Page 21 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter thirteen

RYLEIGH

I never would’ve expected a party thrown by a kid named Kip to be like this.

The massive three-story home sits inside a gated community and down a long, winding driveway lined with crape myrtle, lush with pink blooms. My entire house could probably fit in the garage alone, and it dawns on me with stunning clarity that this is probably what Grayson’s house is like.

We park beside the other cars lining the driveway and step outside into the humid night air.

Music blares in the distance, mingling with the echo of voices.

There has to be well over twenty cars here, and based on the sounds coming from the backyard as we round the house, I’m guessing that doesn’t account for the amount of people inside.

For the first time since Cameron mentioned the party, I question whether pushing Grayson to bring me was a smart idea.

I’m well aware that I’m completely out of my depth here, but that doesn’t stop the tickle of excitement in the pit of my stomach as Grayson takes my hand and guides me around the back of the house.

When we finally clear the garage and the party comes into view, my mouth drops.

The backyard is massive and packed with bodies.

My eyes sweep over the people clustered on the patio, drinking out of plastic cups and lounging on deck furniture I’m willing to bet cost more than most of the stuff inside my house.

At least a dozen boys are watching a baseball game on a television hanging above a large outdoor fireplace.

Others are clustered throughout the rest of the yard, with a huge mass of people huddled around a keg where a boy chugs frothy liquid from a cup, spilling half of it down his shirt while the others cheer.

A few feet down, several tables hold an array of cups I assume are for beer pong, and in the middle of all this chaos sits a huge indoor pool, surrounded by smooth, brown stone.

There are a dozen or so bodies in the water and a dozen more dancing on the pad of concrete just outside it.

This is the last place I should be, yet it’s exactly where I want to be.

Any doubts I have vanish as we weave our way through the crowd while Grayson says hello to nearly everyone he sees.

If he walks by, people notice. Heads turn.

Girls blatantly ogle him. Guys dab him up.

If it weren’t already clear where he stood on the high school social ladder, it is now.

Grayson De Leon is the guy every boy wants to be and the one all the girls want .

With so much attention on the boy at my side, it’s not a surprise when several curious glances flick my way, and I’m oddly comforted by the fact that no one here knows me.

I can be whoever I want. I don’t have to be the girl with cancer or the soccer superstar, and I especially don’t have to be the girl everyone used to admire but now pities.

We meander past another group of people that Grayson slaps hands with.

I nudge his shoulder once we hit a break in the crowd. “Well, aren’t we Mr. Popular.”

“Hardly.” He rolls his eyes and stops, and I wonder how he can be so confident yet modest at the same time.

Turning to face me, he spreads his arms. “So . . . this is it.”

“If you were here alone, what would you be doing right now?” I ask.

“Do you really want an answer to that?”

“I want to know more about the illustrious Grayson De Leon, so yeah.”

Grayson snorts. “Right.”

“I’m serious.” I nudge him in the ribs.

He exhales, and I wonder if he’s deciding what version of himself to share. “One of three things.” He ticks them off his fingers. “Getting drunk. High. Or hooking up with whatever girl seems like the least likely to cling. Most likely a combination of all three. ”

I stare at him for a moment, wondering why someone like him would waste himself like that. More importantly, why do any of it when he seems pissed off about it.

“And that makes you angry?”

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not proud of it.”

“Some would be.”

He lifts a shoulder. “I should be focused on training, hanging with my friends, working out, and getting ready for college.”

“Is that all?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Okay, and maybe I’m a little pissed because I’m not the kind of person you should be dating.

Real or not, you deserve a hell of a lot more than this.

” He nods toward the throng of people behind us, and it’s this exact moment I realize there are a million layers of Grayson De Leon I’ll have to unwrap if I want to get to the center of him.

I bite my lip, glancing around the party. “Let’s dance.”

“What?” His brows rise.

“Let’s dance,” I repeat.

“Um, how about you dance, and I watch?”

I roll my eyes. “You’re not getting off the hook that easily, and I’m also not going to dance while you watch me like some kind of creep.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” he murmurs under his breath as I tug his arm.

He lets me drag him halfway toward the dance floor before he must realize I’m dead serious and plants his feet, unwilling to move.

“Come on.” I tug his arm.

“No way.”

With a sigh, I throw my hands up. “We’re at a party. Don’t be so boring. Surely you can move your hips as well as you can swing a bat.” When I wag my brows, he tips his head back and laughs.

“Nice try. But I don’t dance, Sinclair. Not for anyone.”

I plant my hands on my hips. “You’re telling me that you, Mr. Popular, never went to a high school dance?”

He glances away from me into a throng of people. “There was a time I did, yeah. Because I had a girlfriend. But not anymore, and the only way you’re getting me over there”?he nods to where the crowd is dancing?“is if you allow me to partake in activities one and two I mentioned earlier.”

I scoff.

His gaze slides down my body, and I shiver. “Activity three wouldn’t be so bad either,” he says, his tone husky.

I snort. “Nice try, but that,” I say, swirling a finger at him, “is exactly why you should dance with me. It’s time you discover there are more ways to have fun than activities one through three.”

“Hey, Ryleigh! ”

My head whips toward the sound of my name, settling on the dark haired, dark eyed boy from Grayson’s baseball team, and I wave. “Hey, Cameron.”

Without waiting for Grayson, I cross the yard to where he’s standing behind one of the folding tables, a stack of plastic cups in his hands. “I was wondering when you guys would get here,” he says to me before glancing over at Grayson, eyeing his empty hands with an arched brow. “You drinking?”

Grayson’s demeanor changes from playful to annoyed. “Nope.”

“Damn. I think this is the sixth time I’ve seen you sober in the last week, bro.” Cameron glances back at me and winks. “You must be good for him, Ryleigh.”

“Not that good,” I grumble. “I asked him to dance, but he refuses,” I say with a pout.

“Aw, don’t take it personally.” Cameron drapes an arm over my shoulders while Grayson scowls. “The only chick that could ever get De Leon to do any of that shit was—”

“Don’t,” he says between gritted teeth.

Cameron falls quiet. Tension stretches between them, and I study Grayson, who seems to be doing everything in his power to avoid eye contact with me.

I assume Cameron is talking about his ex—the one Grayson dated for three years—but I don’t mention it as I nod toward the table with the clutch of cups. “Are you finishing up, or are you about to play?”

“Why? You want in?” Cameron grins .

“Absolutely.”

Beside me, Grayson shakes his head. “No. It’s a drinking game, Ry.”

I scoff. “This might be my first party, but I know what beer pong is.”

“No drinking.”

Cameron snorts. “Wow. You’re finally sober and suddenly you’re a square, and no one can have fun?”

I say nothing, just stare up at Grayson because we both know the reason he doesn’t want me to drink.

“I promised your mom,” he says.

“What she doesn’t know won’t kill her.”

He glares at me, the muscle ticking in his jaw. “Can I have a word?”

I sigh as he grabs my arm and steers me away from the table. Once we’re far enough so Cameron can’t hear, he snaps. “Are you crazy? You can’t fucking drink.”

“Well, then we’ll just have to win,” I say, as I pat his chest with a grin.

“Sinclair,” he warns.

“Slugger.”

“I’m serious.”

“Why can’t I drink?” I snap.

His eyes widen. “Why? Are you for real, Sinclair? Um, I don’t know, how about because you have fucking cancer,” he hiss-whispers .

I wrench my arm free of his grasp and narrow my eyes on his gorgeous face. “Yeah, well, for the first time in a long time I feel good today, and I want to have a little fun.”

“This isn’t—”

“I’m tired of being the sick girl. I missed out on every fucking thing in high school because my damn head was in the sand.

If it didn’t have to do with soccer, then I had no part in it, and now that’s fucking gone.

So, yeah, I want to experience some of the things I missed, cancer or not.

I’m tired of sitting on the sidelines watching everyone else live their life while mine swirls down the fucking drain.

” I steel my spine and take a step back, needing some space from my mounting emotions.

“I have my scans next week. My last treatment was either a success or it wasn’t.

I’m either better or I’m not. And if I’m not, then what the fuck does it matter? ”

I sidestep him without looking into his eyes. Not because I’m angry with him—I understand what he’s trying to do, I really do—but I don’t want him to see the tears welling in my eyes. The last thing I want is Grayson’s pity.

Get a grip on yourself, Ry. Don’t be a fucking baby.

I plaster a smile on my face and direct it toward Cameron as I return to the table.

“Lover’s quarrel?” He smirks.

“Something like that.”

He glances over my shoulder, and I wonder if Grayson’s still there or if he’s walking away. Maybe he’ll decide he’s sick of my shit and he doesn’t want to babysit me. Maybe he’ll go and get himself fucked up after all.

The thought bothers me more than it should.

“It’s funny . . .” Cameron says after a beat, turning his attention back to me as he cracks open a beer and starts filling the cups.

“What is?”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Grayson be so protective. And I sure as shit have never seen him stop someone from having a drink.” His gaze flicks from the cups back up to me. “He was always kind of intense, though. Before everything happened, it was all focus on baseball all the time, and after—”

“Move over.”

I jerk my head, startled to see Grayson hovering over my shoulder.

I shift my body to make room for him behind my end of the table, working up the courage to meet his gaze, to find he’s already staring at me, his eyes more blue than gray and every bit as turbulent as a churning sea.

“You in?” I ask.

“Yeah, Sinclair,” he says, with a sigh. “I’m all in.”