Page 11

11

QUINN

The text is still there. Unread. Unanswered. Sitting on my screen, glowing in the dark like it’s waiting for me to do something about it.

Warren

heard about Wesley. hope he’s okay.

It’s ridiculous how much I want to respond to him.

Because twice now—twice in two days—he’s made it feel like no time has passed. Like we’re still us. Like I could just crack myself open and let him bleed back into my life, filling all the spaces he used to belong.

And I want that. I want it so fucking bad.

But maybe I’m letting myself get hopeful when two inconsequential instances don’t mean anything. That in the grand scheme of the last two and a half years, a couple of soft moments can’t outweigh everything else. Because that’s what it’s been—two and a half years of silence.

We’ve crossed paths a time or two, though neither of us ever stopped long enough to acknowledge it. Dayton is big, but not that big. We walk the same quad, share the same sidewalks. It’s easy to blend into the crowd, easy to keep our heads down.

The first time I saw him after the breakup, he was sitting alone on a bench in Navy Square, staring out over the fountain, shoulders hunched like the weight of something invisible was pressing down on him. I thought about approaching. Thought about sitting down beside him, saying something, anything.

But then I thought about the way his jaw would tighten, the way his eyes would shutter the second he saw me. Thought about how fast he’d leave. So, I ran first.

I saw him again last year, passing by the intramural training building. He was walking out, hair damp, a Dayton swim duffel slung over his shoulder.

My heart stuttered. I had the first syllable of his name on my tongue, my lips parting, ready to call out. But then I froze, and the moment slipped through my fingers like it never belonged to me in the first place.

I turned before he could see me. Before I could see the way he’d look through me, the way he’d remind me of what I already knew. That whatever we were—real and raw and everything—I destroyed it.

And yet, I wonder if he ever saw me, too. If he ever spotted me in the nooks and crannies of his day. If his gaze ever snagged on me, even just for a second, before slipping away. Is it possible for him to be oblivious to my presence when I’ve never been able to ignore his?

Maybe it’s easier for him. Cleaner. Because he can put it all in a box labeled “mistake” and never look at it again. Because he can’t forgive me. He won’t . And no matter how good things were between us before, that hasn’t changed.

I know that. So why does it still ache?

I flip onto my side, then onto my back again, my sheets twisted around my legs, restless energy burning through my skin. My ribs feel too tight, my chest too full.

I should be thinking about Preston Beckett. About the way his hand landed on my waist earlier today, the too-firm squeeze that dropped down to my ass, the way his mouth pressed into my ear when he leaned in to whisper about how he liked having me back at Sycamore.

I should be pissed off about it. I am pissed off about it. Grossed out, disturbed, violated.

But the worst part? The part I can’t stop circling back to?

The way Warren’s hand felt on my face afterward. Soothing, reassuring. His thumb sweeping over my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t even realized had fallen. The way he looked at me—not like I was something to be handled or dismissed, but like he really saw me.

Like I was still the girl he met and chose. Like I was still his .

I press the heel of my palm against my sternum, forcing the thought out of my head. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t. Proximity forced us into that moment. It wasn’t fate, it wasn’t some buried longing on his part, and it sure as hell wasn’t because he still cares.

I flip my phone over, screen down, and roll onto my stomach. As I press my forehead into the pillow, it takes everything in me not to cry.

Loving Warren Mercer had come so easily to me back then. Instinctively, like second nature, like gravity itself. Like stepping into warm water and letting myself sink.

But losing him? That had been the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done.

Even now, there’s a part of me that still waits for him. Still looks for him in crowds. Still aches in the quiet spaces where he used to be.

I scrub my fingers over my jaw. And before I can talk myself into doing something reckless—something like texting him back—I shove the phone under my pillow and push the covers off.

I can’t just lie here. I need to move. To do something. So, I climb out of bed and pad out of my room, into the darkened apartment. It’s quiet, too quiet, but my skin still feels buzzed and blistered, like I’m coming apart at the seams.

Back then, Warren had been my steady thing. My constant. The person I could fall back on, no matter what. And now, he’s the thing I can’t have.

I swallow hard. Walk into the kitchen. Turn on the kettle. Maybe if I go through the motions, I’ll feel normal again. Maybe if I do something mindless, something simple, I can stop fucking thinking about him.

I pull down a mug, grab a tea bag, and watch the steam curl up as the water pours in. It’s a ritual. One I’ve repeated so many times it almost feels like control.

There are so many things I can’t control. Warren. Preston Beckett. The past, all the years I’ve spent holding my own guilt like a stone in my chest.

But this? The kettle, the mug, the tea. The weight of the ceramic in my hands. The slow inhale, the slow exhale. The burn of hot water settling in my stomach. It’s my comfort in the mess, in the moments that don’t make sense.

I stare at the counter, fingers curled around the warm porcelain. The tea is still too hot, but I take a slow sip anyway, letting it scald my tongue and settle in my stomach.

Behind me, there’s a shift in the room. A soft rustle of fabric, the quiet creak of the couch. I turn my head enough to see Jordan curled up on the cushions, phone in hand, her attention half-absorbed in whatever she’s watching. I hadn’t even noticed her there.

“Can’t sleep?”

I shake off my shock, shifting against the counter. “Oh. Nope.”

She studies me for a beat, then stretches before setting her phone down on the arm of the couch. “Tea?”

I nod toward the kettle. “Yeah, want some?”

There are approximately three things I know about Jordan: she plays volleyball, she loves reality TV, and Chinese takeout is her comfort food. But we haven’t had a lengthy conversation, a real heart-to-heart, since that weird night last year after her boyfriend unceremoniously dumped her.

I grab another mug from the cabinet, dunk a tea bag inside, pour the steaming water in. By the time I bring it over, she’s moved slightly, making space next to her on the couch.

I hesitate, just for a second. It feels strange to sit here beside her in the middle of the night. But Jordan doesn’t say anything, just accepts the mug with a quiet thanks, so I lower myself onto the other side of the couch and leave a foot of space between us.

Even so, I still feel the warmth of her, the slight shift of the cushion beneath us.

It doesn’t come easily, but I force myself to settle. To not think about the last time I sat with someone like this. Two and a half years ago. The way Warren’s hand used to rest on my knee, his shoulder pressing into mine as he leaned back, so close I could feel the rise and fall of his breath.

Jordan doesn’t press for conversation, which I appreciate. She blows on her tea, taps through something on her phone, and lets the quiet stretch between us, soft and unobtrusive. It’s a kindness I didn’t realize I needed.

I sip my tea, let the warmth curl in my chest. It’s strange how rare this feels. How much of my time is spent alone, wrapped up in my own mind, refusing to let anyone too close.

After a minute, Jordan finally asks, “How’s your brother? You just spent the night in Hawthorne, right?”

I don’t know why the question nearly pummels me. It shouldn’t. It’s gentle. Casual. Not even loaded. But my whole chest clenches like she’s pried it open.

I stare down into my tea. “Yeah, he had a seizure. Hit his head.”

Jordan finally looks up, her brows pulling together. “Shit. Is he okay?”

I nod, forcing my voice even. “Yeah. Home now.”

“That must’ve been scary.”

It was. Even though I’m used to it, even though it’s happened countless times before. I still spent the whole night bracing for bad news. Sitting in that hospital room, staring at his IV, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Wondering if this would be the time things didn’t go back to normal.

Jordan doesn’t say anything else, just watches me, like she’s giving me space to fill the silence if I want to.

I don’t. Because the longer I sit here, the itchier I feel. Like my skin doesn’t fit right. Like I’ve let something slip that I shouldn’t have.

I clear my throat. “It was fine. Thanks for asking.”

“If you ever wanna talk, you know I’m here.”

“Yeah, yeah. Feelings. We’ll circle back.”

She gives a quiet laugh. “You’re so annoying.”

“I know.”

She shakes her head and settles deeper into the couch, her focus shifting back to her phone. It’s not her fault I can’t open up like a normal girl. And if I don’t give her anything to work with, she won’t try again.

I drain the rest of my tea and push to my feet. It’s not that late, but I’m done pretending to be calm.

“Night.”

Jordan lifts a hand in a lazy wave as I disappear down the hall, back to my room. Back to silence. The phone still sits on my bed, face down, Warren’s text unanswered.

School starts in just over two weeks. Maybe I can pull it together. Regroup. Try to be productive and convince myself I’m still on track.

I pull my summer reading off the pile. Wuthering Heights . I flip it open, skim the first page. The second. The words blur, my mind slipping between the lines without catching on anything.

I close the book with a sigh and shove it aside.

Instead, I reach for the one I always come back to. I do love classic literature, but poetry has always been mine. Small. Sharp. Honest in a way nothing else is.

Emily Dickinson: Collected Poems.

The spine is cracked, the pages worn soft from years of being turned over in my hands. The edges curl where I’ve dog-eared my favorites. The margins are lined with faint pencil marks, thoughts I never quite committed to ink but needed to leave behind.

I thumb through the pages, my fingers skimming over worn paper.

“I like a look of Agony,

Because I know it’s true—”

There are some things you can’t fake. Some things you can’t lie about.

“Water, is taught by thirst.”

My fingers still.

That one. That was always the one.

I read the rest, the words settling into me like an old ache.

“Land—by the Oceans passed.

Transport—by throe—

Peace—by its battles told—

Love, by Memorial Mold—

Birds, by the Snow.”

My favorite.

Because it makes sense of the hard things. The idea that absence teaches us everything. That knowing comes from missing, from losing, from living without.

And Warren knew that, too.

That first summer, he started memorizing the ones I liked best, even though he didn’t care about poetry. He’d tilt his head at me from across the break room at Sycamore, drop a single mangled line into the conversation just to see me react.

“You make it too easy,” he’d said once, grinning at the way my shoulders tensed.

“You butcher poetry for sport,” I’d shot back.

And then, later, we were at the Sycamore pool together. It was after hours during the first weekend of July. He whispered a few words of poetry in my ear, pressed me into the tiles, the water slick between us, the air thick with chlorine and the heat of July.

That was the moment, I think, that I knew I was his.

That no matter how much I pretended otherwise, no matter how many times I told myself otherwise, Warren Mercer had already slipped beneath my chest, made a home inside my hollow heart.

And I never wanted him to leave.