Page 73 of Good Graces

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, voice low, jaw tight. “He’s . . . having a rough morning.” The words taste hollow in my mouth. Not an excuse—never that—but something to soften the edges, something to make her stop looking at me like I’m the one who’s supposed to fix him.

She nods tightly, exhaling like this isn’t the first time she’s had to deal with something like this. “We’ll let him keep the watch if he promises to silence the alarm,” she says. “But if it goes off again, we’ll have to take it.”

“Got it.” I push a hand through my hair. “I’ll make sure he knows.”

On the way back to his room, my dad is quiet. He passes me the watch without a word. I hold it in my palm, flick through the settings, and shut the alarm off. Then I hand it back. He straps it on with slow, deliberate fingers, like he knows this small thing is keeping him tethered.

By the time I leave Oakview, my head’s pounding. Tension curls sharply between my shoulder blades. The sky has turned a sullen gray, clouds hanging low like a warning.

I check the time—11:43.

I’m supposed to be meeting Quinn. Right now. At the field.

I blink hard, forcing her from my thoughts. I don’t know if I can handle it. Whatever we’re meant to say to each other. Whatever mess we’re supposed to untangle out there in the middle of the wildflowers. I need time to breathe. To clear the smoke from my lungs.

I pull out of the lot, knuckles tight on the wheel, and my phone buzzes on the dash.

Quinn

you’re still coming, right?

I grip the wheel tighter. My pulse kicks. Part of me wants to ignore her. Say something came up. Tell her I can’t make it, that today isn’t the day. But I can’t.

Because I know. The way I know my breath in the water or the burn in my legs when I push past the wall. The way I know exactly how it feels to touch her and mean it. And no matter how many times I tell myself it’d be easier to let her go, to erase the field from my memory like it never mattered—I won’t.

I clench my jaw, shift into gear, and hit the gas.

23

QUINN

I shouldn’t bethis nervous.

It’s ridiculous, really. The way my pulse keeps stuttering, the way my fingers keep tugging at the sleeves of my sweater. It’s like I’m eighteen again, back at the club, trying too hard to act like I had everything figured out.

Because that’s how it started, didn’t it? Me pretending I didn’t care. Pretending I was too sharp, too sarcastic, too sure of myself to bother getting attached to anyone. Especially not some swimmer with a smart mouth and a grin that made my chest feel too tight.

I exhale hard, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. The field looks different now. More overgrown than I remember, the grass taller, wildflowers blooming in thick clusters where bare patches of earth used to be. The old log we used to sit on is still there, half-hidden beneath tangled vines.

It’s a little run-down, a little forgotten, but still beautiful. Still ours.

I don’t know what I’m doing here. Not really. Last night was impulsive. One painfully honest text sent in a moment of weakness, of hope, of wondering what if.

What if we had just talked things out instead of trading jabs and dodging real conversations?

What if I’d let him kiss me after the banquet instead of pulling away?

What if I’d stopped being scared and just tried? Tried to be loved? Tried to be seen?

I swallow hard, eyes flicking toward the path that cuts through the trees. He’s late.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Some grand arrival, maybe. Or for him to already be here, leaning against the log and looking at me like he always does—like I matter.

But Warren’s not here. And maybe that’s my answer.

I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb hovering over his contact. Still no reply to my last desperate text:you’re still coming, right?Maybe I should try one more time. One last reach across the space between us.

Before I can type anything, footsteps crunch through the gravel path.

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