Page 22

22

WARREN

This girl is a fucking menace, I swear to God.

She’s texting me at two in the morning on a Friday night like it’s normal. Like she didn’t shove my own angry words back in my face the other day. Like she didn’t draw me in and then bolt like I was something she regretted picking up.

Quinn

didn’t know you were such a poet

That’s all it says. No context. No follow-up, just seven random words that practically roll their eyes at me through the screen.

I stare at my phone like maybe if I look hard enough, I’ll find the real message hidden between the letters. But there’s nothing else. No breadcrumb trail to follow, no hint about what the hell she’s thinking.

I should ignore it. Should turn my phone face down on the nightstand and forget she ever sent it. But, like the fool I am, I’m already sitting up, my pillow shoved behind me, fingers ready to reply.

I’d finally managed to fall asleep, too—after an hour of listening to Liam and Birdie going at it from across the hall, their muffled laughter and low voices filtering through the thin walls. I’d shoved a pillow over my head, swore at the ceiling, and eventually drifted off.

And now this.

Warren

you drunk?

I type it out, but I don’t hit Send. Delete it.

you okay?

Delete that, too.

Because none of those questions are the right ones. Not for her. Not for us.

what the hell is that supposed to mean?

I stare at the screen, half expecting her to ignore me. Half hoping she will. But three dots blink back almost immediately.

Quinn

it means you’re not as hard to figure out as you think

I huff out a laugh. Humorless. Exhausted.

Warren

yeah? enlighten me then

Quinn

we’ve still got time

My stomach twists, sharp and sudden, like someone reached inside and yanked something loose.

We’ve still got time.

The words hit too hard, land too close. Because I know what she’s doing. I know what she’s remembering.

It was the last day of our first summer together. I said it to her because I meant it. Because I believed we’d figure it out, that whatever we were building wouldn’t fall apart the second things got hard.

But that’s not what happened. We spent six months together, and then it ended. Her silence. My pride. We didn’t run out of time; we wasted it. Let it rot between us while we acted like it didn’t matter.

I drag a hand down my face.

She’s messing with me. She has to be. This is classic Quinn. She tosses a match, watches it burn, and then pretends it wasn’t her that lit it.

Warren

go to bed, quinn

Quinn

I don’t want to. I want to talk about . . . keeping our eyes open

Warren

stop being cryptic

Quinn

your paper. I read it. It was good, but ...

My chest pulls tight, like a door slamming shut behind me. Like I’m locked in now, no way out except through whatever she says next.

But what? I want to ask. Want to shake the answer out of her, demand she just say what the hell she means instead of making me chase her through half-formed metaphors and memories.

But this is Quinn. It always has been. She doesn’t do easy. Doesn’t hand out clean truths. She speaks in fragments and half steps, in loaded silences and unfinished thoughts.

And she wasn’t even supposed to read my paper. Told me herself she wouldn’t. Looked me dead in the eye and said it like a promise. But I sort of hoped she would anyway. Hoped she was bluffing. Lying, maybe. The way she always does when she’s scared of saying too much.

Warren

are you going to finish the thought or just circle around it?

Another pause. Longer this time. Long enough that I think maybe I’ve pushed her too far. Maybe she’ll leave it alone now. Maybe this whole thing will finally die the death it should’ve had two years ago.

Quinn

it felt unfinished

I stare at the screen.

Unfinished.

I scrub a hand down my face, heart thudding hard. She’s right. It was unfinished. Not because I couldn’t figure out how to end it but because I didn’t want to end it.

I used the whole damn assignment to talk about her. About me. About us. All the ways we fit and fought and fell apart.

Warren

maybe it was supposed to be

Quinn

and maybe I still want you

Fuck. Fucking hell.

I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Just sit there, staring at my phone like the words might shift and rearrange themselves, like they might turn into something else if I look long enough. But they don’t. They stay right there. Blunt and impossible and real.

I still want you.

She must be drunk, or bored, or messing with me. It would be easier to write this off as a mistake, to pretend it’s just Quinn playing with matches again. But I know better.

Because this? This isn’t Quinn being careless.

This is Quinn being brave.

Quinn

if I promise to just snap myself out of it . . . to stop pretending I don’t care and then acting like I do . . . would you meet me somewhere? just to talk, to lay it all out there. say the things we should have said during winter break our freshman year?

I read it again. And again. Until the words blur, like maybe I’ve conjured them up by sheer force of will. Because Quinn doesn’t ask for things. Not like this. She’s too stubborn, too proud. She always leaves first. Always makes sure she’s the one walking away.

But here she is, offering me the chance to hurt her first.

I don’t know what that means. I don’t know if this is about closure or second chances or something else entirely. But I do know this: whatever she’s offering, I’m not strong enough to turn it down.

Warren

now?

Quinn

it’s 2 o’clock in the morning. what do you think this is, mercer? a booty call?

I snort, dragging a hand down my face. Only Quinn could drop something that heavy and follow it up with a joke like it’s no big deal.

Warren

then when?

Quinn

tomorrow. our field with the pretty blue flowers. around noon? you know the one x

I know it. A stretch of grass and wildflowers, a small pond tucked past the tree line where the fireflies hovered like embers. Where we lay on our backs and whispered under the stars like the world had gone quiet just for us.

Where we slept together for the first time.

Warren

yeah. I’ll be there

* * *

The phone is ringing when I wake up. Loud, jarring, vibrating against my nightstand like it’s got a personal vendetta. I blink at the screen, still half dreaming, half-convinced I’ve been imagining things since—

Dad. Dad. Dad.

My stomach twists.

I let it ring once, twice, three times. Just long enough to consider ignoring it, long enough to remember that ignoring him never works. He just keeps calling, keeps wearing me down until I break.

I grope for the phone and hit Accept, voice still rough with sleep. “Yeah?”

“Warren? Jesus Christ, finally.”

I sit up straighter, dread settling low in my gut. “What’s wrong?”

“I need you to come down here.”

“What happened?” I ask, already swinging my legs over the side of the bed, pulling on yesterday’s jeans.

“It’s—it’s the staff, alright? They’re trying to screw me over again. Bunch of goddamn crooks, I swear to God. They’re threatening to call the cops if I don’t calm down, and—hell, I’m calm, Warren. I’m so fucking calm. But they’re pushing me. Trying to make me out like I’m the one causing problems when I’m just—damn it. You just need to come down here.”

I shove my feet into my sneakers. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” he snaps, like I’ve got no reason to ask. “They’re just—look, can you just get here?”

“I’m on my way,” I mutter, already grabbing my keys.

I’m not the best at de-escalation, but I’m the only one he’ll listen to. The only one he still recognizes on his worst days. And the drive to Oakview feels longer than usual. Long enough for the old memories to start clawing their way back in.

The yelling. The slammed doors. The nights I sat on the curb outside our house, staring down the street, waiting for him to come back. The way he’d stumble in reeking of whiskey, slurring apologies that never meant anything.

I shake it off and grip the wheel tighter.

He’s sober now—or close enough. The booze isn’t what’s messing with him anymore. It’s the strokes. The damage they left behind. This half-formed version of him, foggy and fractured, like a puzzle with the edges blurred.

But that doesn’t make him harmless. Not even close.

By the time I pull into the parking lot, my chest is tight, every breath scraping like gravel in my throat. I park, kill the engine, and sit for a second, fingers flexing against the steering wheel.

I should’ve stayed in bed. Should’ve let him handle it himself. But I know better. If I don’t deal with it now, it’ll just spiral. He’ll call again and again until I either give in or he does something worse.

The front desk nurse barely glances up when I walk in. The low buzz of daytime TV filters from the common room, mixing with the faint scent of antiseptic and stale coffee.

“He’s in the lounge,” she says flatly. “Good luck.”

I find him in the corner, arms crossed like a kid caught misbehaving. His face is flushed, jaw clenched. The air around him feels off—charged and brittle. One wrong word could snap it.

A nurse stands nearby, stiff and uneasy, like she’s waiting for backup.

“What happened?” I ask.

“They’re trying to take my goddamn watch.”

I blink. “Your watch?”

He shoves his wrist toward me, showing off the cheap plastic band I bought him last year. The one he insisted he needed after missing too many appointments.

“They said I can’t wear it,” he growls. “Said it’s against some policy. Bullshit. It’s a damn watch, Warren.”

I glance at the nurse, who meets my eyes with something like quiet pleading.

“It’s the alarm,” she says gently. “He keeps setting it during quiet hours. We’ve asked him to turn it off, but he refuses.”

“I need it,” my dad cuts in, louder now, pulling attention from across the room. “I need the reminders. My meds, meals—how else am I supposed to keep track?”

His frustration sharpens, turning brittle. I know that tone. It’s the one he used to get before a door slammed, before things got broken.

“Dad,” I say carefully. “You can’t keep waking people up in the middle of the night.”

“I didn’t mean to!” His voice spikes. “It’s not my fault! They’re just looking for a reason to ride my ass—”

“That’s not true,” the nurse says, calm but firm. “We’ve tried to compromise—”

“You call this a compromise?” He surges halfway out of his chair, palm slamming down on the table. “I can’t even—”

“Stop,” I snap.

The word cuts the room in half. He freezes, breath ragged. For a second, I think he’s going to explode again. But then his face crumples. All the fire in his eyes burns out, and what’s left is hollow. Scared. Like he’s already forgotten what he was fighting for.

“I’m trying,” he mutters, like I’m the one pushing him. “I’m trying so goddamn hard.”

It’s frustrating because I know he thinks that’s true. That he’s really doing his best, even now, when his hands are shaking and his words keep slipping sideways. Even now, when everything feels like one step forward, two steps back.

“I’ll fix it,” I say finally, voice flat. “I’ll talk to the staff. Just calm down.”

I don’t wait for him to answer. Just turn on my heel and find the nearest nurse.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, voice low, jaw tight. “He’s . . . having a rough morning.” The words taste hollow in my mouth. Not an excuse—never that—but something to soften the edges, something to make her stop looking at me like I’m the one who’s supposed to fix him.

She nods tightly, exhaling like this isn’t the first time she’s had to deal with something like this. “We’ll let him keep the watch if he promises to silence the alarm,” she says. “But if it goes off again, we’ll have to take it.”

“Got it.” I push a hand through my hair. “I’ll make sure he knows.”

On the way back to his room, my dad is quiet. He passes me the watch without a word. I hold it in my palm, flick through the settings, and shut the alarm off. Then I hand it back. He straps it on with slow, deliberate fingers, like he knows this small thing is keeping him tethered.

By the time I leave Oakview, my head’s pounding. Tension curls sharply between my shoulder blades. The sky has turned a sullen gray, clouds hanging low like a warning.

I check the time—11:43.

I’m supposed to be meeting Quinn. Right now. At the field.

I blink hard, forcing her from my thoughts. I don’t know if I can handle it. Whatever we’re meant to say to each other. Whatever mess we’re supposed to untangle out there in the middle of the wildflowers. I need time to breathe. To clear the smoke from my lungs.

I pull out of the lot, knuckles tight on the wheel, and my phone buzzes on the dash.

Quinn

you’re still coming, right?

I grip the wheel tighter. My pulse kicks. Part of me wants to ignore her. Say something came up. Tell her I can’t make it, that today isn’t the day. But I can’t.

Because I know. The way I know my breath in the water or the burn in my legs when I push past the wall. The way I know exactly how it feels to touch her and mean it. And no matter how many times I tell myself it’d be easier to let her go, to erase the field from my memory like it never mattered—I won’t.

I clench my jaw, shift into gear, and hit the gas.