Page 35 of Good Graces

Back then, Warren had been my steady thing. My constant. The person I could fall back on, no matter what. And now, he’s the thing I can’t have.

I swallow hard. Walk into the kitchen. Turn on the kettle. Maybe if I go through the motions, I’ll feel normal again. Maybe if I do something mindless, something simple, I can stop fucking thinking about him.

I pull down a mug, grab a tea bag, and watch the steam curl up as the water pours in. It’s a ritual. One I’ve repeated so many times it almost feels like control.

There are so many things I can’t control. Warren. Preston Beckett. The past, all the years I’ve spent holding my own guilt like a stone in my chest.

But this? The kettle, the mug, the tea. The weight of the ceramic in my hands. The slow inhale, the slow exhale. The burn of hot water settling in my stomach. It’s my comfort in the mess, in the moments that don’t make sense.

I stare at the counter, fingers curled around the warm porcelain. The tea is still too hot, but I take a slow sip anyway, letting it scald my tongue and settle in my stomach.

Behind me, there’s a shift in the room. A soft rustle of fabric, the quiet creak of the couch. I turn my head enough to see Jordan curled up on the cushions, phone in hand, her attention half-absorbed in whatever she’s watching. I hadn’t even noticed her there.

“Can’t sleep?”

I shake off my shock, shifting against the counter. “Oh. Nope.”

She studies me for a beat, then stretches before setting her phone down on the arm of the couch. “Tea?”

I nod toward the kettle. “Yeah, want some?”

There are approximately three things I know about Jordan: she plays volleyball, she loves reality TV, and Chinese takeout is her comfort food. But we haven’t had a lengthy conversation, a real heart-to-heart, since that weird night last year after her boyfriend unceremoniously dumped her.

I grab another mug from the cabinet, dunk a tea bag inside, pour the steaming water in. By the time I bring it over, she’s moved slightly, making space next to her on the couch.

I hesitate, just for a second. It feels strange to sit here beside her in the middle of the night. But Jordan doesn’t say anything, just accepts the mug with a quiet thanks, so I lower myself onto the other side of the couch and leave a foot of space between us.

Even so, I still feel the warmth of her, the slight shift of the cushion beneath us.

It doesn’t come easily, but I force myself to settle. To not think about the last time I sat with someone like this. Two and a half years ago. The way Warren’s hand used to rest on my knee, his shoulder pressing into mine as he leaned back, so close I could feel the rise and fall of his breath.

Jordan doesn’t press for conversation, which I appreciate. She blows on her tea, taps through something on her phone, and lets the quiet stretch between us, soft and unobtrusive. It’s a kindness I didn’t realize I needed.

I sip my tea, let the warmth curl in my chest. It’s strange how rare this feels. How much of my time is spent alone, wrapped up in my own mind, refusing to let anyone too close.

After a minute, Jordan finally asks, “How’s your brother? You just spent the night in Hawthorne, right?”

I don’t know why the question nearly pummels me. It shouldn’t. It’s gentle. Casual. Not even loaded. But my whole chest clenches like she’s pried it open.

I stare down into my tea. “Yeah, he had a seizure. Hit his head.”

Jordan finally looks up, her brows pulling together. “Shit. Is he okay?”

I nod, forcing my voice even. “Yeah. Home now.”

“That must’ve been scary.”

It was. Even though I’m used to it, even though it’s happened countless times before. I still spent the whole night bracing for bad news. Sitting in that hospital room, staring at his IV, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Wondering if this would be the time things didn’t go back to normal.

Jordan doesn’t say anything else, just watches me, like she’s giving me space to fill the silence if I want to.

I don’t. Because the longer I sit here, the itchier I feel. Like my skin doesn’t fit right. Like I’ve let something slip that I shouldn’t have.

I clear my throat. “It was fine. Thanks for asking.”

“If you ever wanna talk, you know I’m here.”

“Yeah, yeah. Feelings. We’ll circle back.”

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