Page 24

24

QUINN

WINTER brEAK—THE LAST NIGHT

I should tell him.

I should’ve told him two weeks ago when I did it. When I stood there with three crisp bills in my hand, stomach twisting so hard I thought I might throw up. When I told myself it’s not that big of a deal, that Daniel Donovan wouldn’t even notice, that Warren wouldn’t care—not really.

But I didn’t.

And now we’re here, back at my parents’ house, curled up in my old room, and the words are stuck, lodged somewhere between my ribs, heavy and sharp.

Warren’s lying on my bed, one arm flung behind his head, the other hand scrolling lazily through his phone. He’s so relaxed—so calm—that it makes me feel even worse.

I should just tell him. I should say, Hey, so funny thing . . . and get it over with. Because it’s three hundred bucks. Pocket change to someone like Daniel. Warren’s always ragging on guys like him anyway. Rich, spoon-fed club dads with too much money and not enough sense.

He’ll understand.

Except . . . I don’t know if he will.

Because Warren’s not like that. He’s got this thing about honesty and integrity. This stubborn, hardwired belief that if you don’t have trust, you don’t have anything at all. I’ve heard him say it a dozen times.

And I should have remembered that before I shoved three bills in my purse and told myself it didn’t matter. I’d stolen before, not for money but for attention. And this time, it seemed harmless.

My stomach twists again, sharp and punishing. I shift beside him, fingers curling into the fabric of my comforter. My throat’s dry. I swallow hard.

“Hey,” I say quietly.

Warren hums, still focused on his phone. “Hmm?”

“I need to—”

His phone buzzes. Then again. And again.

He frowns, muttering something under his breath as he sits up. I catch a glimpse of the screen—Mom. “Shit,” he says. “Hang on.”

He swipes to answer, and I sit up with him, heart hammering.

“Hello?” A stilted pause, then, “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

The voice on the other end rises. It’s a little anxious, a little urgent. I can’t hear the words, but I can hear the tone.

“What?” Warren asks sharply. “What are you talking about?”

More talking. More pauses. It’s starting to unravel, I can feel it, this whole awful thing unspooling right in front of me.

“Missing money? From where?”

My stomach turns to ice. I didn’t get the chance to explain, to warn him. It’s my fault, my silence. I should have never done it, but after I made my choice, I should have clued Warren in.

“Mom,” Warren says, pacing now. His steps are tight, clipped. “What are you even asking me right now?”

I watch him pace, listen to the way his voice strains—low and tight and confused. “No,” he says. “No, I didn’t take it.” He pauses. “Why would I—?” He stops pacing, scrubs a hand down his face. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. We’ll figure it out when I get back to your place.”

I should say something. I should stop this before it spirals. I whisper his name, trying to cut in, but he keeps pacing. Keeps talking.

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice climbing. “I don’t know, Mom. I’ll talk to Daniel when I get home, okay?”

“Warren,” I say again, louder this time.

He finally turns. The confusion in his face guts me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It’s my fault. I ... I took it.”

The air stalls, like the world’s holding its breath. Like maybe I can still fix this.

But then his face changes. He goes rigid, his whole body braced.

He mutters something into the phone—low, clipped, unreadable—and then hangs up. His fingers stay clenched around the phone like he’s trying not to crush it.

“You’re kidding,” he says hoarsely. “Please tell me you’re fucking kidding.”

“I’m not.” My voice is barely audible. “I took it.”

He shudders. “Why?”

The truth catches in my throat. “I just—” I break off. “I don’t know. I needed it.”

“For what?” His voice cracks, sharp and furious. “For what, Quinn?”

I open my mouth, then close it again. The reason feels too small, too selfish to say out loud. It would only make this worse.

He stares at me. “You can’t even say it?”

“I can’t explain it right now,” I murmur. “Just go home. Talk to your mom. Tell them I took it, and then ...”

“And then what?” His eyes narrow. “You think that fixes this?”

“I don’t know,” I say, barely holding it together. “I don’t know.”

“I’m not gonna tell them it was you,” he says, voice low and tight. “Just give me the money back. I’ll figure something out.”

“I can’t.”

He stares at me. “You can’t ?”

“I spent it. It’s gone.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t recognize me at all.

“You spent it,” he echoes. “On what?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

I shake my head. “Just go, Warren. Go talk to your mom. Fix it.”

His feet stay planted. “I ... can’t believe you did this.”

“I know.”

I’m not surprised I did it. It’s been a few years, but I got used to it—taking small things from my parents when I felt invisible. Not money, not at first. Just enough to make them notice. Enough to feel like I existed for more than being the quiet one, the good one.

So no, I’m not shocked I did it. But I knew Warren would see me differently once he found out.

Maybe that’s part of the reason I went through with it. Not just because I needed the money, not just because I was selfish. But because some twisted part of me wanted to wreck it. To ruin the only good thing I had before it could ruin me.

“I can’t believe you—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight. “I just . . . I can’t believe you .”

“I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s all I have left. “I’m really sorry.”

“That’s not enough.” His voice goes quiet. Not soft. Empty. “I don’t know how to reconcile this, Quinn. I don’t know how to look at you and see the same person I trusted. The same person I loved.”

His words land like a blade to the ribs.

“Then don’t,” I whisper. “If that’s what you need—if letting me go makes it easier—then do it.”

“Fine, I will.” He rakes a hand through his hair, almost trembling with it. “I don’t think I can come back from this. I don’t want to see you again after today. It’s over.”

I nod slowly, my throat burning. “I figured.”

He grabs his keys from my desk, shoves his phone into his pocket, and walks out without a word.

I don’t follow. I don’t call after him. I just sit there, staring at the space he left behind, the echo of him still clinging to the air like smoke.

And I tell myself this was inevitable. That I always wreck things when I get too close.

That Warren was never mine to keep.