Page 60 of Good Graces

The room’s still half-empty when I get there, students trickling in with coffee cups and notebooks, scrolling their phones or swapping lazy conversation. I tuck myself off to the side, perched in a chair near the whiteboard.

It’s part of my job to check the roster, mark off participation points, and keep an eye on the general chaos.

So, I let my gaze drift, scanning familiar faces I half recognize from past semesters. There’s the girl who’s always overdressed for class, the guy who showed up half-drunk to every final last year and somehow still passed.

And then, second row down, third from the aisle—Warren.

I blink, half-convinced I’m imagining him. But no, he’s there, leaning back in his chair like he owns the place, a ballpoint pen spinning idly between his fingers, dark hair still damp like he barely made it out of the shower before bolting across campus.

His gaze is fixed on his notebook, face unreadable. But still, he’s here.

Inmyclass.

I look away fast, heart stuttering like it’s forgotten how to keep a normal rhythm. I press my fingers hard against the notebook in my lap.It’s fine. It’s whatever.

Maybe it’s just a fluke. A scheduling accident or some weird overlap in graduation requirements. A kinesiology major shouldn’t need a 200-level literature elective. But now that I think about it . . .

I do remember him complaining about an English class freshman year. Something about hating metaphors, calling symbolism a scam. Maybe this is a retake. Something he put off until the last possible second. Maybe that’s all this is. Just bad timing, bad luck.

I’d like to think it’s a coincidence. That it doesn’t mean anything. But some part of me—the foolish, reckless part—isn’t so easily convinced.

Because what if itisn’tan accident? What if us working together again this summer wasn’t random? What if this class, this moment, this entire stretch of tangled timing is the universe’s way of nudging us closer again, just to see what we’ll do?

There’s some invisible hand that keeps reshuffling the deck, determined to place us in each other’s path. It’s like the universe is hell-bent on giving us one more chance, even if we don’t know what to do with it. Because now that he’s walked back into my life, I can’t figure out how to unfeel him. Can’t unknow what it was like to be his.

There’s a Dickinson line from one of her letters that’s always stuck with me: “I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.”

That’s what it feels like sometimes. That there’s a version of myself I can’t access anymore. One that existed before Warren Mercer touched me, held me, looked at me like I was something precious.

Professor Lang starts reading through the syllabus, her voice steady and low, and he finally glances up from his notebook. Those blue-gray eyes scan the room lazily, like he’s barely paying attention.

And somehow—like he can feel me watching—his gaze lands on mine.

For a second, I can’t look away. I’m stuck, caught in the space between his eyes and mine, between the memory of his hand on my wrist and the sound of my nickname on his lips last Friday night. I can still feel the warmth of his fingers, the rough scrape of his voice, and my stomach twists so hard it’s all I can do not to flinch.

He doesn’t smile at me. Doesn’t smirk. Just stares with narrowed eyes, his expression impossible to read. And then, slowly, like he’s giving me a chance to break first, he raises one eyebrow. Just a flick of movement, subtle and knowing.

I force myself to look away, dropping my gaze to my notebook so fast my pen nearly slips from my fingers. My pulse is hammering, my fingers clenched too tight.It’s fine. It’s nothing.

I spend the rest of class hyperaware of every shift in his chair, every time his pen scratches against paper, every lazy drag of his fingers over the edge of his notebook. It’s as though my brain’s decided it’s impossible not to track him, impossible not to feel the weight of his presence from across the room.

By the time Lang dismisses class, my nerves are shot. I gather my things with shaking hands and haphazardly stuff my notebook into my bag.

I just need to get out of here. Get outside. Get some air.

I’m already halfway to the door when I hear his voice call my name.

I should keep walking. I should pretend I didn’t hear him, like I didn’t spend the last hour agonizing over the way he kept looking up from the back of the room, gaze flicking toward me when he thought I wouldn’t notice.

But of course, I stop in my tracks.

I turn, one hand still clutching the strap of my bag. Warren’s standing a few feet away, loose and casual, like he’s got all the time in the world. His backpack’s slung over one shoulder, and there’s a crease on his cheek from where he must’ve been sleeping earlier. A ridiculous detail for me to notice.

“What?” I say, and I’m aiming for indifference, but it comes out tight.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me, eyes dragging over my face like he’s piecing something together. He must be remembering Friday night, too, remembering how I bolted before I let myself do something drastic.

Either that, or I’ve got something in my teeth.

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