Page 53 of Good Graces

“So you’ll look just as tragically over it as you always do, then?”

I shove his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He laughs, but then, a little softer, “You’re sure you’ll try?”

I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah, Wes. I’ll try.”

Dad steps out of the diner just as a group of kids on bikes loop past the lot, their laughter cutting through the thick, humid air. He’s tucking his phone into his pocket, scanning the lot until his eyes land on us at the picnic table.

“All paid up. You kids ready to go?”

Wes stretches his arms over his head, groaning like he’s been doing something strenuous instead of sitting here for the past ten minutes. “Yeah, let’s hit it.”

The drive back is quiet, easy. Dad’s got the radio low, some classic rock song humming through the speakers. Wes scrolls on his phone, humming along to the melody, and I just lean my head back against the window, letting my eyes drift shut for a moment.

It’s nice. Simple. One of those drives where you don’t have to fill the silence because it’s not uncomfortable. Twenty minutes later, Dad’s easing the car into a spot near the curb outside my apartment complex.

“You need anything before we go?” Dad asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

Wes twists around in his seat, watching me like he’s about to say something else. But he doesn’t. Just smirks, tapping the side of his head like he’s sealing it there. “Don’t forget about next weekend.”

I roll my eyes. “I said I’d try.”

“We’ll be expecting you.”

I unbuckle my seat belt, step out of the car. The quiet hits me all at once. Out here, the air is still and heavy. The silence wraps around my shoulders like something tangible, something I’m not quite ready for. I wave them off as Dad pulls away, taillights glowing red until they vanish around the corner.

Inside, I pause just past the threshold, my keys still clutched tight in my hand. It was a good afternoon. Easy. Familiar. But there’s a restlessness to it now, something that clings to me as I stand in the hush of my apartment, like I’m waiting for something to follow it.

Maybe it’s because summer’s slipping away, and with it, the rhythm I’ve clung to all season. Maybe it’s the looming return of school and all the uncertainty that waits on the other side of it.

Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

Maybe it’s the distance I’ve been cultivating—intentional, quiet, safe—starting to feel more like loneliness than protection. Maybe it’s the realization that soon, there won’t be any reason to cross paths with Warren Mercer. Not unless I make one.

17

WARREN

The banquet is exactlywhat I expected. Loud, overpriced, and crawling with people I have zero interest in talking to. Another Sycamore production dressed up to look impressive.

The ballroom’s been transformed for the night. Round tables draped in white linen, candles flickering in low crystal holders, floral arrangements that probably cost more than my monthly rent. It smells like money in here. Like perfume and polished wood and too many glasses of champagne.

Servers in identical black uniforms slip through the crowd like shadows, balancing flutes of sparkling wine while conversations rise and fall in carefully modulated tones. Laughter echoes off the walls—too loud, too practiced.

I adjust my tie for the fifth time, resisting the urge to tear it off completely. The uniform is stiff, the collar too tight, the sleeves cut wrong for my shoulders. If I wasn’t required to be here, I’d already be in the parking lot, halfway to home.

I exhale through my nose and scan the room, already counting the minutes until I can disappear out the back.

And then I spot Daniel and my mom standing near one of the high-top tables, deep in conversation with some board member I vaguely recognize. My stomach tightens on instinct.

I knew they’d be here. Of course I did. But that doesn’t stop the old reflex from kicking in—shoulders tensing, breath hitching, like I’m bracing for something. Like I’m eighteen again, pressed into a blazer that doesn’t quite fit, hoping I can get through their wedding night without embarrassing anyone.

Daniel looks like he belongs. He always does. The man’s a natural at this kind of thing—smooth, unshakable, the type of person who always knows what fork to use and which senator’s kid goes to which Ivy League school. He’s got that polished charm that makes people nod when he speaks, like he’s already won the argument.

My mom, though, she’s still figuring it out. Still trying to match his poise, his polish, his place in rooms like this. She looks beautiful—always does—but there’s a hesitancy in her smile, a split-second lag in her responses. She doesn’t laugh too loudly, doesn’t drink too much, doesn’t draw too much attention. Like she’s always aware she wasn’t born into this. Like she’s afraid someone will notice.

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