Page 30 of I Wish I Would've Chosen You

“It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

“You said the members of your mentee group could call whenever we needed help.”

“I didn’t mean for you to take that literally.”

“Then you should’ve never mentioned it.”

“I’ll make it clearer at the next session, trust me. What do you want?”

“Two things.” She pauses. “One, I’d like for you to find me a different mentee group by Monday.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time. What’s the second thing?”

“I need a ride back to campus.”

“What?”

“Yeah, so um…” Her voice trails off a bit. “The event in Boston ran a lot later than intended because the crowd kept asking questions and more people came. I lost track of time, and Amtrak canceled the final train of the night.”

Un-fucking-believable.I shake my head, stunned that she took this risk again. On the one hand, it’s somewhat fascinating to see someone go after what she wants without worrying about the consequences. On the other, this is a huge warning sign about how goddamn reckless she is.

“Mr. Donovan? “ she asks. “Are you still there?”

“Not for long.” I sigh. “Where are you, exactly?”

“The Raven House.” Her voice is a whisper. “Before you judge me, one of my favorite authors is Randall Grey and he like, never does public events. He was hosting an impromptu reading, and I would never forgive myself if I didn’t make it.”

“Why are you suddenly whispering?”

“I think the bartender is trying to figure out if I’m the girl on the ‘Do Not Serve’ poster, so I’m slipping out the back and heading next door.”

“I’m on my way.” I hang up and debate whether I should wake my grandfather with this situation, but his recent words play in my brain.

“If she steps out of line again, I’ll have to expel her for sure.”

I grab my keys and keep this to myself.

* * *

Fifty miles later, I pull off I-95 and call Genevieve.

“Are you here?” she answers on the first ring.

“I’m four minutes away,” I say. “Walk to the corner.”

“Okay, bye.”

I pull to the curb as a group of college students cross. I’m about to call Genevieve again, but I spot her in my rearview mirror.

Walking under a grey umbrella, she’s wearing a tightly fitted pink sweater dress that’s even sexier than the one she wore thenight we met. An oversized beige bag hangs off her shoulder, and instead of stilettos, she’s wearing boots.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out, opening the passenger door.

“Thank you.” She slips inside, and I debate whether to put on the child safety lock before returning to my side.

Sliding behind the wheel, I turn up the heat and pull onto the road.

Before I can ask her what the hell she was thinking, she opens her bag and pulls out her school uniform. She pulls her hair down from its bun and quickly ties a maroon and white ribbon around a low ponytail.

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