Page 27 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter seventeen

GRAYSON

My whole body shakes as I drive, needing an outlet for the leftover adrenaline coursing through my veins. On the outside, I’m calm, but on the inside, I’m freaking the fuck out.

I never should’ve gotten involved with Dustin, but buying some weed and hanging with his crew here and there seemed harmless enough.

We’d gotten in trouble a couple times, but I stayed detached, kept just enough distance between my world and his to never really have an issue. I never crossed that line.

But today, I fucking obliterated it.

I stop at a red light and curse, slamming my hands on the steering wheel.

Beside me, Ryleigh jumps, and I hate myself for scaring her when she’s already been through enough.

I glance over at her. She’s shaking like a leaf, trembling, confirming I’m the world’s biggest asshole.

All of this is my fault, every bit of it.

Had I not lost my head and groped her on the dance floor, I never would’ve left her .

Had I not bailed on her, she never would’ve been alone.

She wouldn’t have seen Dustin hitting Bridgette or whatever the hell happened before I got there.

She wouldn’t have risked her fucking neck to help her or gotten shoved into the island and onto the floor, and I would never have needed to get involved.

Wrong place, wrong time.

And certainly, the wrong fucking person.

My muscles coil as I growl and press the gas, knowing how fucked I am.

“It’s okay,” Ryleigh says beside me. “It’s over now. I’m sure everything will be fine. I’m sure—”

“It won’t be fine, Ry!” I roar. “Don’t you get that?”

She flinches at my outburst, and I add it to my list of things to hate myself for.

Counting to ten, I wait until I'm calm before I pull into the empty lot of a 7-Eleven. Putting the car in park, I turn to face her. “What were you thinking?”

“Me?” She points to herself, eyes wide like she can’t believe I just asked her that.

“Yeah, Ry, you!” I snap. “Standing up to Dustin like that was fucking stupid. Beyond stupid. It was reckless.” I let out a wry laugh. “I mean, did you really think you could take him on? He’s twice your size!”

Her expression hardens to stone, her eyes darkening under the lamplight. “You saw her face. You saw what he did to her. Was I just supposed to ignore it? Stand by and do nothing? ”

“Yeah, Ry. That’s exactly what you were supposed to do.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not the kind of person who can sit by and watch when someone needs my help!” she screams, chest heaving with emotion.

I lean forward, getting in her face now. I can smell the scent of her skin, floral and sweet like oranges, and it wraps around me like a vise. “And what would you have done if I hadn’t found you right then? If I hadn’t come in when I did?”

Her mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

“Would you have fought Dustin Fields?” I say with a half laugh. “‘I’m Ryleigh Sinclair, taking on the world, one fucking scumbag drug dealer at a time,’ huh?”

“Stop it!” she yells.

The memory of her pained expression flashes in my head, fueling the flames of my anger. “No. I wanna know what you were thinking in a way that makes sense.”

Still, nothing.

“Maybe you just wanted a nice shiner to match Bridgette’s.”

“I could’ve taken it,” she hisses.

I laugh, bitterness erupting like a volcano. “Oh, you really are careless, aren’t you? Do you think that just because you have cancer your life doesn’t matter? That somehow, you’re expendable? That you have less to lose than everyone else?”

Emotion flashes in her eyes—dark and thunderous—which is how I know I hit the nail on the head.

“Maybe I do have less to lose. ”

“Wrong answer.” I grip her arms in my hands, staring into her eyes so she can get a good look at how serious I am when I say, “You matter, Ry. And I know exactly what Dustin is capable of. I’ve heard the stories, watched him brag to his friends.

I’ve had bile creep up my throat at some of the things he’s done, the things he’s capable of, and let me tell you, a black eye or a couple of bruises is the least he could’ve done to you. ”

I shut my mouth, unable to imagine it because I know I’m right, and the thought of him laying a hand on her makes my stomach roil.

Her eyes fill, glistening in the dim light and snuffing out my anger.

Don’t fucking cry. Don’t do it, Sinclair. I can’t take your tears.

Inhaling, I drag my hands over my face, fighting for control of my emotions.

“Your hands,” she whispers in the silence.

I lift my gaze at the same time she reaches out, taking my hands in hers and inspecting each knuckle. Her soft lips turn into a frown, and the memory of how they felt pressed to mine carves at my insides.

“It’s nothing,” I croak.

“You’re bleeding.” She glances up at me, her hazel eyes glittering in moonlight as she blinks the remaining moisture away.

“Most of it’s his,” I say, sliding one of my hands from her grip to cup the side of her face.

God, she’s beautiful .

I swallow, brushing her cheek with my thumb. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Her eyes widen.

“Yeah, you. Did you think I was worried about me back there?”

“I’m okay.”

I nod, realizing I’m still touching her and drop my hand.

“What’s going to happen now?” Ryleigh asks.

“What do you mean?” I turn and stare out the windshield.

“If this guy is as bad as you say he is, will he . . .” She trails off.

“Retaliate?”

“Yeah,” she says on a sigh.

I think about my answer. I have no doubt he’ll retaliate, but Dustin is calculated. He’s smart. Which means he won’t send a thug to my house tonight. Instead, he’ll bide his time. Strike at the most opportune moment.

I exhale, the breath wheezing from my lungs like a leaky balloon, grateful no one at the party knows anything about Sinclair, including where she lives or who she is.

I couldn’t live with myself if he went after her.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

A minute passes in silence, both of us absorbing my answer.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, after a while.

My gaze jerks back to hers and I shake my head. “Don’t be sorry. This isn’t your fault. I was just angry because I was worried. When he put his hands on you . . .” I shake my head. “I lost it.”

“But you’re right. I was reckless and had I not gotten involved—”

“I never should have left you. That’s on me.” I point to my chest. “If I had stayed with you, none of this would’ve happened in the first place.”

She drops her head. “Maybe, but . . .”

I pinch her chin with my fingers and tilt her head until her gaze meets mine. “No maybes.”

She bites her lip, the movement drawing my eye.

I fight the groan building inside my chest. The leftover adrenaline in my system needs an outlet, and my body has ideas on how best to help with that.

I use my thumb to drag her lip from beneath her teeth as fire ignites in my chest.

Love is a fairy tale, I remind myself. Fiction.

Eventually everyone leaves.

One way or the other, love has an expiration date, and maybe some people can handle that, but I can’t. The only thing I can offer Sinclair is physical, and she deserves a hell of a lot more than that.

I swallow, forcing a smile as I drop my hand.

How many times will I have to stop myself from touching her?

“You know, I think Cameron has a bit of a crush.”

“What?” She shakes her head, clearly confused by the change in subject.

“Yeah. My best friend? Pretty sure he’s into you. ”

“You don’t know that.” She turns and stares out her window.

“He was going to give you a ride home,” I point out.

“I asked. He was just being nice.”

Her voice is short, clipped as though she’s angry at me, and I frown, unsure why.

“He definitely wasn’t just being nice,” I say.

“How do you know?” She glances at me again, a brow arched in challenge.

“Trust me. I’m a guy. I know.”

And he so much as told me.

“And you think . . . I should go for it?”

I think of Ryleigh standing her ground to Dustin. How strong she looked as she blocked him from Bridgette. Maybe she was stupid to interfere, but Ryleigh Sinclair is fucking brave. Strong.

I’ve never met anyone like her.

My chest constricts as I think of my answer. “You could do a lot worse.”

She drops her gaze, the long strands of her wig blocking her face from view.

“What?” I ask, fighting the urge to put my hands on her again, to tip her chin so her eyes meet mine, so she can’t hide.

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” I say, my tone soft. “What are you thinking?”

“It’s just, I’m not exactly a catch, Grayson.”

Pain harpoons inside my chest. “Bullshit. ”

She lifts her head, rolling her eyes. “I don’t need to look in the mirror to know I’m no longer pretty like other girls. I have chemo face. No hair. My lips and skin are dry from treatment, not supple or smooth like Hannah’s. The only thing I still have going for me is my figure.”

I frown. “What does Hannah have to do with anything?” I ask, ignoring the rest.

If Hannah was mean to her, I swear, I’ll make her life a living hell . . .

“I have no future. No prospects. I’m not going to school, at least for the foreseeable future,” she continues, ignoring my question.

“I have a scar on my back from surgery that looks like a freaking shark bite. I don’t even have any hobbies, for God’s sake, and on a bad day, a flight of stairs leaves me winded.

” She throws her hands up. “I have to be the most boring person on the face of the planet, and my two closest friends? Yeah, turns out they were really just soccer friends and they’ve already moved on. I have literally nothing to offer.”

“Don’t say that.” My face hardens to stone. “Don’t fucking say that. It’s not true.”

She sighs like the effort of arguing with me exhausts her. “It is true. You’re just too nice to say it.”

Too nice?

I almost laugh.

My thoughts when I kissed her earlier weren’t nice; they were feral .

“Not everything is about the physical, Sinclair. You know that right?”

She stares straight ahead, her throat bobbing. “I’m not fishing for compliments.”