Page 68 of Good Graces

He nods, like that tells him everything he needs to know. “Best time to be here. Quiet. No one watching.” His gaze flicks to the far wall of mirrors. “No one to impress.”

“Exactly,” I mutter. “I’m Quinn, by the way.”

“Gage,” he replies, offering a hand. His palm is rough against mine, fingers worn from years of whatever brought him here. “I don’t wanna ruin your flow, so . . . I’ll see ya around, yeah?”

“Sure.”

He flashes a crooked smile. “Looking forward to it.”

I don’t get the chance to answer. He’s already turning away, slipping through the ropes and stepping into the far ring like he never stopped moving. I’m not sure if he was taking a break or just saw an opening to step in and help, but either way, he’s gone now.

I stay long enough to run a few more rounds at the bag, testing the shift in my form. The way my weight settles, the way each punch sinks deeper, sharper. It feels like something’s clicked into place.

By the time I peel off my gloves, I’m drenched and breathless. My arms burn, muscles tight with effort. I stagger to the lockers, unwrap my hands, and rinse off in the grimy sink.

Once I’m done, I shove my damp clothes into my bag and step out into the night.

A light drizzle falls, warm and steady. It clings to my hair, beads along my skin, washing away the last of the sweat. I walk the few blocks home, the air thick with concrete and rain, the world quiet under the soft patter of water on pavement.

When I reach my apartment, I’m calmer, looser, but still carrying a restlessness I can’t shake. The girls’ doors are shut, a faint glow slipping out from beneath their frames. The place feels hushed, still holding the warmth of their earlier movie night—popcorn in the air, a half-empty wineglass on the counter.

Eventually, I sit at my desk and open my laptop. It’s the middle of the night, but I’ve been behind on my own assignments while juggling TA work. I open a new Word doc. The blinking cursor stares back, steady and taunting. It’s for my first-week assignment in creative writing.

I thought I could knock it out in an hour or two. Something simple. Reflective. Personal. A small moment meant to reveal something bigger.

I know what I want to say. Or at least I think I do. But the words keep slipping sideways, never landing quite right. My fingers hover over the keys, then drop away again.

I lean back, dragging both hands through my hair. Just write something. Anything.

But all I can think about is Warren’s paper.

It’s still sitting on my desk, the edges crumpled and curling like a frown beneath the others. I pull it from the pile and smooth it flat against my knee. This time, I don’t let it blur past like a blink or a passing thought. I let it sit. I let it settle in, slow and sharp.

The ache of knowing you had more time than you thought, and still wasting it.

That’s the part that gets me. The part that makes my chest go tight because I know what that ache feels like. Acutely, desperately.

And that twisting realization hits me again. Warren has always been the one person I never had to pretend with. Even when we were fighting, snapping at each other across the dish pit, stealing glances during breaks, needling each other just to pass the time, it was always real.

With him, I could be sharp and soft in the same breath, restless and steady all at once. Somehow, he always understood. He saw me. Not just the polished version I showed everyone else but the pieces I could never quite hide.

I’ve spent two and a half years pretending I don’t miss him. These past few weeks pushing him toward me and then pulling away like I can’t decide what I want.

And now, with his careful words pressed against my lap, I sit completely still. My phone rests in one hand, the screen glowing dimly. My thumb hovers over his name in my contacts like it might give me clarity, like tapping it could make the decision for me.

But the truth is, I’ve already made up my mind. Because when it comes to him, I don’t have to wonder. I never did.

22

WARREN

This girl is a fucking menace,I swear to God.

She’s texting me at two in the morning on a Friday night like it’s normal. Like she didn’t shove my own angry words back in my face the other day. Like she didn’t draw me in and then bolt like I was something she regretted picking up.

Quinn

didn’t know you were such a poet

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