Page 20 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

It’s not her. It’s not even close.

But that name hits me like a punch to the chest.

Emily.

I run a hand down my face, jaw clenched, silently admitting something I’ve been neglecting.

I went back to that rest stop a week after I dropped her off. Didn’t even tell myself why at the time. Just sat in the parking lot like a damn fool, hoping she’d show up.

I refreshed my messages every day. Every. Single. Day.

And now she’s here. In my house. Sleeping right next door, and serving as punchline to fate’s twisted sense of humor.

I stare at the order one more time.

Then I toss the request onto the floor and grab a fresh canvas.

And I start painting her walking into the rest stop. Again…

PART 2

“Better to be hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie.”

Actually, some lies are more than necessary, and certain truths need to go to the grave…

8

COLE

Two days later

The strip-mall rehab center looks even worse in daylight. No windows, flickering lights, and a front door that sticks if you don’t yank it just right.

I park in the far corner, kill the engine, and take my time heading inside. No use pretending I’m in a rush to be here.

A clipboard guy is already waiting near the reception desk, scanning the list of names like he’s hoping someone doesn’t show.

“Cole Dawson?” he calls.

I raise a hand and follow him down a hallway that smells like old coffee and cheap floor wax. Third door on the right—same as always.

The room hasn’t changed either. Same sagging chair, same scratched-up table, same attempt at pretending this is about “recovery” and not surveillance.

“You know the drill,” he says, sliding a cup toward me.

I take it, step into the bathroom, and try not to think about how many people have stood in this exact spot doing the same thing. The mirror’s cracked. The tile’s worse.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done this by now—piss in a cup, recite the right answers, nod like I’m grateful for a second chance. All while pretending that one mistake didn’t reroute my entire life down a track I never chose.

When I hand the cup back, he types something on his tablet and reads through my file.

“You’re still clean,” he says, barely looking at me. “Zero contact violations. No missed check-ins.”

I nod.

“No incidents tied to art commissions either.” He pauses, clicking his tongue. “Although that mural proposal in Bushwick did raise a few eyebrows.”

“They asked for realism.”

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