Page 38 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

“Some guy made it for me when we lived in Oregon,” she says. “My mom paid for it.”

“Let me see it.”

She presses it into my palm and I’m immediately impressed. The art is perfectly aligned, as is her picture, and the only flaw is her listed height.

This license claims she’s five foot nine, but she’s five foot five—at best.

Handing it back to her, I wait until the server steps away from our table to speak again.

“Your mom might be a half-decent match for my dad after all,” I say. “At least in one department.”

“Reckless parenting?” She presses her glass to her lips. “Child endangerment? Or negligence?”

All of the above…

A microphone suddenly squeals before I can answer, and we both look toward the stage.

“Good afternoon, everyone.” The host smiles at the crowd. “We’re picking up with our next poet, Grant Malone, who is going to read ‘Her Lost Innocence.’”

The crowd applauds, and a guy in a jean jacket takes to the stage.

He looks up at the ceiling for several seconds before stretching—actually stretching like he’s about to run a marathon.

Then he paces the stage, not saying a word.

Okay, Emily might’ve had a point about the weirdness…

“I am now ready to perform my future bestselling poem of all time,” he finally speaks into the mic.

“I slide my cock against her hymen, but it’s tough like a diamond.”

What the fuck…

“She feels warm, wet, and tight.” He snaps his fingers. “The sensations are hard to fight…”

“As my heart aches, the condom breaks…”

I take a long sip of my beer.

“When the rubber stretched,” he looks way too confident about his words, “my cock compressed.”

He snaps his fingers again. “The end.”

Silence.

“I said ‘the end,’” he speaks a bit louder. “You may all bask in my greatness now.”

The crowd applauds softly, and I look over at Emily.

She’s smiling and looking happy for the first time tonight.

“Okay, then…” The host returns to the mic. “Next up, we have Emily O’Hara, performing her original piece, Inheritance: A Love Letter to My Mother…”

Emily downs the rest of her drink and whispers, “Wish me luck,” before heading to the stage.

She makes it to the mic and pulls a sheet from her pocket. Unfolding it, she stares at it for a few seconds and shakes her head.

“Correction,” Emily says, opening her purse and pulling out a different sheet. “I’ll be performing a different piece tonight. This one is titled Words Left Unsaid.”

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