Page 40 of Good Graces

Her mouth parts, her grip twitching. “Are you okay?”

I blink slowly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She studies me, like she’s trying to find something I’ve buried too deep, then huffs in disappointment. “Right.”

I clear my throat. “We should get back. Wouldn’t want to give upper management a reason to start snooping around.”

She nods, exhaling like she’s steadying herself. Then her lips twitch, just barely, and something dry slips into her tone. “As you wish, Clyde.”

It takes me a beat. Then I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Alright, Bonnie.”

I step back first, letting go of her wrist. She follows a second later, brushing her fingers over the spot like she can still feel the imprint of my touch.

Neither of us says anything else. We just walk back to work like nothing happened. Like we didn’t almost crack something back open and let the past rush in like it never left.

* * *

My cell phonewon’t stop ringing.

It’s been buzzing in my pocket since I left Sycamore, but I ignored it on the drive. Ignored it when I pulled into the lot behind my building, gripping the steering wheel for a full minute before I could get out of the car. Ignored it as I fumbled my way inside the house, still tasting the sourness of rage on the back of my tongue.

But now I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, parked in the empty lot behind the training center, watching the screen light up again.

Dad. Dad. Dad.

I already know what this is about. The missed calls stack up—three, four, five. He never leaves a voicemail. He just keeps calling, again and again, like if he persists, then maybe I’ll cave the way I used to.

I should let it go to voicemail. I should shove the phone deep into my bag and pretend I didn’t see. Instead, I press Accept and bring the phone to my ear.

“Yeah?”

Silence. A half-second pause before his voice filters through, casual, light, like we talk all the time.

“Hey, kid.” A breath. “Took you long enough.”

I don’t answer. Just wait.

He exhales sharply, like I’m the one being difficult. “What the hell are you so quiet for?”

And then—right on cue—the ask. “They raised my meal plan rates again,” he continues, voice dipping into that same, familiar strain—exasperated, put-upon, like the hardship is something happeningtohim, not because of him. “Damn near seventy extra a month now. Can you believe that? I told them I can’t afford that shit, but do they care? No. Place is a damn scam, Warren.”

I press my fingers to my temple. “That’s what your disability checks are for.”

“They barely cover it as is.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He scoffs. “Oh, fuck off. You’re real quick to judge, huh?”

I grit my teeth because this is the cycle. This is always the cycle.

He calls. He asks. And when I don’t immediately cave, he turns it around on me, like I’m an asshole for not handing over whatever scraps he’s looking for this time. Like I’m supposed to feel guilty.

I exhale slowly, forcing my voice even. “I can’t help you, Dad.”

A beat of silence. “You really gonna do that to me?”

The words hit their mark, like they always do. Not a question. A challenge. A subtle thread of disbelief, like the very idea that I could say no is absurd. This is mydadwe’re talking about here, not some lowlife addict looking for his next hit.

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