Page 52 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

“Where are you headed?” he asks.

“Steinbeck Retreat.”

“That’s the other direction.” He gestures behind me. “Tell you what—I’ll follow you there. Make sure you’re good to drive.”

“Thanks, Officer.”

He walks back to his car.

I stare at him in the rearview mirror until my phone buzzes against my thigh.

“Cole?” Emily’s voice again. “Are you alright?”

“No.”

“Are you still coming?”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The officer waves at me as I step out of the car, probably already imagining how he’ll tell his friends he helped the son ofThe Great Aidan Dawsontonight.

I push open the door to the retreat building and move down the hall, steps heavier than I want them to be. My body’s functioning, but barely. My mind hasn’t caught up.

Emily’s waiting in the doorway.

She’s wearing one of those soft oversized shirts again, sleeves swallowed up around her hands. She still looks flushed from earlier—like her skin hasn’t quite settled from the memory of us.

She doesn’t ask questions. Just steps aside and lets me in.

“Thank you,” I murmur, voice low.

“I made tea,” she says. “And I’ve got extra blankets, if you want them.” Her voice is careful, but her eyes linger on mine. “If you don’t feel like talking, I totally understand.”

I sit on the edge of her sofa, my head falling into my hands for a beat before I lean back. She walks to the desk and picks something up.

“My mom said your dad’s card might come in handy,” she says, holding up the black credit card. “Do you want me to order you something?”

I blink, slow. Her words float toward me like they’re underwater.

“Your dad wouldn’t mind if I actually used this, would he? I’m sure he?—”

“My father is a fucking fraud.”

The words come out harder than I intend, but I don’t pull them back.

“He’s a terrible-ass person, Emily. And you need to find a way to tell your mom she deserves better. Before she forgets what that even looks like.”

She stares at me, stunned. Then drops the card. It hits the floor with a sharp, soft sound.

“I’m not trying to ruin your retreat,” I add, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’ve distracted you enough already. I’ll crash here for a bit and head out. Unless … you want me to leave now?”

She shakes her head. Quiet.

I sink deeper into the cushions, exhausted but wired. “Pretend I’m not here,” I say. “I won’t bother you.”

She lingers, like she wants to say something else. Instead, she walks to the window and lowers herself into the desk chair. She clicks her pen and stares at the blank page in front of her.

I watch her for a moment—how the candlelight paints gold across her cheeks, how the hem of her shirt barely brushes the tops of her thighs—and then I close my eyes.

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