Page 50 of Good Graces

That’s why he’s been bored out of his mind all summer. Our parents still don’t let him stay out past nine. He has to check in every hour when he’s with friends. He handles it well enough, but I can tell it eats at him. The lack of freedom, the invisible line he’s not allowed to cross.

I didn’t even have a real curfew when I was his age.

I huff out a laugh. “There are a lot of assumptions happening here.”

Wes plops onto the couch and makes himself comfortable. “And yet, here we are.”

I glance between them, trying to decide how much energy I have to fight this. Because I do want to spend time with them. I was sort of craving a day alone to recharge, to exist in my own space without anyone else’s expectations. But I love my family, and I haven’t spent much time with Wes lately.

Once school starts, I’ll have less time to spare, and chances like this will get harder to come by.

Dad gives me a knowing look. “It’s just lunch, Quinn. Get your shoes.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s half-hearted at best. Because I know myself. I know I’ll go, and I know I’ll enjoy it. I’m just arguing because it’s part of the ritual—part of how I soften the yes.

“Fine,” I say, “but I’m picking the place.”

A nicer place is out of the question. Not because my dad would say no. He’d try to swing it, act like it’s nothing, but I’d see it. The pause before he reached for the check. The quiet calculation behind his eyes. He’d blink, then bury it.

We’ve never been particularly flush. Between the medical bills and the job shifts, things have always been tight—held together by resourcefulness and a lot of pretending.

And Wes, sweet as he is, assumes everything’s fine. He’s still a kid. He doesn’t know what it means to stretch a paycheck or what it costs to act like you’re not.

That’s why I always suggest something casual. Something cheap enough not to leave a mark. Something that won’t make Dad wince when the bill hits the table.

Maybe I wouldn’t micromanage so much if I didn’t feel a little guilty. He’s an adult; he knows when and where to spend his money. But the truth is, I know what it feels like to take from him without asking. And I still carry that weight in a place I try not to examine too closely.

For the most part, I was an okay kid. A helpful sister and a dutiful daughter. But we all have our faults—and mine was knowing how easy it was to take what wasn’t offered.

Wes snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go, princess.”

I grab my bag, lock the door behind me, and follow them down to the car.

We end up at Maggie’s, a hole-in-the-wall diner we’ve been going to for as long as I can remember. The kind of place with laminated menus, a too-loud jukebox in the corner, and a waitress who’s probably been here since the dawn of time.

Wes orders pancakes with extra chocolate chips and whipped cream, even though it’s the middle of the day. Our dad doesn’t stop him.

“You’re gonna knock out in the booth,” I warn, watching as he drowns them in syrup.

Wes shrugs, unfazed. “At least I’ll die happy.”

Dad shakes his head, unamused, then turns his attention to me. “How’s work?”

It’s an easy, neutral question. The kind that fills the space, that keeps the conversation moving without actually meaning much. Because what else is he supposed to ask me? We don’t talk much. Not because we’re distant or because anything’s wrong. Just because, lately, it feels like we don’t know what to talk about anymore.

And yeah, asking how work is going is classic father-daughter small talk, but still, it feels ... I don’t know. Hollow.

I shrug, picking at the edge of my menu. “Same as always.”

Dad waits, like he expects me to elaborate. I don’t.

Wes doesn’t let the silence settle. “Quinn’s a big deal at Sycamore,” he says around a mouthful of food. “She gets the members’ orders right nine times out of ten. Real impressive.”

I shoot him a look. “I’m not even a server. Also, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He grins. “You love me.”

I don’t answer because he’s right. The love I have for Wes could probably crack concrete. It’s loud, stubborn, impossible to ignore. When we were kids, I used to sit outside the bathroom door while he threw up, just to make sure he wasn’t alone.

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