Page 77 of Good Graces

He exhales, sharp and unsteady. “I needed you to fight for me. I needed you to want to fix it.”

“I did,” I say, my throat tight. “I still do.”

For a second, I think maybe this is it—maybe this is the part where he softens, where we start piecing things back together. But then he shakes his head.

“I can’t go back,” he says. “I don’t know how to trust you again.”

I feel it like a slap, sharp and sudden, stealing the breath from my lungs.

“You don’t have to trust me. Just . . . don’t give up on me yet.”

He looks at me for a long time, blue-gray eyes steady, jaw tight.

“I can’t keep chasing something that’s already gone. I can’t keep wanting this more than you do. It might actually kill me this time.”

I swallow hard, the ache in my chest blooming sharp and jagged. “You’re wrong about one thing. I never stopped wanting this, never stopped wanting you.”

“Yeah? Then prove it.”

24

QUINN

WINTER BREAK—THE LAST NIGHT

I should tell him.

I should’ve told him two weeks ago when I did it. When I stood there with three crisp bills in my hand, stomach twisting so hard I thought I might throw up. When I told myself it’s not that big of a deal, that Daniel Donovan wouldn’t even notice, that Warren wouldn’t care—not really.

But I didn’t.

And now we’re here, back at my parents’ house, curled up in my old room, and the words are stuck, lodged somewhere between my ribs, heavy and sharp.

Warren’s lying on my bed, one arm flung behind his head, the other hand scrolling lazily through his phone. He’s so relaxed—so calm—that it makes me feel even worse.

I should just tell him. I should say,Hey, so funny thing . . .and get it over with. Because it’s three hundred bucks. Pocket change to someone like Daniel. Warren’s always ragging on guys like him anyway. Rich, spoon-fed club dads with too much money and not enough sense.

He’ll understand.

Except . . . I don’t know if he will.

Because Warren’s not like that. He’s got this thing about honesty and integrity. This stubborn, hardwired belief that if you don’t have trust, you don’t have anything at all. I’ve heard him say it a dozen times.

And I should have remembered that before I shoved three bills in my purse and told myself it didn’t matter. I’d stolen before, not for money but for attention. And this time, it seemed harmless.

My stomach twists again, sharp and punishing. I shift beside him, fingers curling into the fabric of my comforter. My throat’s dry. I swallow hard.

“Hey,” I say quietly.

Warren hums, still focused on his phone. “Hmm?”

“I need to—”

His phone buzzes. Then again. And again.

He frowns, muttering something under his breath as he sits up. I catch a glimpse of the screen—Mom. “Shit,” he says. “Hang on.”

He swipes to answer, and I sit up with him, heart hammering.

---