Page 18 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter twelve

RYLEIGH

The doorbell rings, but it’s way too early to be Grayson.

I swing it open, shocked to find John and Katie standing on the porch.

“Hey, kiddo!” John pulls me in for hug, squeezing past me into the living room while Katie seems to wait for an invitation.

Spinning on my heel, I follow John into the kitchen where Mom’s hard at work. I grab her arm, pulling her from the room. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”

“Ryleigh! The chicken—”

“The chicken’s fine,” I hiss once I have her down the hall. “Mom, what are they doing here?” I ask, waving back the way we came.

“John and Katie?”

I nod, eyes bulging. “Grayson will be here in thirty minutes for dinner. Now is not the time for unexpected guests!”

“Unexpected guests?” Mom laughs, parroting my words. “Honey, he’s my boyfriend and Katie’s his daughter. I’d hardly call them unexpected guests when they’re always welcome. Besides, I invited them.”

“What? Why?” I whisper-yell. “Why would you do that?”

Mom stares at me like I’ve grown a third head. “Because I figured John would like to meet Grayson. It’s nice to get a second opinion.”

I frown. If I had hair, I’d rip it out. “Mom, you’ve already met Grayson and liked him. We don’t need a second opinion.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Stop fretting. It’s fine.” She waves a hand, then heads back down the hallway.

I follow after her, scowling the entire way. When I reach the kitchen behind her, John is scrubbing potatoes at the sink.

Fucking great. Now they’ll never leave; he jumped right in and started helping.

Tonight was supposed to be a low-key, easy way for Mom to spend time around Grayson with little pressure prior to heading out to the party, but John and Katie have added a whole other dynamic I wasn’t prepared for.

“Honey, you really should smile,” Mom says, glancing over at me as she returns to seasoning the chicken. “Grayson will never want to kiss you if you scowl like that all night.”

Oh. My. God.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment.

John glances over at me and chuckles.

I want to snap and tell her no one said anything about kissing, but we are dating. And if he’s supposed to be my boyfriend, there would naturally be kissing involved .

Great. Now I’m thinking about what it would be like to kiss Grayson.

“I’m going to get ready,” I mumble before she can say anything else to embarrass me.

“Why don’t you take Katie with you?”

I stare at my mother, pleading with my eyes, but she’s not having it as she holds my gaze, beseeching me to acquiesce in a heated look of her own.

“Maybe she can help you?” she suggests, and I want to ask what exactly she’s going to help me with.

I glance over to Katie and take in her bright blue eyes and hopeful expression.

“I mean, I guess I could, if ya want.” She shrugs like it doesn’t matter to her, but obviously it does, and I can practically feel John’s eyes boring holes in the side of my face, so it’s not like I can say no.

It’s not that I mind Katie, per se. She’s nice enough. It’s just that I never had a sister, and I don’t need one now, yet I get the distinct feeling that’s what Mom and John are hoping for.

“Great. You can do my hair,” I say, my tone saccharine.

Katie gapes.

“Ryleigh,” Mom warns.

“What?” I smirk. “It’s a joke.”

Her eyes burn into my back as I turn and motion for Katie to follow.

Once we get to my room, I close the door behind us and head to my closet. Truth be told, I have no clue what the girls from Grayson’s circle of friends wear to parties. Hell, I don’t even know where the party is. All I know is it’s being hosted by some kid named Kip.

In hindsight, it might’ve been useful to ask some of these things.

I debate texting him, then opt to go with what I’m comfortable in.

It’s early June in Virginia, which means it’ll be hot and humid, so I slide on a pair of black cutoff jean shorts and a fitted white top.

Both will look cute with my black Nike ball cap, which I intend on wearing with my wig again, because heading into a party with a bunch of strangers as bald as the day I was born isn’t exactly the kind of icebreaker I want.

I reapply some deodorant and tug on my shirt with Katie watching, not caring what she sees as her gaze sweeps nosily around my room, then back to me again.

“I hope I have big boobs like you when I’m in high school,” she blurts.

I glance at her, one brow raised. Katie might be twelve, but I wonder what her father would think of his baby girl hoping for big boobs.

She sinks down on my bed, seemingly oblivious to my silence. “My friend, Avery, says that boys only like girls with big boobs.”

I grunt. I don’t know her friend Avery, and I might not know a lot about boys, but even I know that’s bullshit.

At least I hope it is.

“That’s not true,” I say.

“How would you know? It’s clearly not a problem for you. ”

“Because any guy that only cares about how big your assets are is clearly an asshole. There’s more to you than your body.”

She stares at me like she’s absorbing my words, and it’s the first time I realize they might actually carry some weight. It’s a weird, yet not entirely awful feeling.

“Besides, there are drawbacks, too, you know.” She cocks her head, listening.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished for small ones.

Finding a sports bra that actually held them in when I played was next to impossible and they were always getting in the way.

Just . . . appreciate whatever you have,” I say, flapping a hand at her, all out of advice.

“I guess.” Her gaze shifts, lingering on the trophies lining the shelves above my desk.

Between those, the countless ribbons, awards, and the soccer mural next to my bed, this room is one giant tribute to the game.

It’s almost like I can hear what she’s thinking.

I don’t play soccer anymore, so nothing I’ve just said matters now.

A familiar ache balloons in my chest I fight hard to push back down.

Tonight is supposed to be fun, and I’m feeling better than I have in a long time. Maybe the chemo worked, because I didn’t wake with a cough and my lungs didn’t burn when I went for my morning walk.

Today is a good day—I’m going to my first real party with people my age. The last thing I want to do is ruin it with things I can’t change .

“Do you think if my dad marries your mom, we’ll have to share a bedroom?”

Her question throws me, cutting through my thoughts.

I laugh like her question is ridiculous. “My mother and your father are not getting married.”

The look she shoots my way makes me think otherwise.

“They’ve only been dating a little over six months,” I say as if that’s enough explanation.

Mom met John exactly one week before I was diagnosed. Their relationship was a whirlwind. No one expected John to last through my surgery and the rounds of chemo. It was like being thrown into a pressure cooker, but he surprised us all.

“I suppose we’ll have to share,” Katie says with a sigh, like she’s resigned herself to it.

I shake my head, unwilling to accept what she’s saying. “Even if they did get hitched,” I start, “which they won’t, I’m sure they’d find a new place.”

John runs his own accounting firm. He makes good money. I have little doubt he’d want to stay in this shoebox when his own home is twice the size and in a better school district.

“No. Dad says this place is mortgaged to the hilt, so there’s no getting out. At least not for a while.”

Her words cut. Not only because they’re true, but because I’m to blame.

And the fact Katie knows about it . . .

I shake my head, unwilling to consider the implications, but my thoughts drift .

If my mother and John did get married, she’d no longer be alone. She’d have financial support. Someone to keep her company when I can’t, to face life’s challenges with.

I should want that for her.

And I do.

So why does it feel like I swallowed a lemon?

“Do you like my mom?” I blurt, wondering if I’m the only one with a sour stomach at the direction this conversation has taken.

Katie’s eyes brighten. “Yeah. I love Jill.”

“Do you want our parents to, you know”—I swallow—“end up together?” I say, unable to use the words get married.

Katie chews on her lip for a moment as if contemplating my question. From what little I know about her situation, her mother split shortly after she was born, same as my dad. Well, in truth, my dad was never around to split. This, we have in common.

One slim shoulder lifts. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind it. It would be kind of nice to have a mom.”

I can hear the longing in her voice, and it hits me like an arrow, flying through flesh and bone because that’s my mother she’s pining for, and I’m not sure I want to share.

You may not even be here.

The thought clings to me like a spiderweb.

I can picture it now. Mom and John marrying once I’m gone.

Katie will take my room, and Mom will paint over the soccer mural with something fresh and new, something Katie’s into.

No more doctor’s appointments and treatments.

No more worrying and fretting. Money will no longer be so tight.

Life will be easier, so much easier than it is now.

Bile rises to the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.

I need to get out of here.

Grayson can’t get here soon enough.

Hurrying to the mirror on my desk, I bend over and quickly dab a little concealer under my eyes, then swipe on some mascara. Pink lip gloss tops off my simple look.

Guys like natural, right?

Natural, not sickly.

I exhale and swipe a bit of blush over my pale cheeks, pissed at my inner critic, before snatching my wig off the form inside my closet.

I carefully put it on, then grab my ball cap and cross my room to the floor-length mirror on my door, carefully adjusting my hair before sliding it on. Air Force 1's top off the look.

I take a step back, assessing.

“You look cute.”