Page 16 of Things I Wish I Said

His gaze settles on her hair for a moment, and I wonder if he can tell it’s a wig. If I didn’t already know, I’d have no idea. With the ball cap on, it’s even harder to discern, but the undeniable urge to protect her leaves me worrying something stupid will come out of his mouth anyway.

“Ryleigh, right?” Cameron asks, and I relax. Barely. “I’m Cameron, Grayson’s best friend.”

Ryleigh reaches out and takes his hand.

“You should come to Kip’s party Friday night. There’ll be no parents, plenty of booze, food, and dancing.”

I frown at him. “I thought you weren’t going. You told me—”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

Ryleigh glances at me. “You’re going?”

“I was planning on it,” I say carefully. “But I don’t think it’s the right place for— ”

“Come on, man. She can handle herself. Can’t you Ryleigh?” Ry winks at him in answer, and my scowl deepens. “Besides, we’ll both be there to watch over her.”

I glare at him.

Fucking great.

Either he’s meddling and trying to push us together or he has himself a little crush.

I’m not sure which is worse.

Either way, the last person I’d want to take to Kip’s party is Ryleigh.

Those parties are trolling with douchebags.

Dustin and his crew almost always make an appearance, which means half of the people in attendance will be high as fucking kites or drunk off their asses, and the ones that aren’t will be looking for an easy lay.

A bunch of bored rich kids in search of entertainment.

One way or the other, they’ll find it there, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m one of them. After the week I’ve had, I planned on getting stoned out of my mind or completely fucking wasted. Maybe both. But how the hell am I supposed to do that if I’m responsible for her?

“Last I checked, I’m a big girl,” she says, and I groan because I know I’m fucked.

I may not know Ryleigh all that well, but I know her enough to realize she’s the type of girl who won’t back down from this if it’s something she wants .

I flash Cameron a dirty look before I make one last attempt at deterring her. “These parties get wild. I’m not sure it’s a good idea, but we can still hang out. Do something else.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve never been to a high school party before?”

Well, shit.

I would believe it, actually. You don’t win the Gatorade Player of the Year award by partying every weekend. Before my father died, the only time of year I had a social life that didn’t revolve around baseball was in the winter.

“Technically, now that we’ve graduated, it’s no longer a high school party,” I point out.

Ryleigh glares at me. “Come on. You can even come pick me up and chat with my mother again since it went so well the first time. It’ll be great.”

“You met her mother?” Cameron’s eyes widen. “Shit, De Leon. This is the first I’ve seen of this girl, and you’re meeting her fucking mother already?” He blinks over at me, his expression gutted.

I sigh, a long-suffering sound because I’m losing the battle on both ends tonight.

I stare at Ryleigh, looking for a clue as to what to say. We haven’t talked about how to explain our situation to others, and I have no idea what to tell him.

“It’s not how it sounds,” I defend.

Cameron huffs and turns to her. “Is it how it sounds?”

I hold my breath, waiting to see how she’ll respond .

“Depends on who you ask, apparently,” she says, then laughs at the misery carved in my face.

“So, you two are. . .” Cameron motions between us.

“We’re—She’s . . .” I drag a hand down my face.

Meeting my friends. Going to fucking parties.

This is a hell of a lot more than I bargained for.

Worse yet, I don’t entirely dread Ryleigh’s company, but I’m also hyperaware of how much this wish seems to be bleeding into my personal life and what that will mean weeks from now when the wish is over, and we go our separate ways.

“So, what about Hannah?” Cameron asks, a furrow in his brow.

“Who, blondie?” Ryleigh asks with a flick of the hand. “Oh, don’t worry about her. He had my permission to go there.”

Cameron gapes at her while I repress a groan.

Ryleigh just keeps digging my hole deeper and deeper, and something tells me she knows it, is enjoying it even.

“Wait. He had permission to . . .” Cameron motions with his hand then turns back to me with a sly grin and a jerk of his head toward Ry. “I want one.”

“She’s not something you can order from a fucking catalog,” I snap, while Ryleigh beams.

Why is she so intent on torturing me?

“And this thing with us,” I say, waving between us, “it’s also complicated.”

I shoot Sinclair a look that says Stop pissing around and be real .

Cameron scratches his jaw while he stares at me like he doesn’t recognize me anymore, and it makes me feel like a piece of shit.

There was a time when I told him everything.

He’d already know exactly who Ryleigh was and why she was here, but these days I prefer to rely only on myself, keeping everything locked up tight and everyone out.

A familiar itch crawls under my skin.

I need a smoke.

Reaching into the front pocket of my bag, I settle on a cigarette. With the flick of my lighter, I bring it to my lips and light up, dragging the smoke into my lungs as I catch Ry staring at it like it’s a hand grenade.

Oh shit.

I exhale, turning away from her and blowing the smoke in the opposite direction before I hold it behind my back like that makes it any fucking better.

I’m standing here smoking a cancer stick in front of a chick with lung cancer.

“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling like an ass.

Cameron’s brows rise at this, obviously unused to me apologizing to anyone and especially not over smoking. He’s been getting on me about it for the better part of a year.

“So, are we going to this party or not?” Sinclair crosses her arms over her chest, her gaze flicking to the cigarette and back, her head cocked in challenge.

A weight settles inside my chest as I stare over at her and sigh. “Fucking fine,” I say. “We’ll go.”

I try really hard not to be pissed about Cameron and his big mouth inviting Ryleigh to Kip’s party as we walk into the Liberty Grill, but the short drive from the ball field to the diner has left me little time to decompress.

It’s not about spending time with her. We need to hang out, and her mother needs to see us together.

It’s part of the deal, and I’ve already committed myself.

You can’t fake a relationship if you’re never together, at least not with any sort of credibility, and seeing as how the award ceremony is only five weeks away now, the clock is ticking.

But still, when I envisioned this whole thing in my head, I pictured something a little lower key, a little less invasive. Like hanging out at her house or the local coffee shop, not traipsing to parties with my friends. Worse yet, parties with Dustin.

Fuck, I need a smoke.

“Are you still sulking about Cameron inviting me to the party?” she asks once we’re seated.

I glance at her over the menu in my hand, wondering how she can read me so clearly, or maybe I’m just that obvious. “I’m not sulking,” I mumble, barely able to say the words.

“Sure ya aren’t, and I’m the new lead for the next Pantene commercial.” She rolls her eyes, and I feel a pang of regret. She’s ill and here I am sulking over a party with my friends.

“You wore a wig today.” I motion to her hair, mostly to change the subject, but also because I’m curious .

She reaches up and touches a lock of the chocolatey tresses as if she’d forgotten they were there. “I didn’t know if a bald chick cheering you on would embarrass you.”

My heart squeezes.

She says it like it’s nothing, but my instincts tell me to tread carefully. I would be hard pressed to find any female who wasn’t at least a little bit self-conscious with losing their hair.

Whatever I say in response will define the parameters of our relationship, fake or not.

I reach out to her, pinching her chin with my fingers and holding her gaze, more than a little surprised at the spark that jumps from her skin to mine.

I know I shouldn’t touch her. I should keep my hands to myself, but I hate the idea that she thought for one fucking second I might be embarrassed by her.

“For the record, I don’t embarrass easily, and you look fucking hot with or without hair, Sinclair. Are we clear?”

Her throat bobs and the copper flecks in her eyes darken with her nod.

I drop my hand, wondering why the fuck it takes everything inside of me to release my hold on her. “Good.” I pick up the tacky café menu that I know by heart and stare down at it anyway.

“You have a tattoo.” She leans forward, sliding her fingers over the ink on the inside of my bicep, lifting the sleeve of my uniform so she can see it better.

I almost jolt at the feel of her touch; it’s light and soft like a bird, yet I feel it everywhere .

I swallow. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you about personal space, Sinclair?”

Ryleigh chuckles and leans back in her seat, declaring, “It’s hot. What does it mean?”

“It’s the coat of arms on the flag of Mexico.” And then because I know she’ll ask, I add, “My father was Mexican.”

“I love it.” This seems to appease the curiosity burning in her eyes until she asks, “When do you leave for college?”

“The fourteenth of August.”

She nods. “Two weeks after the award. Perfect timing for us to ‘break up,’” she says, making air quotes with her fingers.

I nod, but I don’t want her asking any more questions about me. The last thing I feel like doing is talking about my father, the tattoo I got in his honor, or about how I don’t feel ready for school in the fall, not even close.

I lift my menu up and pretend to study it, hoping for a diversion. “What are you getting?”

She exhales, giving a little shrug. “Probably a salad.”

“A salad?” I say, unimpressed. “I didn’t take you as the prissy salad type.”

“Oh, really?” she says with a hint of amusement, all the intensity from moments ago gone. “And what did you take me as?”