Page 90 of Good Graces

Lang’s lips curve, dry and knowing. “Close.”

I glance at the door again as more students filter in. Warren’s near the back, shoulder brushing the edge of the doorway like he’s not sure whether to come in or turn around.

He’s in dark jeans and a black shirt, hair still damp from his post-practice shower. His gaze scans the room—casual but searching—and then it lands on me. Just for a second. His eyes flicker, like he’s debating something, like maybe he’s waiting for me to acknowledge him.

I don’t. I immediately look away, chest tight. Focus on Lang—on her voice, her smile, her casual stance against the podium like nothing’s out of place.

Because nothingisout of place. It’s the second week of classes, and Warren’s been here since day one. Yet, every cell in my body feels like it’s on high alert.

Deep breath. Relax. Don’t overthink it.

I flip open my notebook, scanning the lines I’ve already memorized just to give myself something to do. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Warren heading for his usual spot. Second row from the back.

He drops down and pulls out his laptop. There’s an unmistakable scowl on his face, and I’m not even sure if it’s meant for me. At this point, that might just be a permanent feature. I hope it is.

I keep my gaze glued to the page in front of me, nodding along as Lang keeps talking.

I don’t look at him again.

I’m not supposed to. A TA hooking up with one of her students? That’s the kind of thing that gets you fired. Not that I’d ever let our relationship—past or present—impact my job. I wouldn’t.

Still, rules are rules for a reason. And if anyone found out, it wouldn’t matter what explanation I gave. I’d be out of a job, and everything I’ve worked for would unravel in seconds.

The room fills steadily, students chatting as they settle in. Someone bumps my elbow on the way past, and I flinch. I’m too jumpy, too aware of the way Warren’s presence is pulling my focus.

Lang clears her throat, and the room quiets.

“Alright,” she starts, “Today, we’re talking about the role of memory and perspective in fiction.”

I remember this lesson from my own freshman seminar—how captivated I was by the idea that memory could be more narrative than fact. That truth wasn’t always a fixed thing but something pliable. Slippery.

“Memory,” Lang continues, “is never perfect. It’s distorted by perspective, by emotion, by what we want to believe is true. In literature, that’s what makes memory such a powerful tool—because two people can remember the same event completely differently, and neither one is necessarily wrong.”

I jot down a few notes, not really reading them. My gaze flickers up—just for a second—and lands on Warren, slouched and unreadable. He’s not looking at me. Just staring down at his laptop screen like he’s trying not to be here at all.

“A lot of authors play with this idea,” Lang continues. “Kazuo Ishiguro’sThe Remains of the Day, for example, tells the story of a butler who convinces himself that his entire life—his choices, his sacrifices—were noble and right. And only later, looking back, does he realize how much he missed, how many moments slipped past him because he was so convinced he was doing what was best.”

Something sharp twists in my chest.

You thought it’d be easier if I hated you.

Warren’s words flash through my mind, clear as anything, and suddenly, it feels like my lungs are full of static. Like I’m breathing, but nothing’s landing. Because that’s exactly what I did. Told myself what I needed to hear—what I could live with—so I wouldn’t have to face what I’d done.

That I didn’t deserve forgiveness.

I glance to the back of the room, and this time, Warren’s looking right at me. His jaw’s tight, his eyes sharp. And yeah, he’s pissed. I can see it clear as day.

I drop my gaze and refocus on Lang’s voice.

“The thing about memory,” she says, “is that it’s rarely about the facts. It’s about the feeling. The version of the story you tell yourself to make it make sense.”

The rest of class drags, each minute stretching longer than the last. Lang keeps talking, touching on narrative distance and how unreliable memory creates unreliable narrators. I try to focus, scribbling notes I barely register. But the whole time, my mind keeps circling back to Warren.

He’s still stiff in his seat, shoulders tight, foot bouncing like he’s counting down the seconds until he can leave. Every so often, I catch his hand flexing against the notebook on his desk, gripping his pen so hard I half expect it to snap in two.

Finally, Lang wraps up, dismissing the class with a wave of her notebook. Chairs scrape against the floor, bags zip shut, and students start filing toward the door in loose clusters.

Warren’s up in a blink, shoving his notebook into his bag and charging out the door before I can even register it.

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