Page 7 of Good Graces

I pull myself up out of the water, bare feet slapping against the tile, water streaming off my body as I grab the towel from the bench and whip it over my shoulders. The thick cotton sticks to my skin, absorbing the heat from my workout, but it doesn’t do anything to wipe her from my head.

Fucking Quinn.

I don’t let myself linger on it. Not here. Not now.

I rake a hand through my wet hair, grab my gear, and make my way to the showers, flipping the nozzle straight to cold, letting the icy water crash over me in sharp, punishing relief. It works for about five seconds before she’s back again, uninvited, unwelcome, slipping through the cracks I didn’t realize had formed.

I don’t think about her. I mean, I haven’t for years. Okay,fuck, I’ve done my best not to think about her. And I never would have taken the job at Sycamore if I had known she’d eventually show face.

I would have picked something else, taken an internship I didn’t want, hell, even gone back to construction work if it meant not having to see her. Not having to deal with the reminder of something I’ve spent nearly three years trying to erase.

I scrub a hand over my jaw, let out a sharp breath, and flip the water off with more force than necessary. I don’t bother reaching for the cheap bodywash in my bag. I just stand there, dripping, watching the rivulets of water spiral down the drain like they might take the last twenty-four hours with them.

But they don’t. They never do.

The thing that gets me the most—the thing I can’t shake, no matter how much I try—is that someone should have told me. I’ve always had a good, if not at least amicable, relationship with the Sycamore manager, Robbie.

When I reached out about coming back for the summer, I asked him point-blank.

“Quinn still working there?”

“Nah,” he said. “She’s not coming back this summer.”

And that was the only reason I agreed.

But what he failed to mention—what he either forgot or chose not to tell me—was that she must have changed her mind. That somewhere along the way, her plans fell through, and they offered her a spot to finish out the last month of the season.

Now she’s back there, and I’m rattled.

Because if I’d known Quinn Rose was going to be walking around the same damn club, wearing the same uniform, working the same job, throwing the same smug little smirks at guys who don’t know any better—

I would have stayed far, far away.

I get dressed, shove my damp towel into my bag, and head for the exit. Outside the locker room, I inhale—slow and deep—then exhale just as steady, the way I was trained to do in the water. The way I always do when something creeps up on me that I don’t want to deal with.

I brace a hand against the doorframe, roll my shoulders, shake it off. Not my problem. Not anymore.

And then I get in my car, turn the ignition, and let muscle memory guide me to the last place I should be going right now. Oakview Assisted Living Facility.

The drive isn’t long. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, depending on traffic. It’s a straight shot from campus, one I used to make more often, back when the guilt got to be too much.

Now, I come here about once a month.

Enough to remind myself he’s still kicking.

Enough to remind myself that no matter what’s happened between us, the man inside is still my father. My blood.

But that doesn’t mean I forget. And visiting him doesn’t mean I forgive him. Doesn’t mean I let go of all the shit he put me through.

The missed pickups. The stolen money. The excuses that ran out long before I stopped answering his calls. The way I used to wait—always fucking wait—for him to change, to be better, to give a shit about anything other than his next fix.

But addiction doesn’t work like that. It chews people up and spits them out hollow, takes the good and replaces it with hunger. And even now, sitting in a place like Oakview, surrounded by four walls that are meant to keep him safe, I wonder if there’s still some part of him that’s looking for an escape.

I pull into the lot, cut the engine, and sit there for a second, fingers tight around the wheel. My shoulders stiff, tension coiled up between them.

I could leave. I could put the car in reverse, drive straight home, and pretend I didn’t feel the familiar pull of obligation, of duty, of some twisted sense of loyalty that never quite goes away.

But I wanted a distraction, and maybe this counts. Hell, maybe it’s the only thing that ever does.

---