Page 99 of Good Graces

The bridge of his nose presses against my temple, dragging slowly and absently, like muscle memory. Like his body remembers even if his mind is still catching up. It’s like he’s trying to memorize everything—the way I smell, the way I feel, the way I settle against him.

“Yeah,” he says, low and strained. “Me too.”

* * *

Warren went home latelast night. We didn’t have sex. Didn’t even kiss after that first lingering one on the couch. We just talked—filled each other in on the last two years—until my words started to slur and my eyes grew heavy.

I barely remember him easing me deeper into the cushions, pulling a blanket over me before he let himself out. I woke up warm and comfortable, like my bones remembered what it was like to feel safe.

Jordan and Alyssa must’ve gotten home sometime after that. Hours later, from the sound of it. I heard them giggling in the hallway, keys jingling as they fumbled to unlock the door. I don’t know how they do it, balancing endless social plans and still dragging themselves out of bed in time for brunch.

They’re always going, always busy. Partying, networking, filling their calendar with more events than I’d ever have the stamina for. I swear they thrive on it. I can barely manage one night out without feeling like I need a day to recover.

Now, it’s the next morning—well, technically early afternoon—and I’m at a corner table at the Bluebell with Jordan and Alyssa, staring down a mimosa I haven’t touched yet. The table’s cluttered with half-eaten plates of avocado toast and french toast sticks, syrup dribbling down the side of a bowl.

Jordan’s on her third round of boozy orange juice, talking a mile a minute. Alyssa’s sipping hers slower, half listening as she scrolls through her phone.

I’d almost bailed when they knocked on my door this morning. My hair was all wet from the shower, a towel wrapped around my head. I didn’t want to face the small talk, the forced laughter, the effort it takes to be around people when I’m not sure I belong.

But then I remembered what Warren said.You should try. Give things a chance.

So here I am. Trying.

Jordan’s telling some wild story about a guy she met last weekend. Some bartender at Lucky’s who supposedly did a backflip off the bar and landed it, completely hammered. She’s miming the whole thing, arms flailing as she half stands from her chair.

“And then,” she says between laughs, “he popped up like nothing happened and started pouring shots for everyone. I swear to God.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say because I can’t think of anything else.

“It was,” Alyssa says, finally looking up from her phone. “But she left out the part where she went home with him.”

Jordan gasps, smacking Alyssa’s arm. “Excuse you! That’s irrelevant.”

“You let him make you a grilled cheese at two in the morning,” Alyssa adds, grinning.

“And it was a damn good grilled cheese,” Jordan says with a shrug, tossing back the rest of her mimosa like she’s proud of it.

I genuinely laugh, surprising myself. “So ... a gymnast and a chef? The full package.”

Jordan beams at me. “You get it.”

I snort and finally take a slow sip of my mimosa. “I didn’t know you were into the showy type.”

“I’m into the fun type,” Jordan says.

“And the red flag type,” Alyssa deadpans, reaching for her drink.

Jordan cackles at that, and I smile, too. I can’t help it. This—the casual jokes, the warmth of easy conversation—it’s just nice.

“At least it’s better than the year I tried dating musicians.”

Alyssa groans. “Oh God, we were just eighteen and absolutely feral.”

“What happened?” I ask.

Jordan props her chin on her hand, sighing dramatically. “Let’s just say I learned three things that year. One, never trust a man with a guitar. Two, ‘I’m working on new material’ means he wants to sleep with your roommate. And three, if a guy tells you he’s ‘emotionally unavailable,’ believe him.”

“Yikes,” I say, wincing.

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