Page 29 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter eighteen

GRAYSON

The first thing I think of when I wake is Ryleigh, so it’s only natural she’s the first person I want to see.

Nerves spark to life inside my stomach the moment Jill Sinclair swings open the door. “Grayson?” Her eyes widen. “I wasn’t expecting you so early.”

I rock back on my heels, clutching the drink tray and take-out bag in my hand, the pack slung over my shoulder heavy on my back. “Uh, yeah. I brought Ryleigh breakfast. Thought maybe she might want to hang out.”

Her gaze homes in on the carryout, and she smiles. “You brought her breakfast?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s . . .” She shakes her head as if to relieve herself of the emotion glittering in her eyes, then steps aside. “Come in.”

“Is she up?”

“I heard her up a little while ago, actually. You can just go on back to her room if you like.”

“Thanks,” I say, already heading for the hall .

“Door open!” she calls out after me.

“Yes, ma’am.” I quickly make my way down the short hallway to her closed bedroom door and knock.

After a minute, Ryleigh’s raspy voice calls out. “It’s unlocked.”

I peek my head inside on the off chance she’s not decent, to find her lying in bed like a starfish in yoga pants and a T-shirt, arms and legs sprawled. A silk scarf replaces the wig she wore last night, and her chest rises and falls with each breath.

“How you feeling?” I ask, as worry slithers in my chest.

Her head whips toward me, surprise etched in the normally smooth lines of her face. “It’s you.”

The corners of my mouth curve. “It’s me.”

“I thought you were my mother.”

I grin, leaving the bedroom door cracked as I come closer. I set the coffees on her dresser before making my way toward her, trying not to think too much about last night and the way she melted against me when I kissed her.

“You can shut it.” She motions to the door.

“I was given explicit instructions to keep it open,” I say as I take a seat on the edge of her bed.

With a sigh, she gets up and marches to the door, shutting it. “That’s better.”

I snort as she spins back around and smiles, my gaze homing in on her mouth as I remember what it felt like against my own before a brutal cough wracks her chest and my thoughts vanish.

“How are you feeling? ”

She grunts out a response.

“I assume you’ve never drank before?”

She confirms my assumption with a shake of her head.

“I’ve felt better.” She grimaces and crosses the room.

“You were right, of course. Drinking probably wasn’t my best idea.

Combine a shitty immune system and my first time drinking, and I guess this is what you get.

Makes me wonder if the good day I had yesterday was just a fluke, or if the beer really messed me up that much. ”

I shove my worry aside and slide the pack off my back and unzip it. “Well, I brought something that might help.”

“The coffee?” She eyes the paper cups.

“Well, yeah. But first . . .” I pull out the mason jar and thrust it toward her. The cloudy liquid sloshes inside, and she stares at it dubiously.

Reaching out, she tentatively takes it and wrinkles her nose. “What is this?”

“Homemade electrolytes.” I smirk.

Her eyes flick to me. “Haven’t you ever heard of Gatorade?”

“The store-bought stuff is full of junk. This is the best; it’s clean with none of the crappy additives. Drink and I promise you’ll perk up.”

She unscrews the cap, eyeing me warily when she takes a sniff. “It actually smells pretty good.”

I nod. “Down the whole thing. ”

“Oooo, bossy.” She smiles before she tips the jar to her lips and takes a sip, unable to hide her smile. “It’s actually pretty good.” She takes another. “Salty, but lemony and sweet.”

“It’s what I always drink for baseball.” I wait as she downs the whole thing, then recap the jar and stow it back in my bag, before retrieving our coffees and the take-out bag off the dresser.

“Breakfast sandwich or yogurt parfait? Greasy food usually helps me when I have a hangover, but I know you watch what you eat, so . . .” I trail off at her growing smirk. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. You’re definitely thinking something.”

“It’s just . . . cute,” she says, unable to hide her smile. “I mean, for someone who doesn’t do relationships anymore and doesn’t believe in happily ever afters, you sure have this boyfriend thing down.”

My cheeks heat. “Yeah, well. I was a dick last night.”

“You weren’t.”

“I was.”

“So, is this an apology breakfast?”

I exhale, wondering what the hell I’m doing here. I mean, yeah, I feel bad for last night, but if I’m being honest, that’s not why I’m here.

I clear my throat, ignoring the churning in my gut as I pull the breakfast options out of the bag and hold them out. “I was worried about you.” I shrug. “Just wanted to make sure you felt okay.”

My reasoning doesn’t quite fit, but it feels the closest thing to the truth.

She stares at me for a moment, saying nothing before she points to the sandwich in my right hand. “Breakfast sandwich, please.”

I hand it over and pull out one for me, then offer her the coffee. “I wasn’t sure if you were allowed caffeine, but . . .”

“I am,” she reassures me and takes the offered cup. After a tentative sip, she moans in appreciation. “You didn’t have to do all of this, but thank you.”

“I wanted to.”

“Yesterday was such a good day, and today, I’m back to feeling like shit. I guess I deserve it, but I can’t find it in me to be mad or regret it because I had a blast.”

“Yeah?” I search her gaze for a lie but find none.

She doesn’t regret going to the party.

The kiss.

Bailing on her.

The fight.

It should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.

Ry starts to eat her sandwich, so I kick off my sneakers, and move onto the bed, propping myself up beside her against the headboard.

If she doesn’t want me sitting this close, she doesn’t say so and shows no signs of discomfort when my long legs spread out next to hers. Our thighs accidently brush, and my skin heats at the point of contact .

She pulls away like I burned her, which confirms she felt it, too.

I take a bite of my sandwich, thinking. It’s intimate, I realize, sitting in bed with her this close . . . just being. I’ve slept with more girls than I’d like to admit, and I’m not sure it ever felt quite like this. Not even with Rachel, and we were together three years.

I finish the rest of my sandwich and glance around Ryleigh’s room, taking in the awards and medals. Everything about the space screams soccer, from the posters on the wall to the giant mural beside us.

I wonder what she’ll do with it now that she can’t play, or at least not like she used to. I glance over at her, watching the cute way she sips her coffee before taking a tiny bite of sandwich.

She turns and glances at me to catch me staring, and my stomach flips. This close up, I can see every fleck of green and gold in her eyes—they’re mesmerizing.

“What?” she asks, bringing a hand to her face. “Do I have something on me?”

“Nope.” I shake my head before tearing my eyes from her. “I’ve never heard anyone call you by anything other than your full name. Does it bother you when I call you Ry?”

“No. But you also call me Sinclair,” she points out.

“Does that bother you, Sinclair?” I arch a brow, nudging her arm with mine.

Her cheeks flush. “Also no. ”

She goes back to eating her sandwich for a few minutes before she sets it aside, and glances over at me. “Can I ask you a question?”

I slowly nod, fighting my instinct to say no. I don’t typically like answering questions about myself. I’m not an open book, not anymore.

“What were you like when you were little?”

I run a hand over the back of my neck. Remembering my childhood means remembering my father, and I typically avoid anything that makes me think of him because it’s too painful, so I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “When I was little, I was kind of a goof.”

She arches a brow like she doesn’t believe it, so I continue. “I wanted to be a stand-up comedian, so I used to do these mock shows for friends and family.”

“No.” Ry’s eyes widen.

“Yes.” I chuckle.

“You mean you used to crack jokes and stuff? Like you had your own comedy show?”

My mouth twitches. “I even had a recording of laughter I used to play for myself after a particularly hilarious set.”

“Oh no. Now you must tell me some jokes.”

I shake my head. “Never.”

“Come on. Please!” She clasps her hands in front of her chest, pleading. “This was once your life’s dream. I’m just helping you bring it to fruition. ”

“Oh, is that all?” I roll my eyes, racking my brain for some of the jokes I used to tell, which isn’t too hard since I rehearsed them so many times I could recite them in my sleep.

I exhale, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye.

“My best one went something like this . . . Hey, everyone!” I mock wave.

“A day in the life of an eight-year-old is tough work.

First, I went to the park this morning. You know, kids and parks go together like peanut butter and jelly, except the jelly is always on the swings, and the peanut butter is stuck in your hair!

“Speaking of swings, I tried to swing as high as I could. I felt like I was flying! Until I realized I was just going in circles and got dizzy. Now I know why they call it a spin.

“After the park, we had ice cream. I had chocolate, which was awesome because chocolate is basically the best thing in the universe. And my mom had vanilla, which is just a fancy way of saying ‘plain.’ But that’s okay, because vanilla ice cream is like the superhero of ice creams—it’s simple, classic, and always saves the day when you’re out of chocolate!

“Oh, and we saw a dog at the park. It was doing tricks! It could roll over, play dead, and even give high fives. I tried to teach my brother how to do it, too. Let’s just say, he’s really good at playing dead—he fell asleep on the grass!”

I slide of the edge off the bed and bow, finally looking in Ryleigh’s direction.