like no time has passed. Like we’re still us. Like I could just crack myself open and let him bleed back into my life, filling all the spaces he used to belong.

And I want that. I want it so fucking bad.

But maybe I’m letting myself get hopeful when two inconsequential instances don’t mean anything. That in the grand scheme of the last two and a half years, a couple of soft moments can’t outweigh everything else. Because that’s what it’s been—two and a half years of silence.

We’ve crossed paths a time or two, though neither of us ever stopped long enough to acknowledge it. Dayton is big, but not that big. We walk the same quad, share the same sidewalks. It’s easy to blend into the crowd, easy to keep our heads down.

The first time I saw him after the breakup, he was sitting alone on a bench in Navy Square, staring out over the fountain, shoulders hunched like the weight of something invisible was pressing down on him. I thought about approaching. Thought about sitting down beside him, saying something, anything.

But then I thought about the way his jaw would tighten, the way his eyes would shutter the second he saw me. Thought about how fast he’d leave. So, I ran first.

I saw him again last year, passing by the intramural training building. He was walking out, hair damp, a Dayton swim duffel slung over his shoulder.

My heart stuttered. I had the first syllable of his name on my tongue, my lips parting, ready to call out. But then I froze, and the moment slipped through my fingers like it never belonged to me in the first place.

I turned before he could see me. Before I could see the way he’d look through me, the way he’d remind me of what I already knew. That whatever we were—real and raw and everything—I destroyed it.

And yet, I wonder if he ever saw me, too. If he ever spotted me in the nooks and crannies of his day. If his gaze ever snagged on me, even just for a second, before slipping away. Is it possible for him to be oblivious to my presence when I’ve never been able to ignore his?

Maybe it’s easier for him. Cleaner. Because he can put it all in a box labeled “mistake” and never look at it again. Because he can’t forgive me.He won’t. And no matter how good things were between us before, that hasn’t changed.

I know that. So why does it still ache?

I flip onto my side, then onto my back again, my sheets twisted around my legs, restless energy burning through my skin. My ribs feel too tight, my chest too full.

I should be thinking about Preston Beckett. About the way his hand landed on my waist earlier today, the too-firm squeeze that dropped down to my ass, the way his mouth pressed into my ear when he leaned in to whisper about how he liked having me back at Sycamore.

I should be pissed off about it. I am pissed off about it. Grossed out, disturbed, violated.

But the worst part? The part I can’t stop circling back to?

The way Warren’s hand felt on my face afterward. Soothing, reassuring. His thumb sweeping over my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t even realized had fallen. The way he looked at me—not like I was something to be handled or dismissed, but like he really saw me.

Like I was still the girl he met and chose. Like I was stillhis.

I press the heel of my palm against my sternum, forcing the thought out of my head. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t. Proximity forced us into that moment. It wasn’t fate, it wasn’t some buried longing on his part, and it sure as hell wasn’t because he still cares.

I flip my phone over, screen down, and roll onto my stomach. As I press my forehead into the pillow, it takes everything in me not to cry.

Loving Warren Mercer had come so easily to me back then. Instinctively, like second nature, like gravity itself. Like stepping into warm water and letting myself sink.

But losing him? That had been the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done.

Even now, there’s a part of me that still waits for him. Still looks for him in crowds. Still aches in the quiet spaces where he used to be.

I scrub my fingers over my jaw. And before I can talk myself into doing something reckless—something like texting him back—I shove the phone under my pillow and push the covers off.

I can’t just lie here. I need to move. To do something. So, I climb out of bed and pad out of my room, into the darkened apartment. It’s quiet, too quiet, but my skin still feels buzzed and blistered, like I’m coming apart at the seams.

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