Page 65 of Good Graces

But this forced, hollow silence she wants to impose? That’s usually my wheelhouse. Now that she’s the one doing it, I don’t know how to handle it.

I can’t figure out how to meet her in the middle when she won’t give me anything to work with. When less than a month ago, she was the one begging for me to just talk to her.

I know she’s not the only one who’s been hot and cold. I’m guilty of the same. And I’ve been doing it often—pushing and pulling, giving just enough to keep her guessing, then retreating before she can get too close. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t blame her when she walked away last Friday night.

Because I almost didn’t let her. Because if she had looked at me a second longer, if she had stayed just a breath closer, I would have found a way to kiss her. I know I would have.

God, I’ve spent two years convincing myself that’s not what I want. But in that moment, I would have given in. I would have let it happen. I would have let myself forget how complicated we are, how badly we ended.

If she had just let me, I would have kissed her like none of it mattered.

I towel off, still fuming, and yank on my clothes. My Wednesday schedule is brutal, starting with early morning practice and running straight into back-to-back classes until two. Kinesiology keeps me moving—anatomy, biomechanics, sports physiology—the kinds of classes that actually make sense. Everything is mechanical, built to work the way it’s supposed to.

But English is another story.

I already withdrew from this class freshman year. One of the five credits they let you drop without it affecting your record. I still don’t know what literature has to do with human movement and performance, and honestly, I don’t really care.

But since Dayton won’t let you graduate without checking off your core requirements, here I am, sitting through lectures about metaphors and themes like any of it matters to me.

Except that’s the problem. It does mean something, just not the way it’s supposed to. Because sitting in that room twice a week—pretending Quinn isn’t five feet away, pretending I don’t still know exactly how her voice sounds when she’s teasing or pissed or whispering my name in the dark—is enough to make my brain short-circuit.

Monday, I spent the whole period watching her instead of the slides on the screen. Just sat there like some clueless, lovesick fool, tracking every flick of her pen, every time she tucked her hair behind her ear.

Tap, tap, tap—faster when she’s nervous, slower when she’s calm. That’s how I knew she was out of her element last Friday night—her hands were still. Too still.

I shake the thought off and head to class, cutting across the quad. It’s warm enough to feel sticky, the air heavy like it’s threatening rain.

The English building is already buzzing by the time I get there, students clustered in doorways, voices rising and falling in a low hum. I slip inside without thinking about it too hard and slide into my usual seat, second row from the back. Just far enough to stay out of sight but close enough that I can still see Quinn.

And yeah, I know how that sounds. But this isn’t about missing her.

It’s not.

I’m just here. And she’s here. And if she’s going to sit up front where I can see her, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to look.

She’s already in her seat beside the podium, flipping through her binder, her hair twisted up in a loose knot. She’s wearing one of those oversized sweaters she used to steal from my room, soft and slouchy, the sleeves shoved up to her elbows.

It’s infuriating.

Because even now—even while she’s ignoring me, pretending none of the stolen glances or tense conversations or almost-moments from the last few weeks ever happened—I still know her better than anyone. I know the way her fingers twitch when she’s second-guessing something. The way her shoulders tense when she’s trying too hard to seem unbothered.

I still know her.

And whether she wants to admit it or not, she still knows me, too.

21

QUINN

The stackof papers on my desk is thick but forgettable. First-week assignments are short and low-stakes, the kind of thing students rush through in twenty minutes, hoping their half-hearted thoughts will pass as introspection. Most of them will.

Lang’s prompt was simple enough:

Choose a passage from this week’s reading that resonated with you—a line, a sentence, even a single word—and write 250 words on why it stood out. What did it make you think about? How does it connect to something in your life, past or present?

Most of the responses are predictable: breakups, moving away from home, losing a pet. Some are barely more than a paragraph, like the students thought the word count was just a suggestion. Others overcompensate with flowery language stretched thin across an entire page.

I’ve been working through them for over an hour now, bouncing between coffee sips and mindless scrolling whenever my focus dips. But I’m down to the last few pages—the last handful of names—and I know what’s coming.

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