Page 35 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

“You’re lying.”

Her smile is brief, but it softens the tension in her shoulders. She sits, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and I slice into one of the croissants, handing her half.

“What’s the turnaround time for one of your poems?” I ask.

“For you?”

“For anyone.”

“If I’m focused, a few days.”

I nod again. “I’ll wait.”

Her lips press together like she’s trying not to smile. I watch the way she moves—small shifts, subtle tells. She’s not guarded, exactly. She’s bracing. Like she’s waiting to see if she can really settle into this moment or if it’s going to vanish the second she does.

“You’re not wearing a shirt again,” she says, and there’s a hint of deflection in her tone.

“I paint shirtless.”

“It’s distracting.”

“Don’t look.”

“I dare you to wear one tomorrow.”

“You suck at dares.”

“You suck at focus.”

“I’m focused right now.”

“Not in the ways that matter.”

I tilt my head, considering her. “So a shirt would help your creative process?”

“It would help my sanity.”

“You hum when you write,” I say. “And talk to yourself.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. It’s distracting.”

“Then maybe I’ll wear duct tape and you’ll wear a raggedy old shirt and we’ll call it even.”

“I don’t own raggedy old shirts.”

“I’m sure you can paint one into existence.”

I let the silence stretch, watching her mouth twitch as she tries not to smile again.

“I’ve got a delivery to make,” I say, standing. “Out of town. I’ll be back late.”

She doesn’t respond, but something shifts in her expression. Barely a flicker, like she’s not sure if she’s supposed to care.

I shouldn’t say anything else. I’ve already touched her too much. Let her in too far. This thing between us—whatever it is—is already closer to the edge than it should be. I should keep my distance. I should leave it there.

But the words are out before I can stop them.

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