Page 36 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter twenty-two

GRAYSON

I chuck my water bottle in my bag, along with my helmet and bat. Reaching for the bottom pocket of my gear bag, I unzip it and slide out my phone. A glance at the screen reveals no notifications, which means I still haven’t heard from Ryleigh.

It’s been two days since the results of her scan. I’ve called at least half a dozen times and left messages, and still no reply. Nothing.

A heaviness settles in my chest I don’t want to acknowledge.

Her silence can mean only one thing, but I push these thoughts aside, unwilling to entertain them for even a second.

“Damn, it feels good to win again!” Cameron slaps me on the back, his shit-eating grin taking up half his face.

“Thanks to Grayson getting his head out of his ass,” Trent joins in, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

“You mean, thanks to Ryleigh.” Cameron glances back down at his gear. “I mean, that has to be the reason, right? You’ve made a complete one-eighty since she entered the picture. That can’t be a coincidence.”

I grunt in response.

That’s part of it.

The other part involves keeping a low profile, considering my stash is gone and my dealer wants my head on a pike.

“So, what’s the deal there?” Cameron asks.

I turn to find him watching me closely. “What’s it to you?”

Cameron shrugs. “You know I think she’s a cool chick.”

My spine stiffens. I do know. Doesn’t mean I like it. “And?”

“And she told me you weren’t a thing. But then I spoke with Kip, who said he saw you two getting pretty fucking cozy on the dance floor. And every time I’ve talked to you recently, you’re headed to her place. The last time you—”

“Don’t go there,” I grind out.

Trent places a hand over Cameron's shoulder, his knowing gaze shifting from him back to me. “I think what Cameron is trying to say here is that he’s interested. So, if she’s just another fucking toy to you, he’d like to shoot his shot.”

Jealousy fists in my gut. My jaw tightens. “Is that true?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. He’s made his interest pretty clear.

“I like her.” He nods.

“You don’t even fucking know her,” I snarl.

Cameron’s brows rise, and I huff out a breath, glancing to the ground at my feet. “Sorry,” I mumble. “It’s just . . . ”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, my thoughts drift to Ryleigh.

Am I interested?

A week ago, I would’ve said no. This is just a favor. But now I’m not so sure. At some point, the lines have blurred, and I don’t have an answer.

I’ve been telling myself all week I’m just playing a game. That the only reason I was pissed at myself after our kiss was out of concern for her, not myself.

I remember the look on her face when she asked me why I left her at the party. Worse yet, if I repulsed her.

Because we can’t go there.

“Why? Because I’m sick? Because I might break?”

Yes! I’d wanted to scream.

Because she’s a better person than me.

Because I can’t handle another loss.

Because she can’t see her future, while I’m busy fucking mine up.

Because she needs someone every bit as strong and brave as herself and I’m not that guy.

Because.

Because.

Because.

There are a million reasons why she and I aren’t right for each other, yet all I wanted to do in that moment was show her how wrong she was. I needed her to know how much she turned me on, how much she made me feel when I wanted to feel fucking nothing at all.

It didn’t matter if I shouldn’t.

It didn’t matter if we’d never have a happy ending.

She needed to know she was beautiful.

She needed to know she was more than a stupid game or some wish.

She needed to know she was more than her illness. That she was sexy as hell, desirable, sweet and selfless and strong.

Ryleigh is so fucking strong it makes everyone else around her pale in comparison. Including me. Especially me.

So, for one moment I just wanted to show her all of those things since I couldn’t tell her. Put into action what my words can’t say and make her feel good.

And the second my lips touched hers, I lost it. I took what I wanted, and I took it too far.

I lift my head. Trent and Cameron are still waiting for an answer.

Clearing my throat, I try to find the easiest way to sum up what Ryleigh is to me without telling them it’s fake, because whatever this is doesn’t really feel fake anymore and because the thought of her dating anyone else feels like taking a fucking nine iron to the ribs.

I can’t—I won’t—fall for her. Maybe she can handle pretending we’re fake-dating with benefits, but I’m not sure I can.

It’s different with her. That alone freaks me the hell out .

“We’re just friends,” I say, reiterating what I’ve already told them.

Silence yawns between us, stretching and filling the gap while Cameron stares at me, trying to read the lie.

My phone rings, and I jerk, glancing down at it in my hands. A frown pulls at my mouth as I take in the unknown number. “Hang on,” I mumble.

Turning away from them, I walk a couple feet before I hit accept and press it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Grayson?”

A chill creeps up my spine as I clutch the phone tighter. I recognize the voice instantly—Jill Sinclair—along with the anxious tenor of her tone.

“Is Ryleigh okay?” I rush to ask.

“Actually, that’s why I called. Do you think you can come over? I’m worried about her.”

My chest tightens.

That’s all she needs to say.

I’m already moving when I nod, my thoughts scattering in a million different directions to a million different possibilities, when I realize she can’t see me. “I’m on my way.”

I remember the day my father was diagnosed.

We ate dinner together—late, because I’d had a game—but instead of scurrying to the couch where my parents would inevitably watch a movie before heading to bed, they told me they needed to talk to me.

Before Dad died, I was always an easygoing kid.

I never got into trouble at school. I chose my friends wisely and got good grades.

Most of my spare time after the age of twelve was devoted to baseball.

I can count on one hand the number of times my parents called a family meeting or said they wanted to talk.

So, when they sat me down in the living room, and I noticed Mom’s puffy, swollen eyes for the first time, and Dad’s solemn expression, I knew.

I had this bone-deep feeling that whatever they were about to tell me would change my life.

My palms began to sweat, my heart galloping like a racehorse as Dad looked me in the eyes. “I’m dying, kiddo.”

There was no sugarcoating it. No telling me he was going to a better place or beating around the bush or softening the blow, just the cold hard truth.

“I’m dying, kiddo.”

I broke down for the first time since I was five, but what I didn’t know at the time was that the doctors only gave him weeks to live.

When I’d asked, they’d been vague about the details, and I was foolish in my expectations.

I assumed Dad had a year, maybe more. So when I lost my best friend three weeks later, it fucking slayed me.

I have the same feeling now as I pull up to the small ranch and stare over at Ryleigh’s house with a thousand knots tightening in my stomach .

Unbuckling my seat belt, I slide out of the car and make my way to the door where I find Jill already waiting for me.

Her face is a mask of worry. Her brows are drawn, her mouth tight, but her eyes aren’t puffy and they aren’t red, so I take this as a good sign.

Surely, if Ryleigh got bad news, she’d have been crying.

“She’s in her room,” she tells me, worrying her hands in front of herself. “She’s not expecting you.”

I nod in understanding, absorbing the words she’s not saying.

Ryleigh didn’t want me to come.

The thought stings.

She opens the door farther, and I step inside, ignoring the urge to demand she tell me what the hell is going on. Whatever it is, I want to hear it from Ryleigh.

Her door is closed, so I knock on it lightly before pushing it open.

She’s sitting on her bed, curled up on her side. A pillow is tucked to her chest, eyes glued to the television screen on her dresser across the room.

She doesn’t even turn my way when I enter, so I follow her gaze to the soccer game on the screen.

A girl in a green jersey, number twenty-six, sprints across the field.

Two long chestnut braids hang down her back, her cheeks rosy from exertion as she moves with the dexterity and confidence of someone who knows just how good they are .

Her feet are like lightning as she dodges several blue jerseys, closing in on the goal. A flick of her foot and she scores a goal I can only imagine would be impossible for anyone else.

The camera pans to a close-up of her face, and my heart skips in my chest, pounding in a painful rhythm, because it’s her. Ryleigh.

Tan and flushed from the game, she glows as she jogs back to the other side of the field and talks with her teammates, the picture of casual ease.

This is a different Ry, I realize.

One I’ve never known. One I’ll never get to see—the same, yet different.

The girl on the screen has a fire in her eyes which I realize is missing from Ryleigh’s sharp hazel gaze. There’s a purpose in her stride I haven’t seen before in the girl lying on the bed, a confidence that surpasses what I’ve seen from the spitfire I’ve come to know in the last few weeks.

I swallow over the ache in my throat and press closer until my knees hit the side of the bed. Only then do I alert her to my presence, and when she peers up at me, her expression remains vacant before she turns back to the television.

For a minute I think she might ignore me entirely, pretend I’m not here, but then she says, “What’s ten feet long and bald?”

“Ry . . .” I sigh. I don’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated as hell that she’s telling another one of her jokes when it’s become clear her scan results weren’t what she was hoping for .

“The conga line at the cancer ward,” she answers for me.

My jaw tightens. “What’s going on, Sinclair?”