Page 5

5

WARREN

The club is already filling up when I step into the dining room. White tablecloths, polished silverware, servers moving smoothly between tables with trays of mimosas and fruit plates.

It’s still early, but that doesn’t mean much here. Sycamore mornings start with espresso, neatly pressed linens, and weekend warriors talking too loudly about their golf handicaps. It’s a performance—one they’ve all rehearsed a hundred times.

I catch sight of my mom first, seated near the window, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, a plate of untouched croissants between her and my stepdad. She looks relaxed, content in a way I don’t remember from when I was younger.

Her hair is pulled into a neat twist, her nails freshly done. Those are small details, but they say everything. She’s not struggling anymore. Not scrubbing coffee stains out of her uniform or counting tips in the back of a diner.

She’s taken care of now, which is why I don’t totally begrudge Daniel.

He’s sitting next to her, reading something on his phone, a perfectly ironed golf polo stretched across broad shoulders, the picture of a man who’s got it all under control. He’s never been unkind to me, never treated me like a burden, never tried to act like my dad. And that last part is why we get along.

He looks up first, nodding when he sees me. “Look who’s on time.”

Mom turns and smiles. “Warren, sweetheart.”

I slip into the chair across from them, letting the club’s signature too-expensive, too-stiff cushions swallow me. A server appears almost instantly, dropping a menu in front of me.

“Your usual, Mr. Mercer?”

I almost sigh. The fact that I even have a usual here is embarrassing. I’ve worked at Sycamore on and off for years, but I’ve never belonged here. Still, I nod. “Yeah, thanks.”

Mom tilts her head. “How’s the summer job treating you?”

I fight the urge to run a hand through my hair. “It’s fine.”

Daniel snorts. “That’s convincing.”

I shoot him a look. “What do you want me to say? The pool’s wet. The members are rich. The lifeguard chair is still uncomfortable as hell. Nothing’s changed.”

Mom hums, her knowing gaze flicking between me and my stepdad. She sees everything, always has. But she also has the good sense not to press me on it. Instead, she stirs a bit of sugar into her coffee. “And swimming? Training?”

I nod, absently drumming my fingers against the table. “It’s been good. I’ve been hitting all my splits, times are solid. If I keep it up, I’ve got a shot at Nationals. Probably a B-cut, but it’s doable.”

I’ve been there once before—sophomore year. Barely made the cut, swam the 200 free like my life depended on it, and placed somewhere in the middle of the pack. Solid, not spectacular.

It wasn’t like Junior Nationals, where I used to win heats and hit the podium. Back then, people thought I had a real shot at going pro. Now? I’m consistent. Strong. My coach still calls me one of our best. But sometimes I wonder if that’s just experience talking—or if I really did peak five years ago.

Daniel sets his phone down, finally giving me his full attention. “That’s big.”

I shrug. “Would be.”

He considers me for a second, the way he always does when he’s about to say something that he thinks I won’t like. “And after that?”

I grab my water, taking a slow sip, buying time. “What do you mean?”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “After the season. After graduation. You’ve been putting off your grad school applications, haven’t you?”

Mom presses her lips together like she wants to intervene but doesn’t.

I set my water down, shifting my weight. “I’ve still got time.”

Daniel doesn’t call me out on the lie, but he doesn’t let it slide, either. “Warren, we’ve talked about this.”

Yeah, we have. Countless times. He thinks he’s helping, but if I’m not self-motivated, then a pep talk from my stepdad isn’t going to flip a switch in me overnight.

I glance out the window, watching a pair of golfers lazily tee off, trying not to feel cornered. Daniel and I don’t fight. We don’t argue. But I know this is his way of pushing me—nudging me toward a decision, a plan, a path forward.

I know he’s right. I should’ve sent in my applications already. I should be lining up my future instead of waffling between the safe option—grad school—and the unknown of a swimming future.

I exhale through my nose, keeping my expression blank. “I’ll figure it out in time.”

Daniel holds my gaze, then dismisses it. “Alright.”

That’s another thing I like about him: he knows when to let things drop.

The server returns, setting my plate in front of me. I ordered eggs, toast, turkey sausage, nothing special. I stab my fork into the yolk, watching it bleed across the plate.

Mom switches gears. “I ran into your manager, Robbie, last week. He had very good things to say.”

I snort. “Yeah, I haven’t disappointed anyone yet. Or pissed them off, I guess.”

Daniel chuckles. “Sounds about right.”

I glance at him, then back down at my plate. He’s joking, but it still stings. Maybe because once upon a time, he had a real reason not to trust me. A reason I gave him.

I push my food around, keeping my voice casual. “Yeah, well, not much trouble to get into as a lifeguard.”

Mom doesn’t react, but I can feel the shift in the air. The weight of what we’re not saying. Because three summers ago, I wasn’t just the kid whose new stepdad pulled some strings to get him a cushy job at the club. I was the kid who got caught stealing from him afterward.

Daniel clears his throat. “I’m glad it’s working out.”

Mom smiles, reaching across the table to squeeze my wrist. “I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”

Daniel nods, lifting his mug. “Same.”

And I believe them. I do. Even if they’ve got a million things to worry about—bigger things, heavier things—it still feels good to be seen. To be told I’m doing okay, even if I’m not sure I believe it myself most days.

We finish eating, conversations shifting to lighter things. Gossip about the club members, some story about a guy who got caught cheating at poker last week, Mom reminiscing about a trip she wants to take after I graduate.

And for a moment, everything feels easy. Almost normal. Like there isn’t this quiet pressure building beneath the surface. But then I check the time, and I realize I only have fifteen minutes until my shift.

The second I stand up, stretching, adjusting my uniform, I know what’s coming. Like fucking clockwork, that low-grade sense of dread creeps up again. The kind that tightens in my chest and coils low in my gut.

I exhale sharply, shake it off. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter.

I drop a few bills on the table. It’s enough to cover my meal, even though I know Daniel would pay for me without a thought. Put it on the Sycamore tab and call it a day. But it’s the principle. I always earn my keep.

Mom stands, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Don’t work too hard.”

“Try not to let anyone drown,” Daniel adds.

Outside, the heat slams into me like it’s got something to prove. Another scorcher. Another long shift ahead. I roll my shoulders, try to center myself, then round the corner toward the pool deck.

And there she is.

That same knowing smirk. That same stance I used to love and now can’t seem to shake.

Whatever semblance of patience I walked out with? It vanishes, just like that.

Right back to square one.

* * *

The rest of my shift passes in a flurry of chlorine, sunscreen, and mindless routine.

Hours spent perched on the guard stand, sunglasses shielding my eyes, watching over a pool full of kids cannonballing off the diving board, retirees wading through the shallows, and club members who don’t understand that no running applies to them, too.

It’s fine. Easy work. If I don’t think too hard, it’s almost peaceful. Almost.

Because every once in a while, my gaze catches on the course beyond the gates. The flash of a navy polo, the swing of a golf bag over a shoulder, the sharp sound of a club cracking clean against a ball.

I go through the motions—rotating shifts, hydrating, tossing a couple of swim rings back to kids who keep floating too far out. I nod along as one of the younger lifeguards rambles about his plans to try out for his college swim team. I wipe sweat from my brow and keep my focus locked straight ahead.

I make it. Unscathed.

Or, at the very least, without snapping.

By the time I clock out, the sun is sinking low, bleeding orange and pink across the sky. My shoulders ache with the weight of the day, but there’s a strange relief in it. Another shift finished. Another paycheck earned. Another day closer to the end of summer and to getting back to school, where things make more sense.

I head toward the parking lot, keys in hand, already running through tomorrow’s shift in my head.

Then I see her.

Quinn’s sitting on the hood of my car like she owns it, arms braced behind her, ankles crossed, eyes turned toward the sky. Completely at ease. Like she didn’t just spend the day haunting the edges of my focus.

Her long, dark hair is pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder, strands escaping and curling against her sun-kissed skin. High cheekbones, full lips, those deep, cutting brown eyes that have always seen too much. Always too sharp, too knowing.

And still—God help me—the most devastatingly beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I grit my teeth. “You’re gonna dent it.”

Quinn tilts her head slightly, as if considering the thought for the first time. “What? This mint-condition, top-of-the-line, 2008 Toyota 4Runner?”

My patience snaps. “Get off my damn car, Quinn.”

She huffs a little, unimpressed, but she does it. She slides off with an exaggerated stretch, like I just interrupted her break.

“We should talk,” she says, brushing imaginary lint off her shorts.

I move closer and yank open the driver’s side door. “We shouldn’t.”

She steps into my space, close enough that I can smell her sunscreen and whatever shampoo she uses. Okay, it’s fucking cherry almond. I’m not gonna pretend I don’t know that. I remember exactly what it smells like on her skin, in my sheets, on my hoodie that she used to steal.

“I’m so tired of this, and it’s only been three shifts.”

I don’t answer, just move around her, hand braced on the door handle, ready to get in and drive away. But then she moves, too, cuts me off and plants herself firmly in front of me.

“I’m serious, Mercer,” she says, crossing her arms. “This has got to stop. I get that you can’t stand me. I get that you’d rather I disappear into the ether forever, that you’re unbelievably mad at me. But can you just put on an act for the next few weeks to make this experience tolerable for the both of us?”

Something inside me—something I thought I buried a long time ago—snaps. “You think I’m mad ?”

Quinn blinks, just once, like she’s bracing herself.

I shake my head, a hollow laugh slipping past my lips. “I stopped being mad a long time ago.” Then I look her straight in the eye and say the biggest lie I’ve ever told. “Now I just really don’t fucking care about you.”

The words leave my mouth, sharp, flat, final. And I wish—God, I wish—they were true. But the second they land, the second I see something fractured flicker across her face, I know I fucked up.

She tilts her head, arms still crossed. “Did you forget that I know exactly what it looks like when you don’t care?” she murmurs. “This? This is not that.”

“We hooked up for a while, and then ... whatever.” I shrug, work my way through a heavy swallow. “It was three years ago. What else do you want me to say?”

“Hooked up?” Her voice is sharp, low. Not loud, but enough to make my chest tighten. “You loved me, Warren. I know you did.”

“And you fucked me over,” I snap. “So, what’s that say about you ?”

She doesn’t back down. She never does. She just stands there, too close, the sunset throwing golden halos across her sharp cheekbones, the familiar glint of pride in her eyes. Even as she holds herself steady, unflinching, like she’s testing me.

Daring me to shrink first.

But I won’t. Not with her looking at me like that. Like she still knows me. Like she still knows exactly how to wreck me. And maybe—for some inane, self-destructive reason—I still want her to.

Even if I know exactly how it ends.

Even if I’d already lived through the wreckage once before.

Even if, deep down, I know this girl will always be my downfall.