Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
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