Page 69 of Good Graces

That’s all it says. No context. No follow-up, just seven random words that practically roll their eyes at me through the screen.

I stare at my phone like maybe if I look hard enough, I’ll find the real message hidden between the letters. But there’s nothing else. No breadcrumb trail to follow, no hint about what the hell she’s thinking.

I should ignore it. Should turn my phone face down on the nightstand and forget she ever sent it. But, like the fool I am, I’m already sitting up, my pillow shoved behind me, fingers ready to reply.

I’d finally managed to fall asleep, too—after an hour of listening to Liam and Birdie going at it from across the hall, their muffled laughter and low voices filtering through the thin walls. I’d shoved a pillow over my head, swore at the ceiling, and eventually drifted off.

And now this.

Warren

you drunk?

I type it out, but I don’t hit Send. Delete it.

you okay?

Delete that, too.

Because none of those questions are the right ones. Not for her. Not for us.

what the hell is that supposed to mean?

I stare at the screen, half expecting her to ignore me. Half hoping she will. But three dots blink back almost immediately.

Quinn

it means you’re not as hard to figure out as you think

I huff out a laugh. Humorless. Exhausted.

Warren

yeah? enlighten me then

Quinn

we’ve still got time

My stomach twists, sharp and sudden, like someone reached inside and yanked something loose.

We’ve still got time.

The words hit too hard, land too close. Because I know what she’s doing. I know what she’s remembering.

It was the last day of our first summer together. I said it to her because I meant it. Because I believed we’d figure it out, that whatever we were building wouldn’t fall apart the second things got hard.

But that’s not what happened. We spent six months together, and then it ended. Her silence. My pride. We didn’t run out of time; we wasted it. Let it rot between us while we acted like it didn’t matter.

I drag a hand down my face.

She’s messing with me. She has to be. This is classic Quinn. She tosses a match, watches it burn, and then pretends it wasn’t her that lit it.

Warren

go to bed, quinn

Quinn

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