Page 62 of Good Graces

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s different here,” I snap. “It’s not summer. It’s not Sycamore. It’s real life.”

“Sycamore is real life, too,” he says, voice tight now.

“It is—” I start, but words tangle in my throat.

Because it is. Itwas. Sycamore was early mornings and endless shifts and aching feet and sunburns that linger until October. It was frustration and sweat and whispered conversations in dark break rooms. But it was something else, too. Something that feels too big to name.

“You’re right,” he says before I can answer. His hand loosens slightly on my wrist, but he doesn’t let go. “The time to hash things out was winter break freshman year. But you did what you do best. You disappeared.”

“You forced me to. You shut me out.”

He lets out a quiet, humorless snort. “No one could force you to do anything, Quinn, but sure, let’s leave it at that.”

“It’s better this way,” I say, softer now. “We can be normal in class, obviously, but I think we should just leave this summer behind us.”

“And that first summer, too?”

I freeze. My fingers twitch in his hold. “I don’t—”

“I thought we could work things out,” he says gruffly. “After all this time, I don’t know why I let myself think that. Don’t know why I let myself hope you’d changed.”

“You’re the one who changed,” I whisper. “It’s like I don’t even know who you are anymore. You could be a stranger standing in front of me, and I wouldn’t know what you wanted.”

He just stares. For a second, I think maybe I’ve said something crueler than I meant to. Maybe I’ve pushed too hard. But then he shakes his head like he’s finally done trying to understand me.

“Right.” He lets go of my wrist, his hand falling to his side. “I’ll see ya in class, Quinn.”

I swallow hard, curling my fingers into a fist to stop them from shaking. “See ya, Warren.”

And then I just stand there, watching him walk away. His shoulders are tight, his head low, like he’s spent every last bit of effort trying to hold this together, and now he’s got nothing left to give.

And it’s supposed to be better this way—clean, quiet, simple. But it doesn’t feel better. It feels like something inside me’s been scooped out and replaced with static. Sharp and restless and wrong.

“Warren.”

He pauses but stays rooted to the spot, hands in his pockets, waiting.

I need to say something. Something smart. Something steady. Something that turns this into a choice I made instead of a wound I reopened.

But all I can manage is, “I didn’t really mean that.”

He turns his head slightly, like he’s deciding whether or not to believe me.

“Which part?” he asks, voice raw.

“The part where I said I didn’t know you. I do. I always will.”

“Okay,” he says. And then he finally walks away, shoulders hunched, steps steady, fading down the hall until I can’t hear him anymore.

I let my breath go in one shaky rush, my fingers still tingling from where he touched me. Like even now, he’s still holding on.

20

WARREN

The pool decksmells like chlorine and sweat, the kind that sticks no matter how many showers you take. It clings to your skin, settles in your clothes, lives in your hair. You breathe it in like second nature.

---