Page 47 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

Cool winds whistle through the trees as I join the other writers around a fire.

There are thirteen of us, and there must be some unwritten code about a writer’s uniform because we're all wearing variations of plaid shirts and jeans. Only one girl is wearing heels to complete the look; the rest of us have opted for beige loafers or tennis shoes.

The lead instructor stands near the fire pit, clutching a thermos and going over the orientation.

“This year’s theme is focusing on yourself in isolation,” she says, gesturing toward our cabins. “All the amenities—the waterfront, the canoes, the meditation deck—are open 24/7. Free writing happens early mornings and evenings, and we’ll meet here every afternoon for prompts and craft discussion. Please be respectful of the quiet hours and the curfew, which is strictly midnight.”

“Now, let’s go around and get to know each other.” She smiles. “Let’s start with your first name, favorite book, and the name of the person you’re killing off in your current work-in-progress.”

We laugh, and she points to the girl in heels to start.

My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket once she utters her name.

Cole.

I hit ignore.

He calls again.

I serve him another ignore.

Cole

I’m home now.

We need to talk.

Where are you?

I stare at his words and scroll up to where he’d earlier ignored all of mine. As much as I want to talk to him, he doesn’t get to pick and choose when he talks to me.

Placing my phone on silent, I tuck it back into my pocket.

Hours after the social hour, I return to my room and hit the lights.

Then I freeze.

Cole is sitting on my bed, elbows on his knees, his reflection in the mirror before I even see his face. When I step in, he lifts his eyes to mine, sharp and unreadable.

“You weren’t going to tell me where you were?” he asks.

“I’ll only be here a week.” I cross my arms. “I figured you’d still be ignoring me by then.”

“I’m not ignoring you.” He rises slowly, towering, but controlled. “I’m processing things.”

“And what makes you think I’m not?”

“You seemed to be quite thrilled about our parents’ marriage from what I recall.”

“Because I stood around listening to how your dad proposed?” I scoff. “That’s not being ‘thrilled.’ That’s being fucking polite. Then again, from the way you’ve been acting, you clearly know nothing about that.”

“There’s a dictionary on the bookshelf behind you,” he says. “I think the word you meant to say instead of ‘polite’ is ‘fake.’ Maybe you should look that up.”

“Get out.” My voice cracks. “I didn’t ask you to come here, and visitors aren’t allowed.”

“I need to talk to you.” He moves closer, and as he nears, the pain in his eyes is clearer. “I hate that it has to be here, but you’ve left me no choice.”

“I’m glad I’m here, because I refuse to let you stay.” I drop my arms. “I’m also glad that I got to see the truest part of you this early. Makes it real damn clear that whatever the hell I feel for you is dead-ass wrong, because you're a fucking runner.”

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