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)
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—”