I’ve never wanted anyone like this. Not just his body—but his breath, his thoughts, his silences. I want all of it.
And I never, ever want this to end.
21
EMILY
On Sunday night, I’m in Cole’s lap, riding him as he holds my hips.
The windows are cracked just enough for the sound of distant thunder to slip in, mixing with the soft creak of the bed frame. His palms are warm and steady, fingers digging into the curve of my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Every time I roll my hips, he breathes harder, eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to memorize the way I look coming apart for him.
We collapse naked and sweating, tangled in sheets that smell like laundry detergent and rain. My hair sticks to his chest, damp with effort, and I curl into the solid line of his body, ready to do it all over again.
“I wish I’d met you earlier.” He runs his fingers through my hair.
“How much earlier?”
“Six months or so.”
“I would’ve been living somewhere else then,” I say. “It wouldn’t have been possible.”
“In that case, I wish our parents never met.”
“Me too…” I look at him. “You think it’ll last?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “That’s the scariest part… I can usually read my dad’s every move long before he makes it, but this one feels off.”
“What makes him a fraud, Cole?” I’ve been holding back that question since he uttered that line, and I need to know.
“He’s just not a good person, Emily.” He kisses my forehead. “Trust me.”
“Surely you can elaborate better than that.”
“I will,” he says. “I promise.”
He tightens his grip around me, silently asking me to drop it and go to sleep until sunrise.
I start to drift as he places a few final kisses on my lips, but then the bed begins vibrating.
Confused, my eyes flutter open.
“Did I accidentally hit a remote or something?” I ask.
Cole doesn’t answer, and the bed vibrates faster.
Sitting up, I realize the bed isn’t shaking.
It’s him.
He’s having a seizure.
“Cole?” I turn him on his side. “Cole!”
His arm jerks up and smacks the headboard, a sound that echoes in my skull. His breath comes in shallow gasps, wet and uneven, and the smell of sweat and something metallic floods the room.
Panicking, I dial 9-1-1 and pull on his T-shirt before rushing down the hallway. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the phone, and my lungs can’t seem to fill with air. Everything feels too loud and too far away at once.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the operator asks as I’m knocking on his cousin’s door.
