Page 30 of Things I Wish I Said

Her lips are mashed together, like she’s holding in a laugh, and then all at once the dam breaks and she can’t stop .

She laughs so hard, she topples on her side and starts to cough, clutching her chest while I try my best not to panic.

Righting herself, she inhales, releasing one more ragged cough as she wipes at her damp eyes. “Wow. I don’t even know where to start.”

“I gave you a lot of material to work with.” I snicker, satisfied she’s okay as I hop back on the bed.

“There’s jelly on the swings and peanut butter in your hair? It doesn’t even make sense.”

I bark out a laugh. “I was eight. It made sense to me at the time.”

“Who knew Grayson De Leon was a major closet nerd?” She shakes her head, her eyes dancing with humor. “I might never recover from those jokes. I mean, you just elevated my cancer jokes to a whole new level.”

I cast her a wry smile. Nothing will make me think her cancer jokes are funny.

“So, what happened?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’d you stop wanting to make people laugh?”

My smile fades and I shake my head as I swipe my coffee cup off the nightstand. “My turn.”

“What?”

“It’s my turn to ask a question. You already got one, and now you’re trying to sneak a second.”

Ry snorts. “I didn’t know there were rules .

“When you find out you’re cancer free, what are you going to do? I mean, with your future?”

She exhales and stares at her bedroom wall, the one with the soccer mural. A wistful smile tips her lips until it fades, and she says, “I don’t know. It’s hard to plan a future you don’t know you have.”

“‘I don’t know’ doesn’t count as an answer.”

She clucks her tongue. “There are rules about answers now, too?”

“I don’t know is a nonanswer. It doesn’t even count.”

She huffs, crosses her arms over her chest. “Fine. I guess maybe I might want to go into pediatric nursing.”

My brows rise. I don’t know what I expected her to say, but it wasn’t that. “Nursing?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel quite right, but I never pictured doing anything other than soccer either, so maybe it’s not supposed to.

But I have this one nurse I always see when I go in for treatments.

She’s almost become like family. Made the whole thing more bearable.

She’s like this walking ball of sunshine, and when I’m there, I sometimes get annoyed by it, but honestly, I’m not sure what it would’ve been like without that—without her—and I think no matter what I do, I’d like it to be working with cancer patients. I’d like to make a difference.”

She glances at me sideways with a half grimace, as if there’s a chance I might think her answer is lame when there’s not a chance in hell .

“I think that sound amazing.” I can see her: older, wiser, the round lines of her face sharpened by time and the lack of chemo, bustling around a hospital, cracking jokes to all the kids. A walking ball of sunshine. That’s how I think of her; it’s how I described her just a week ago.

“Also, I’d get to wear scrubs. Can’t beat that.”

“You’d look hot in scrubs.”

“And there’s that.” She rolls her eyes, then grins. “Now it’s my turn.” She rubs her hands together with glee while I try not to squirm. “Favorite movie?”

Relief crashes over me. “Easy. The Rookie .”

“The baseball movie? Seriously?”

“I cried the first time I watched the scene where Dennis Quaid makes his debut with the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. I still get a little teared up when I watch.”

Ry snickers. “Wow. I didn’t take you for a crier at movies, De Leon.”

“Maybe there’s a lot you don’t know about me.” I grin, sipping my coffee.

“Hence the questions. So, what other movies have you cried at?”

“ Old Yeller .”

“Obviously.” She rolls her eyes.

“ The Notebook .”

“Seriously?” She shoves at my arm. “Get out. You cried at The Notebook ?”

“What? It’s sad! ”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you messing with me?”

“Guess we’ll have to watch one together and see.” I smirk.

She hums under her breath, and I wonder if she thinks I’m just being polite when really, I’m enjoying her company and the questions far more than I should. I want to know what makes Ryleigh Sinclair tick. Maybe if I do, I can steal some of her sunshine and keep it for my myself.

“What’s the best place you’ve ever been to?” I ask.

“Oof. That’s hard.” She leans her head back on the headboard and stares up at the ceiling, a crease forming between her brows.

“I’ve been to some pretty cool places for soccer, but .

. . there was this one time, I think I was ten.

I was heavily into soccer already, but the travel wasn’t as crazy, so Mom and I had a lot more time in the summers.

We didn’t have much money, so lavish vacations were out, but she wanted to take me somewhere anyway.

She spent hours setting up the backyard, stringing twinkle lights in the trees, setting up a tent and fire pit.

We camped there for a week with the rule you couldn’t go in the house for anything.

Every day she had something new planned.

We drove out to Virginia Beach and body surfed in the waves, ate massive ice cream cones in the heat as they dripped down our arms, picked wildflowers, and caught fireflies at night.

We roasted marshmallows by the fire and stayed up late, playing cards and watching movies on an old projector she bought.

We walked around Williamsburg and tried our hand at fishing in the James, which neither of us were very good at.

” She laughs, a low rumble in her chest. “We hiked and took long walks by the water. Ate dinner at sunset and woke at dawn to watch it rise. Everything about that week was so simple but perfect at the same time. It’s like time slowed down just for us. ”

She shrugs, almost sheepish. “It probably sounds stupid, like any summer for anyone else, but it was special, and I guess I remember it because it was the first time I realized just how amazing my mother was, not as a mom but as a woman, you know? She’s always been such a free spirit, but for those two weeks I saw just how cool she was to be around in a way I hadn’t before.

And I realized I wanted to be like her. That if I could have even a tenth of her energy and spirit, I’d turn out all right.

Sometimes I feel like she gets judged a lot for what she’s chosen to do with her life because it doesn’t make much money, but then I see these other people and they have everything—anything money could buy—and they’re miserable, you know?

But my mom’s always been passionate. She loves creating pottery in the same way I loved soccer.

And even through my treatments, she’s still the happiest person I know.

Like this beaming ray of hope. Sometimes I hate it, only because I feel like I’m setting her up to fail. ”

Her throat bobs. “The worst feeling in the world is knowing I’ll probably be the one to break her.”

Silence settles over us, the air thick with the weight of her words.

She could have easily been describing the relationship I had with my father .

I wonder if he felt like that in the days before he died. If he worried about being the one to break us, and I wonder what he’d think if he knew I can’t look at a baseball without feeling like my chest has been cleaved in two.

I don’t dare think about my mother and what I’ve put her through. I can only handle so much introspection without wanting to crawl out of my skin.

“Enough about me. It’s my turn, and there’s something I’ve been wondering about.” She turns, eyeing me warily in a way that makes my palms sweat. “Your girlfriend—who broke up with who and why?”

My chest tightens. “That’s two questions.”

She glares at me.

“What?” I shrug. “That’s the rules. Each person gets one question.”

She groans. “You and your rules.”

“A question for a question, Sinclair.”

She releases a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. Who broke up with who?”

“She broke up with me.”

“Impossible.”

“Definitely possible. I was there, trust me.”

I remember her words verbatim: “I just can’t handle something so heavy right before senior year.”

My father taught me life is tough, but Rachel taught me people leave when things get tough .

Ryleigh eyes me closely, like she wants to say something but can’t.

The muscle in my jaw ticks in response. “And no, before you can ask, I didn’t cheat on her.”

“I wasn’t going to ask that. I was just wondering what kind of idiot girl dumps someone like you.”

My throat bobs, relieved when she doesn’t dwell. “I get the feeling you don’t like John, your mother’s boyfriend. Why?”

She groans. “I know I’m being unfair with him.

My mom was never a serial dater. I can only remember a handful of dates before John that never went anywhere, so it’s not like this is just some passing fling.

But it’s like . . .” She bites her lower lip, and once again I find myself remembering the feel of her mouth.

“All the things I said about her, sometimes I think that’s why I have trouble accepting him.

Because she’s this ray of positivity, one of those vibrant people who’s always a joy to be around and he’s so .

. . I don’t know, reserved and serious. Kind of a nerd, if I’m being honest. I don’t want to say he’s boring, because that sounds mean, but they just don’t make sense together. ”

“Maybe that’s why they work. Maybe they balance each other out.”

“Maybe.” She nods. “Whatever it is, I know I need to accept it, but with everything going on, I just can’t.”

“I can’t imagine my mom dating anyone else.”

It’s only been a year, so right now, I’d be pissed, but how long is an adequate time for her to move on with her life enough to want to date? And how accepting will I be of whomever she chooses?

The thought turns my stomach.

“I mean, in a way I’m glad she’s not alone. If something happens to me, it’s nice to know she’ll have him.”

I swallow, wanting to tell her not to talk like that. To reach out and take her hand in mine and tell her she’s going to be fine. But it would be a lie. I can’t see the future any more than she can.

“Did you love her?”

I jerk, the question catching me off guard.

Rachel. I know she’s talking about Rachel, but I play dumb like maybe she’ll forget the question. “Who?”

“Your ex.”

I think about my answer, unwilling to give her anything but the truth even if it makes me uncomfortable, because she deserves that.

“I was with Rachel for three years before she dumped me. At the time, I thought I was in love. We did everything together, and she made me happy. But I never looked over at her in awe during those quiet moments. I never felt like the air was sucked from the room when she looked at me. I never needed her just to fucking breathe.”

And that’s what love would have to be for me. The oxygen in the room. The breath in my lungs. Because nothing short of that would ever convince me to put my heart on the line .

Her lips twitch, eyes yearning for more as they burn through me. I can practically read the why in her thoughts.

But I won’t give it to her unless she asks.

“Are you scared?” I whisper.

“No.” Her voice is firm, certain, but emotion flickers in her eyes, contradicting her answer.

I think it’s the first time she’s lied to me.

“Remember that first day you came to the house to meet with me?” she asks.

I nod.

“You said you didn’t believe in happily ever afters.”

I search her face, looking for some clue as to where this is going. “That’s not a question,” I say, wary of what she’s really asking.

“Does that include me?” She tugs on the seam of the scarf over her head, and my stomach clenches. “You know, with all of this?”

I swallow, my throat raw and my voice rough like sandpaper as I whisper, “No, Sinclair. That doesn’t include you.”