Page 29 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

“I need pajama pants,” I say softly, curling deeper into the bed.

He stands. Moves to the door.

At the threshold, he looks back, eyes unreadable in the dark.

“Sober up, Emily.”

He pauses.

“Oh—and I was jealous.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

And I stare at the ceiling, my heart still thudding in a rhythm that has nothing to do with weed, or sugar, or alcohol.

11

EMILY

Iwake to a headache blooming behind my eyes, the kind that feels stitched into my skull.

The room is too bright, and everything tastes like stale sugar and regret.

My mom is sitting on the edge of my bed, brushing hair away from my face.

“Hey, sweetie,” she whispers. “You okay?”

I try to nod, but even that takes effort.

“Taylor said you had a little too much to drink. That’s my girl, getting her tolerance started early.” She lifts a glass of water to my lips. “Sip slowly.”

I do. The water is cold and blissfully clean. It cuts through the fuzz in my head like a knife.

“Cole set up everything on the nightstand,” she adds. “He got you into bed, gave you Tylenol, made you drink a bottle of water first. I think he even swapped out the ice packs.”

I blink. “Wait—he... took care of me?”

“Well, I was already asleep,” she says, amused. “And Cole’s good under pressure. He didn’t say much. Just showed up, scooped you into his arms, and disappeared upstairs.”

Her words sink in slowly, like syrup through cotton.

“Anyway,” she continues, “you should know your night wasn’t a total disaster. You looked amazing.” She beams. “I wish I had gone to more parties before I got pregnant. College would’ve been wild.”

I close my eyes and beg my body to fall asleep long enough to dodge this rerun of the sixteen-and-pregnant monologue I’ve heard a dozen times.

When I open them next, she’s gone.

The sun has already started its descent when I drag myself to the shower.

The hot water helps. So does the clean air.

I dress slowly—jeans, a soft T-shirt—and head downstairs in search of food or a pulse of life.

The house is too quiet. Every room feels like it’s holding its breath.

As I wander down the hall, I catch the scent of old cologne and something sterile—leather, maybe.

Aidan’s office door is slightly ajar.

---