Page 8 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

THREE WEEKS LATER

3

EMILY

My fingers hover over the send button for what has to be the millionth time.

Hey, Cole. It’s Emily. (The ‘not’ a lot lizard from weeks ago)

No, no.

I delete it and try again.

Still alive? That makes one of us.

Delete.

I don’t know why, but… I honestly can’t stop thinking about you.

Hard no.

I shut down my text messages altogether.

I’m sure that a guy like him has met plenty of other girls in the three weeks since we met and has options stacked like poker chips.

I toss my phone into my bag, pissed at myself for even trying. Then I turn off the dryer at the laundromat and stuff my clothes into a bag.

Tucking the wash card into my pocket, I lug the bag over my shoulder and head across the street to my shared motel room.

The moment I near our door, the scent of waffles and coffee smacks me in the face, which can only mean one thing:

We’re moving... again.

I groan and unlock the door, coming face-to-face with a scene I know all too well.

My mom is setting up our Waffle House order on the desk that doubles as our dining table. She’s even placed a treat on the TV stand for me: chocolate strawberries.

That’s always the “please don’t hate me” cherry on top.

I join her at the table, saying nothing.

“You haven’t brought up Sean to me in a while,” she says. “Did something happen between you two?”

“He showed me his awful true colors. It’s over.”

“Aw, well, hon, he seemed like a really nice guy to me. Don’t write him off after one bad date, if that’s what you’re saying.”

I take a gulp of coffee to stop myself from elaborating.

“I have a surprise for us!” She clasps her hands together. “Guess what?”

“We’re getting a puppy.”

“Ha! No. Try again.”

“We’re getting a new car?”

“Oh, Emily.” She laughs harder. “We’re moving!” She jumps up and does a little dance, like this is the first—and not the sixteenth—time we’ve moved in the last four years.

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