Page 20 of Things I Wish I Said
A surge of self-consciousness falls over me as I wonder what Grayson thinks of my house, the tiny dining room table, and the beater car I drove in to his game.
He doesn’t strike me as judgmental, but it’s hard not to draw comparisons when they’re so blatantly obvious.
“Maybe we should’ve stayed and hung out awhile longer,” he says, drawing me from my thoughts. “I think it was going really well.”
I pause in front of his car, eyeing him with a raised brow because I know what this is about, and it’s not about pleasing my mother. “And skip the party? ”
When he doesn’t answer, I laugh and poke him in the chest, but there’s zero give. It’s nothing but muscle. “Yeah, I’m onto you, and we’re not skipping this party.”
His hopeful smile fades.
“The first rule of thumb when it comes to lying,” I say, trying not to stare at his mouth, “is not to oversell. The shorter, the better. And trust me, it did go well, which is exactly why it’s time to leave.”
“Yeah?”
He seems pleased by this, and I wonder if I’m wrong. Maybe he doesn’t just want to skip the party.
I'm not sure how to feel about that. I should be glad he’s as invested in this as I am, but for some reason, this knowledge stretches inside my chest like a balloon filling the space where they took a chunk of my lung, with something warm and fuzzy I don’t recognize.
Something more dangerous than cancer.
“My mother let me out of the house to a party with people she doesn’t know where there may or may not be alcohol. That’s practically a damn miracle.”
“I guess you’re right.”
I round his car and Grayson follows, opening my door for me and waiting until I’m inside to shut it. “Such a gentleman,” I tease.
He answers with a smile, and I let myself imagine what it would be like if this date were real—if Grayson was actually interested in me. If things were different and I weren’t sick, I might stand a fighting chance. What’s scarier is that I’d want to.
Ripping my thoughts from the gutter, I glance around me, looking for some imperfection—something about Grayson De Leon I can’t stand, but find nothing. His car is meticulously clean and smells of leather and cologne with a hint of cigarette smoke I shockingly don’t mind.
“Are you sniffing my car, Sinclair?” Grayson asks, a hint of amusement in his tone as he pulls out into the street.
“It smells like you.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
Definitely a good thing. “Jury’s still out,” I say.
I bite my lip and stare out the window. “I know you don’t really want to take me to this party. If you’d rather go alone, you can drop me off somewhere.”
“What? No.” His attention jerks from the road to me. “Where would I even take you?”
I stare out the passenger side window, unable to look at him. “I don't know. Sometimes I hang at the soccer field.”
I watch his reflection in the window, and even though I can’t see him well enough to make out his expression, I can hear the pain in his voice when he says, “I’m not taking you somewhere and dropping you off, Sinclair.”
I turn. “I’d be cool with it. You spent some time with my mom and even met her boyfriend. We’re good. I mean, that’s the whole point, right? ”
“It’s not that I don’t want to take you,” he says, ignoring everything I just said.
“It’s just not the first place I’d choose to take you. It’s not . . . wholesome.”
“Wholesome?” I laugh.
He shrugs.
“Damn. I don’t know whether to be pleased or insulted.”
Grayson growls and shoves a hand through his dark hair when he comes to a stoplight. “It’s just the last year has been weird for me, and I usually go to Kip’s parties—”
“To get high?”
He hesitates before he nods. “I’m not proud of it.”
“Have you ever used anything other than . . .?”
“Weed?” He glances over at me and answers with a firm “No.”
I exhale, relieved. Not that I find his smoking anything okay. I don’t. He has no idea how fucking lucky he is to have lungs that function properly. But even more than that, I don’t know that I could handle more than that with everything of my own going on.
“It’s a party, Grayson. I won’t break. I mean, yeah, I’m sick.
” My throat bobs and I hate the hot prickle of tears at the back of my eyes.
“I woke up this morning, and for the first time in a while, I didn’t cough.
My chest didn’t ache when I got out of bed or went for my morning walk.
It’s a good day. I feel good. And for one night, I just want to be a normal eighteen-year-old.
I no longer have soccer, but I have a lot of time to sit and think about all the experiences I’ve missed out on.
All the things I never got to do, the parties I never went to, dances I skipped, friends I didn’t make. I mean, what if this is it?”
My stomach burns at the thought.
“What if this is all I’ll ever have? All I’ll ever be? We could skip this party, I could get my scans next week and find out I’m dying, and I’ll have missed this, too.”
I tear my eyes from him to the street in front of us, feeling the fatigue of the last six months weighing heavily in my bones. “Hoping for tomorrow while not living for today is fucking exhausting.”
He’s silent for what feels like the span of a lifetime. I have no idea what he’s thinking. I don’t even know if he heard me, or maybe he doesn’t care.
Maybe he’s the smart one between the two of us and he’s keeping a careful distance between this thing with me, his feelings, and his real life. I don’t have that luxury because I have nothing else. This is my life, all of it.
“Okay, Sinclair. You win. The party it is.”