Page 25 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

COLE

E mily’s still asleep when I slip out.

Her fingers twitch once as I pull away, like some part of her knows I’m leaving. I pause at the door, just long enough to memorize the way her breath lifts the blanket, the way her hair fans over the pillow like a question she’s still waiting for me to answer.

Outside, the hallway is cold and dim. I coast past the other cabins in silence, careful not to wake the others. My phone buzzes in my back pocket— Dad flashing across the screen.

I don’t answer.

I step outside instead, the night air curling sharp against my skin.

Above me, the sky is a dark smear of stars. Wind moves through the trees, and for a second—just one—I think I can pretend that my dad actually gives a damn about where I’ve been.

But the quiet won’t let me.

The night feels too much like a certain night between us that I always try to forget.

The one I never talk about.

Don’t think about it, Cole.

Don’t fucking think about it.

I climb into my car, the door shutting with a heavy click. The engine hums beneath my hand as I shift into drive. I’m finally heading home—but only because Emily will be there in a few days. That’s the only part that feels solid. The only thing I trust to keep me moving.

I ease out of the retreat parking lot and turn onto the highway.

The road is empty, quiet. For a while, I let myself think about the future. About the gallery spaces I’ve been circling in Ohio and West Virginia. The commissions I’ve lined up. The possibility of a place of my own.

Piece by piece, it’s all falling into place.

And then?—

Honk! Honk! Honkkkkk!

The truck behind me blares its horn. A man shouts something from a rolled-down window, but I don’t hear it.

Because I can’t move.

I’m frozen at the green light, foot locked against the brake, pulse thudding behind my eyes.

“Come on, man!”

“Move!”

“Let’s go!”

I try to will myself to push on the gas, but it’s no use. Whenever this happens, I just have to wait it out—to let it pass.

My grip tightens on the wheel as the flashbacks start.

A blood-splattered windshield.

Shards of glass embedded in my arms.

The stink of warm beer.

Rain.

So much fucking rain.

I can still feel it. Still see the red and blue lights bouncing across the road. The EMTs. My dad’s voice screaming my name in the ER like he actually gave a shit.

Cole, please. Please be okay.

Then the courtroom. The judge. His forced smile.

“Don’t worry, we won’t let this affect your father’s legacy. We’ll erase it after a few years…”

As awful as the night of the DUI was—and as brutal as juvie turned out to be—that line is what stuck.

Affect your father’s legacy.

That was always the priority. Not the truth. Not me.

I don’t hide what happened because I’m ashamed.

I hide it because none of it had to happen.

Because if people knew what really went down that night?—

If they knew who else was in that car?—

Everything would change.

I pop open the glovebox and pull out the prescription bottle I never use unless I have to. It’s supposed to help with anxiety, but the side effects kill my creative focus. And most of the time, I convince myself I don’t need it.

Tonight, I do.

I swallow a dose dry, shut my eyes, and wait for the red light to cycle again.

It flashes green.

A second chance.

And still, the memories won’t let go.

This time, I see myself in the back of a cop car, hands cuffed behind me. Hear the buzz of the tattoo gun I ran on scrap paper in juvie. Smell the bleach in the cellblock showers.

I grip the steering wheel tighter.

Pick up my phone.

Scroll to Emily’s name.

Dial.

“Hey.” Her voice is a whisper. “Something wrong?”

“I only made it two miles away from your retreat,” I say. “I need to come back.”

“You left something?”

“I can’t drive all the way home like this…” I hesitate. “Can I sleep on your couch?”

“Yeah, sure. Are you having a migraine?”

“No. Worse. I’ll try to explain when I?—”

Tap. Tap.

A police officer knocks on my window.

I lower it halfway as he shines a flashlight in my face.

“Sir, you need to move out of traffic,” he says. “Now.”

“I’m having an episode,” I say. “I will in a minute.”

“License and registration, please.”

I flip down the visor. The paper registration drops into my lap. I open the center console, flipping between my “Dawson” and “Banks” licenses, and hand him the Dawson one.

He walks toward his patrol car, but halfway there, he stops.

“Are you by any chance related to Aidan Dawson?” he asks, back at my window now. “From the Family Values podcast?”

“He’s my father.”

“Oh my—wow.” His face lights up like it’s a meet-and-greet. “I thought you looked familiar. My son’s doing the same thing—taking a gap year to do art. You’re kind of an inspiration in our house.”

I nod, jaw tight. “I wish him all the best.”

“What were you saying earlier—an episode?” His tone shifts to concern. “Want me to call EMTs?”

“No, it’s pretty much passed.”

“I’m sorry you’re still dealing with the trauma from that boat accident long ago,” he says. “Your father talked about that in one of his episodes. Said it changed everything for you two.”

I arch a brow.

Right.

Another lie.

My father has spun so many versions of our life, I can’t even keep up anymore. I make a mental note to listen to whatever clip this guy heard—just so I know what story we’re in now.

“Your dad should’ve sued that other boater,” the officer adds. “He’s a better man than me.”

No. You’re probably ten times better than he is.

“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 of The Great Aidan Dawson tonight.

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.

When I wake up, the lights are low and Emily is curled against my lap, her book resting against her stomach. My thigh is her pillow. One of her hands is tangled in the fabric of my hoodie.

For a second, I don’t move. I just watch her.

She’s barefoot. Quiet. Still wearing that shirt.

She looks like she belongs here.

She looks like home.

I run my fingers gently through her hair, and her eyes flutter open.

“Thanks for letting me crash,” I murmur. “I think I’m capable of driving now.”

“What made you incapable?”

“Lingering effects from an old car accident,” I say. “I was lucky to come out alive, but the effects still find me a few times a year… usually when I’m exhausted or sleeping.”

Her gaze softens.

“Did you mean what you said? About my mom staying away from Aidan? Or was that just the… episode talking?”

“Both.” I lean in and kiss her forehead, brushing her hair back. “We’ll talk when you’re home.”

She watches me for a beat, then glances toward the clock.

“It’s only midnight,” she says softly. “You should stay.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she leans in and kisses me.

Slow. Lingering. Her lips barely move at first, just press and stay there. Like she’s holding me in place. Like she knows I need this more than I’ll ever say.

Her hand curls at the back of my neck, and the kiss deepens.

My hands move instinctively—sliding up her thighs, settling at her waist—but I stop myself before I take it any further. Not tonight. Not like this.

She pulls back just enough to whisper, “Please.”

And that one word—just that—undoes whatever defense I had left.

I let her guide me toward the bed, her fingers still wrapped in my shirt. The mattress dips beneath us and we fall together, limbs tangling like we’ve done this a hundred times.

She presses her face to my chest and sighs. I breathe her in and pull her closer.

We don’t speak.

We don’t need to.

We just stay like that until sunrise—twisted in sheets, hearts pressed together, bodies clinging to something neither of us will dare define.

When the sky turns pale blue, I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her.

Not because I want to leave.

But because if I stay another second, I’ll never go home.