Page 66 of Good Graces

I’ve been telling myself I wouldn’t look at it. That it’s none of my business. That I shouldn’t care. But when I reach Warren’s paper, my fingers hesitate.

The letters are sharp, pressed hard into the page like he carved them there instead of writing them. My fingertips trace the curve of theWbefore I even realize what I’m doing. I pull my hand back fast, exhaling through my teeth.

I told him I wouldn’t be marking his assignment. Stood there in the hallway, said it straight to his face.Don’t worry, I won’t be the one grading your papers.

But I couldn’t bring myself to confess the conflict of interest to Professor Lang. It would’ve been unprofessional or maybe just awkward. Either way, I didn’t want to deal with it. Didn’t want to make it a thing. So, I left it alone.

I should skip his work, at least for now. Just slide it to the bottom of the stack and forget about it until tomorrow. But instead, I flatten the page against my desk and start to read.

“The line about ‘letting go of what’s already lost’ reminded me of the way summer ends. It’s slow at first, then all at once. You blink, and it’s over. Like the sun setting without warning, even when you swore you were paying attention. The ache of knowing you had more time than you thought, and still wasting it. Or maybe just not using it right.”

My pulse stutters.

There’s more. Two hundred words more that tell me about Warren as a wide-eyed kid who looked up to a dad who broke more promises than he kept. Then, later, to a jaded teen who stopped believing in second chances. And then, eighteen, when he started pretending none of it touched him at all.

Two hundred words that dance around regret without naming it outright. That hint at something unfinished, something cut off too soon.

I read it again. Slower this time. Like maybe I missed something. Some clue, some sign, some indication that he’s not talking about what I think he’s talking about. But the truth is threaded through every line.

If he thought I wouldn’t be reading this, then maybe that’s the only reason he let himself be honest.

My chest tightens, and suddenly, I’m back at Sycamore. Back in that last patch of fading summer sunlight. His arm stretched behind his head, my fingers curling in the grass beside him. The way his voice dipped low when he said we’ve still got time.

You blink, and it’s over.

I press my palm hard against my desk.

It’s not about me. It’s not. It’s just a damn paper. A few vague thoughts about a reading assignment. He probably dashed it off ten minutes before class. He probably hasn’t thought about it since.

I slip the cursed piece of paper to the bottom of the pile, like if I can just bury it beneath enough pages, I’ll forget the way it made my stomach twist. Then I stare at the stack for a long time—restless, uneasy—like it’s still sitting there, waiting to pull me back under.

I need to get the hell out of here.

I grab my bag from the corner of my room, pull on my sneakers, and step out into the apartment’s dimly lit hallway. Jordan and Alyssa are curled beside each other the couch, a blanket tangled around their legs, the TV flickering soft blue light against the walls.

“You heading out?” Jordan sleepily asks.

An empty wineglass balances on the arm of the couch, and Alyssa’s half-asleep against her shoulder. They must’ve gone out earlier. They’re still dressed up, makeup smudged, watching some comfort movie they’ve seen a dozen times before.

It’s domestic. Easy. The kind of peace I can never seem to settle into.

“Yeah,” I say, tightening my ponytail. “I’ve got . . . stuff.”

Jordan cocks a brow. “Emberline again?”

I shrug. “I like it there.”

She doesn’t press, but I can feel her watching. I know she’s noticed the late-night gym runs, tracked the pattern without saying much. I’ve given her just enough to quiet the questions. I’ve told her that it clears my head, that it makes me feel strong.

But I haven’t told her the whole truth. That it’s not just about strength; it’s about stillness. About quieting the noise in my head the only way I know how—by moving fast, hitting hard, burning through every thought until there’s nothing left but breath and muscle and calm.

“You sure you don’t wanna stay?” Jordan asks, gesturing to the screen. “We’re watchingThe Proposalagain. Come suffer with us.”

I smile, but it’s tight. “Next time.”

Neither of them argues with that. They just exchange a knowing look, something soft and easy, as I slip out the door, footsteps quick down the stairs.

The boxing gym is nearly empty when I get there, just a few stragglers lingering by the heavy bags. The place smells like sweat and rubber, the faint tang of disinfectant hanging in the air. It’s not quite deserted, but quiet enough that I can breathe.

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