Page 52 of Good Graces

He mutters something under his breath and then disappears around the corner, leaving my brother and me alone in the booth.

We don’t say much. Just sort of sit there, bored, picking at what’s left on our plates without really eating. My toast’s gone cold. Wes drags the tines of his fork through a smear of syrup, absently tracing lines into it like it’s a maze.

“I’m done with this sugar bomb,” he says eventually, pushing his plate away. “Want to go outside?”

I nod, and we slide out of the booth, wandering toward the diner’s entrance.

The air is thick with heat, but the clouds keep the worst of it at bay. The smell of asphalt, grease, and faint cigarette smoke lingers in the parking lot, but it’s not unpleasant. Just familiar.

We end up at one of the weathered picnic tables near the lot, kicking at scattered pebbles as we sit. The diner’s neon sign hums faintly in the background. Wes leans back on his palms, tilting his face to the sky like he’s soaking in the warmth.

“So,” he says, not looking at me. “You okay?”

I should be the one asking him that. I’m older. I’m supposed to be the one checking in, the one steady enough to carry the weight. But maybe he sees the same thing in me that I’ve always seen in him. A flicker of something frayed at the edges, trying to pass as whole.

“You always ask me that.”

“Yeah, and you never answer me for real.”

“It’s just been a long summer.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “Why?”

I pick at a splinter on the edge of the picnic table. “I was traveling.”

“I know that.” He side-eyes me. “But then you weren’t.”

My throat tightens. “I ran out of money.”

He gives me a long, unimpressed look. “That’s really the answer you’re going with?”

It’s the answer I’ve given everyone. The one I’ve repeated so many times that maybe, if I say it enough, it’ll turn into something true. But Wesley’s never been the type to take things at face value. He likes to press me, to see how much I’m willing to give before I shut down completely.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” he says, not giving me the chance to lie again, “I like having you home.”

Something in my chest twinges. He means it. That even though I don’t live there anymore, there’s a comfort in me being close. A steadiness that settles him. Makes things feel less fragile.

“Can you come by next weekend?” he asks. “To the house?”

“Next weekend?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Mom’s making that pork thing you like. We could hang out.”

Something in me hesitates. Not because I don’t want to go but because sometimes being home makes me feel too much like the version of myself I don’t know what to do with anymore. The girl who always said yes. The daughter who never spoke up. The sister who held everything in and called it love.

“I’ll try,” I say.

Wes squints. “That’s code for no.”

I huff. “It’s not. I just—” I exhale, pressing my fingers into the wood. “I have the big end-of-summer banquet at Sycamore. All hands on deck.”

He frowns. “Banquet?”

I nod. “Last fancy event before school starts again. Everyone’s required to be there.”

He tilts his head. “So, like, black tie? Are you going to be wearing a dress?”

I snort. “No. I’ll be in a cater waiter uniform, which is exactly as ugly as it sounds.”

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