Page 10 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

COLE

Two days later

T he 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.”

“They got soft porn.”

“They got female form studies in correct proportions.” I shrug. “It’s not my fault the committee’s got fragile sensibilities.”

He doesn’t smile, but I see it in his eyes—he’s used to worse.

“I see you still list your father as your former guardian,” he says. “No change to the legal record?”

“No change.”

He flips the tablet shut and leans back like he’s waiting for something.

“You know, most people distance themselves from the person who set off the explosion,” he says. “They don’t volunteer to absorb the shrapnel.”

“I never said I volunteered.”

“Right.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Just scribbles a final note and nods at the door.

“You’re good for the month. Same time next.”

I push to my feet and walk out without another word.

Outside, the air is thick and humid, but it’s still easier to breathe than it is in there. I climb into my car, grip the wheel, and sit there for a minute before starting the engine.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I expect to feel that familiar weight—the bitterness, the regret—but instead, what surfaces is her.

Emily.

She’s nothing like the girls I’ve known. No fake giggle, no easy flattery, no smooth attempt at making herself fit.

She doesn’t fit anything.

And maybe that’s what I can’t stop thinking about.

The look on her face when I stepped into that bathroom. The flush climbing up her throat. The way she didn’t look away until the very last second.

“Shit,” I mutter, hitting the gas.

I didn’t expect to want her this badly.

I didn’t expect to feel anything at all if I saw her again.

But I sure as hell know one thing:

No matter what my dad does with her mom—no matter how many rooms we share under the same roof—I’ll never be able to look at Emily like she’s family.

I step into the garage, still tasting the stale coffee from the center on my tongue.

Inside the house, the lights are low and the mood is too cheerful for this late.

“Hey there, Cole.” Heather smiles at me from the living room. “Want to watch a movie with us?”

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

“He’s not into hanging out with me,” my dad says, kissing her cheek. “If it was just you, he might consider.”

“Right.” I move past them and head to the fridge, pulling out a chocolate bar.

“Cole, can I talk to you about something?” my dad asks, knowing damn well I never speak to him on testing days.

“Later.” I walk away and up the stairs before he can follow.

I go straight to my balcony, needing quiet. Just a minute to breathe. But familiar humming cuts through the stillness.

Emily’s sitting near the railing, a pen in her mouth, notepad on her thighs.

“You deny what I can see with my own eyes…” she murmurs. “The judge and jury can’t determine your lies… because…”

She pauses. “‘The judge and jury can’t determine your lies… because they don’t believe what you’ve done to me is a…”

“What you’ve done to me is a…” She taps the paper a few times, sighs. “Is a?—”

“Crime.” I say it before I can stop myself. Her head snaps up, cheeks coloring as her eyes meet mine.

“Thank you…”

“You’re welcome.”

She jots the word down and hums again.

“Is that the whole poem?” I ask.

“No, just a draft.” Her voice is soft. “Want to hear a really short one I actually finished today?”

“Sure.”

She flips a few pages and takes a breath before reading, voice smooth, steady:

Your loyalty to me is one-sided,

So I’ve finally decided

To bide my time

Just a little while

And then I’ll leave you, like you leave me

In pieces, in pain, an emotional tragedy

You’ll come searching for me, after I’m long gone

But it’ll be too late for me to hear your sorries, I’ll be penning new songs

About how blood isn’t really any thicker than water

It’s just a title—like mother, like daughter.

She exhales and looks at me. “Does it sound okay?”

It sounds like she reached inside my chest and pulled the words straight out.

“It sounds very good,” I say. Even though I should lie. I should say nothing at all. I should turn around and walk inside.

“So um…” she clears her throat. “I’ve been meaning to catch you so we could talk.”

“About what?”

“What happened the other day in the shower.”

“That was two days ago.”

“Yeah, well… I want you to know that I wiped it out of my mind completely and I’m hoping you did too so we can make this temporary living situation way less awkward.”

I say nothing. She stands and steps closer to the railing that separates our balconies.

Then she extends her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“A deal on what, Emily?”

“What I just said… Forgetting about—you know, and just… you know.”

“The only thing I know is that I’ve woken up and gone to bed thinking about how your pussy would taste in my mouth, and how I’d kiss your tits until you begged me to stop teasing and just let me fuck you…”

Her jaw drops as slowly as her hand, her cheeks flushing deep pink.

“I was looking forward to seeing you in New York at your performance in a few weeks, and now I have to deal with the idea that that may be impossible, so… no.” I shake my head. “No deal on forgetting a goddamn thing.”

I leave her standing there and close the door to my room.

Then I head to the shower.