Page 74 of Good Graces

I glance up, and there he is. Late. Disheveled. Tense.

He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, damp in spots like he’d been sweating, his hair still rumpled from whatever morning he’s had. There’s a tightness in his jaw, a restless coil in his shoulders. Something about the way he walks feels off. Like he’s been fighting a storm just to get here.

“You’re late,” I say, trying to keep it light. “Figured you might’ve bailed.”

“Didn’t bail,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Just got held up.”

Something’s wrong. I can feel it.

I hesitate, swallowing back the question that wants to come out—What happened? Are you okay?—because I already know he won’t answer it. Not right now. Not with the kind of weight he’s carrying in his shoulders.

Instead, I stuff my hands deeper into my pockets, rocking back on my heels.

“Well,” I say, aiming for casual. “I guess I should thank you for showing up.”

Warren huffs out a breath, part laugh, part exhale, and shakes his head.

“Yeah,” he says dryly. “Would’ve been easier to just ignore you.”

The words are sharp. A little too close to mean.

I flinch before I can stop myself. “Look, if you didn’t want to come—”

“That’s not—” He cuts himself off with a sharp breath, like he’s trying to reel something back in. “I didn’t say that.”

I frown. “Then what are you saying?”

He stands there, arms stiff at his sides, gaze flicking toward the horizon like he’s searching for a way out.

“You text me out of nowhere,” he says finally. “Tell me you want to talk. Like this is easy. Like there’s still something between us that isn’t already shattered.”

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden bite in his voice.

“I’m trying, Warren.”

“Yeah?” His mouth twists. “Feels more like you’re playing games again.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure,” he mutters, and the bitterness in that word cuts straight through me.

My stomach turns. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. I didn’t expect him to be smiling, but I thought maybe we’d find some middle ground. Some thread to pull.

“I just . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what I’m doing here or why I even texted you last night. I just—”

“You just what?” Warren’s voice rises, strained and raw. “Changed your mind? Thought you’d see if I’d still jump when you snapped your fingers?”

I suck in a breath, stepping back like he’s shoved me.

“That’s not fair.”

“Yeah? Neither is this.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to keep my voice steady. “If you didn’t want to come—”

“I did want to come. Jesus, Quinny. Of course I wanted to come.” His voice breaks at the end, the sound cracked and uneven like he’s hanging on by a thread.

I hate that sound.

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