Page 80 of Good Graces

“Yeah,” I whisper. “And it’s not an excuse. I know that. I knew it then, too. But when things got hard—when Wesley got sick, or my parents were too busy, or I felt like I was disappearing again . . . I’d slip back into it. Not because I wanted the money or the stuff but because I wanted the rush. The second they realized something was missing, it was like I existed again. Like I wasn’t just the kid who could take care of herself. Like I actually mattered.”

I let out a shaky breath. “I stopped, though. For a long time. By the time I met you . . . by the time we started dating, I hadn’t done it in a while. I thought I was past it, like it was just some awful phase I’d outgrown.

“But then there was the contest. And I kept telling myself I’d figure it out, that I’d scrape the money together somehow. But the deadline was coming up, and I didn’t know what to do.”

He grimaces. “And then Daniel’s money was just . . . there.”

“And you made that joke—‘My stepdad could lose 10K in a week and not even notice.’ And I don’t know, Warren. I guess some part of me thought, what’s the harm?”

“What’s the harm?” His face twists, hurt flashing sharp and fast before he shuts it down. “Because you hadme, Quinn. You had me, and you couldn’t just ask?”

“I couldn’t,” I say. “Because it wasn’t only about the money.” I drag my fingers through the grass, pulling at the wildflowers until the stems snap. “It was about me. About feeling like I could take something—do something—for myself. Because I wanted something that wasn’t about Wesley, or my family, or anyone else. Just me.”

“I really wish you would have asked for help.”

“I didn’t know how to let you in,” I say, voice breaking. “I didn’t know how to let myself need you without being afraid you’d leave or that I’d screw it all up somehow.” I laugh, bitter and brittle. “I guess I was halfway right about that part.”

He exhales sharply, gaze drifting toward the horizon. “And now you ...” He looks back, and for a second, there’s a flicker of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Now you want to come crawling back to me?”

I blink. I can’t tell if he’s serious. But then his smile grows, small and crooked, and—God—he’s joking. He’s actually joking.

“Is that what you want?” I ask, all light and teasing. “Me on my knees?”

His eyes flash, throat bobbing as he swallows. “It would be a start.”

“Warren.”

The smile fades. The teasing slips away like it was never there at all. He drags a hand down his jaw, the sound of it rough against the stubble lining his skin.

“It’s not just the lying,” he says, voice thick. “It’s what you lied about. If it had been something else—if you’d flirted with someone or gotten drunk and said something cruel—maybe I could’ve let it go.” He presses his fingers to his jaw, like he’s trying to ground himself. “But stealing from my family? Quinn ...”

“I know,” I whisper. “I know what that means to you.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

He shifts, bending one knee so he’s facing me more fully.

“You know what my dad used to do?” he asks, strained. “He’d wait until I was asleep—like dead asleep—and then he’d go through my stuff. My dresser, my gym bag, my backpack. I’d wake up, and twenty bucks would be gone from my wallet. Or my new tennis shoes would be missing because he pawned them.”

He lets out a bitter breath. “One time, I saved up for a phone for months—like, extra shifts, tips, everything—and he still swiped it. Took it right off my desk while I was in the shower.”

I wince. “Warren . . .”

“I used to think if I just kept my door locked, or kept stuff at school, or hid things better, it’d stop.” He gives a short, humorless laugh. “But it didn’t, not until my mom finally kicked him out. Because that’s the thing about people like him—they always find a way. They always take what they want, no matter how much you try to keep it safe.

“And the thing is, Quinn? I never thought you were one of those people. I never thought I’d have to keep my shit locked up around you. Because I trusted you. And I know it wasn’t the same thing—you weren’t trying to hurt me; you weren’t trying to screw me over. But it still hurt just the same.”

I feel something crack open in my chest. I knew—vaguely—that Warren’s dad had struggled. That their relationship was strained. But this? This weight he’s been carrying—this pain that’s been following him for years—I never really knew the depth of it.

That was my fault. I didn’t ask enough questions.

I stare at the ground, my vision going blurry. “I can’t say it enough. I’m sorry.”

He’s quiet for a long time. The kind of quiet that makes my ribs feel like they’re closing in. Then, “I know,” he says finally. “And I’m sorry, too.”

My head darts up. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

“For not letting you in all the way when I thought I had. For not going after you. For letting it end right then and there, drawing a line in the sand when . . .” He trails off, rubbing his temple. “When maybe we could’ve figured it out. When maybe I should’ve given you more than one chance to explain.”

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