Page 26 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

His gaze dips down, then lifts to meet mine again. Something in my stomach twists, heat blooming low in my spine.

“Sooo much better!” Taylor bursts back in, waving one of my mom’s stolen Versace bags over her head. “This will matchperfectly, and when I’m done with you, every guy there is going to beg for our new Hamptonite to look their way!”

Cole’s jaw tightens, and without a word, he disappears from the doorway.

I drop into the desk chair and try not to look like I’m unraveling while Taylor pulls out her makeup bag.

She gets to work, chattering about what kind of highlighter I need while my heart finds yet another unfamiliar rhythm to perform.

10

EMILY

MOM

I didn’t get to see you before you left! Send pics!

[IMG] [IMG] [IMG]

MOM

OOOHHH! You look like a STAR! Have tons of FUN! :-)

“Fun” doesn’t begin to describe whatever dimension of hell I’ve currently slipped into.

We’ve been at Beach Fest for nearly two hours, and it already feels like a fever dream. Everything glows—the bonfire, the sand, the tangled bodies swaying in rhythm. Smoke threads through the air like perfume, and string lights zigzag above our heads, pulsing in time with the bass-heavy music. The ocean hums in the distance, just beyond the reach of the fire.

If it weren’t for the girls I came with, I might actually be enjoying this.

We’re tucked inside one of the private tents near the back, surrounded by coolers of beer, trays of weed brownies, and enough gossip to fill a blog. Taylor and her friends have cycled through every name in their social circle twice. Their laughter is too sharp, too fast, and the air inside is thick with sugar, sunscreen, and someone’s spilled tequila.

I glance toward the bonfire, wondering if I can slip away without Taylor noticing. I’m halfway through planning my exit when one of the Ashleys gasps.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “Is that Michael Hanson?”

“Wait, don’t look yet—okay, now.”

I follow their gaze.

He’s tall, golden-brown, with dark curls and a white T-shirt clinging to his chest like it’s been custom-tailored. He’s carrying two beers and walking like he owns every set of eyes on the beach—including mine.

“Hey, Taylor,” he says, smooth as silk. Then he looks at me. “Who’s your friend?”

Before she can answer, he extends one of the beers. “Want to get out of here for a bit?”

Yes. Desperately.

“Sure,” I say, grabbing the drink and a few brownies from the tray. “Let’s go.”

We walk down the beach, weaving past couples half-lost in each other. I eat the first brownie before we even reach the fire pits. The second one lingers on my tongue longer—warm and soft, with a bitter aftertaste that sticks to the back of my throat.

By the time we hit the third, I’m starting to float. My limbs feel slow, like they’re moving through water. The sugar’s hitting, and so is the weed. My skin buzzes, and my vision softens at the edges.

Michael leads me to a tent strung with Edison bulbs, half-filled with casually beautiful guys who nod at me like I’m another accessory to the night.

“You’re staying with the Dawsons?” one of them asks.

“Technically.”

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