Page 9 of Good Graces

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Still a heathen.”

“Still your kid.”

A beat of silence. Something uneasy and unspoken settles between us, like it always does. The kind of silence that says everything we’re not ready to. Without offering more, without trying to fill it, I check my watch, pick up my bag, and step back toward the door.

“I’ll see you soon, Dad.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

I lift a hand in a half-hearted wave and step out into the hallway.

This is the way it always goes. Same conversation. Same unspoken bullshit hanging in the air. Same cycle of resentment, obligation, and something close to pity. It’s a shame we’re both too proud to call it what it is.

Outside, the air is thicker, hotter. I slide into my car, roll my shoulders, let out a slow breath, then pull out of the lot and head home.

There’s no clarity. No clean resolution. Just distance and whatever’s left behind it.

By the time I pull into the driveway, the sun has climbed higher, burning off the last traces of morning cool.

I step into the house, kick my shoes off by the entryway, drop my bag at the base of the stairs, and head straight to my room. It’s only 10:47 a.m., but I’m already exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, all of it.

I have the rest of the day ahead of me, but no real plan for how to spend it. I could go back to the pool, but I already put in my meters this morning—no point in overtraining. Could lift, but my muscles are still worn from the week—pushing too hard now means paying for it later.

What I should do is catch up on the grad school applications I’ve been putting off, but the thought of staring at another blank essay prompt makes my head ache. And not in the productive, push-through-it kind of way. More like shut-my-laptop-before-I-toss-it-out-the-window kind of way.

I need to figure out my next step. Need to lock in a plan and actually commit to something.

I’ve spent four years studying kinesiology, training like hell, working my ass off to keep my grades solid and my body stronger. I’ve done everything right—on paper.

But now that graduation’s creeping closer, I still don’t know if I want to go straight into grad school or take a shot at something else. Not the Olympics. I’m not that guy. But maybe something short-term. A club circuit. Training part-time while I coach. A way to stay in the water a little longer, just until I’m sure I’m ready to let it go.

It would be a good idea for me to sit down today and at least start an application. Pick a program, write the damn essay, get it over with.

Instead, I stretch out on my bed, muscles finally starting to loosen, and let my eyes close for a second. But then—soft footsteps, a thud against the wall, the quiet creak of Liam’s mattress. A low, familiar laugh.

My jaw tightens as I roll onto my side and yank my pillow over my head.

Birdie’s with him. I can hear it—the rustle of sheets, the way she murmurs something under her breath, his answering chuckle, the muffled press of lips meeting skin.

I sigh, dig the heel of my hand into my eye, force myself to shut it all out.

But my mind drifts anyway. To Quinn. To the sound of her laugh muffled against my neck, the scrape of her teeth as she smiled into a kiss, the heat of her bare legs tangled with mine under my sheets. Not just sex. It was never just sex. It was her. All of her. The best and worst of us, colliding.

I turn over again, restless. My ceiling fan spins in slow, useless circles.

There are a thousand things I should be worrying about instead.

Grad school. Swimming. My dad.

Not this.

Not her.

Not the feeling that creeps in when everything else goes quiet.

And definitely not the fact that, for the first time in a long time, it hits me just how fucking lonely I really am.

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