Page 37 of Things I Wish I Said
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says in a dead tone.
My chest squeezes. No, I probably shouldn’t.
My ambiguous feelings toward Ryleigh are dangerous enough, and I’m certainly not equipped to handle . . . whatever this is.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What’s it look like I’m doing?”
I exhale, wondering how to approach her in a way she won’t shut me out when she won’t even look at me.
Maybe she’ll call off the wish.
The thought fills me with both anger and relief. Mostly anger.
“From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re having yourself a little pity party.”
She sits up finally, propping herself up against the headboard of her bed, her eyes flaring to life as they settle on my face. “And you’d know what that is, how?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Right.” She scoffs, crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s not like you ever actually tell me anything about yourself.”
Her words hit their mark.
She’s not wrong, but something tells me she’s looking for a fight. I recognize the same flare of defensive anger rising in her eyes as my own.
“This isn’t the Ry I know. ”
“Yeah, well . . .” She glances away from me, trailing off.
Before I can stop myself, I sink down onto the bed beside her and pull her into my arms.
She stiffens, her spine straight as a rod. The scent of orange and vanilla assaults my senses as I run circles over her back with my hand until she melts like a popsicle, and all at once, she turns languid in my arms, her hands clutching the back of my shirt as if it can hold her together.
I expect her to cry, but she doesn’t. This moment where she’s clinging to me is the only display of weakness I get.
“I miss it,” she whispers into my neck, her breath hot against my skin.
“I know.” I continue rubbing her back, focusing on the soft rise and fall of her chest.
“When I was on that field, nothing else mattered. Sometimes I think I was more at home in my cleats on the turf than in this house.” She pulls away from me and turns back to the screen.
“I used to live for those moments,” she says softly, more to herself than to anyone else.
“Every game was like a dance. A beautiful, chaotic ballet where every move mattered, and every second counted. Where I was truly alive.”
She closes her eyes, and I wonder if it’s from the pain of her memories or because she’s picturing them, imagining the field beneath her cleats—green and vibrant, filled with the roar of the crowd and the rhythm of her heartbeat syncing with the push-pull of the ball .
I wonder if she felt the energy of the game pulsing through her veins, challenging her to be faster, stronger, better, like I used to.
“I’m here, if you wanna talk about it.”
“I’ll never experience that same thrill, that same rush,” she continues, her voice strengthening as she speaks.
“It was more than just a game to me. It was my whole life, a chance to push beyond my limits and find a part of myself I couldn’t reach anywhere else.
Every goal, every tackle—it was a conversation with the universe, a way of saying ‘I’ve arrived.
’ That I’m alive. Unstoppable.” She tips her head up, eyes searching. “Do you know how that feels?”
I used to.
But lately . . .
I want to tell her how baseball causes me pain. How it’s a reminder of what I’ve lost. So much of baseball was always tangled up in my father, it’s hard to discern one from the other. Hard to pull the grief and pain away from the joy.
But I want to get back there, to that place she mentioned.
And I know I can. I just need to stop fucking up.
Stop drinking and smoking and staying out late.
Start training, focusing on the things that matter, and the people I still have here with me, so I say, “Yeah, I know how that feels.” Because somehow, it feels closer to the truth than a denial.
She nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer as she glances back at the screen.
The camera is homing in on her again. “I miss that certainty,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“ I miss knowing exactly where I stand and what I’m capable of.
I miss feeling like I’m a part of something bigger than me, because that’s what my talent was?always bigger than me.
And now, it feels like I’m just standing still, watching from the sidelines, wondering what could have been if things had been different, if I hadn’t gotten sick. ”
“Maybe that’s the challenge now,” I find myself saying.
I focus on the side of her face as she glances up at me in question. “Maybe you just need to find a new way to feel alive, even without the game that once defined you, because you can be a lot of things, Sinclair. You don’t have to be just one.”
She pulls one measured breath into her lungs after the other, her chest rising and falling as resolve hardens in the gold-and-green flecks in her eyes. “I’m so afraid all everyone will remember is how I got sick. How weak I am now, instead of how strong I was then.”
My throat bobs. If only she knew just how strong she was.
“My cancer has spread,” she says.
Her words are a lance in my side.
Bile rises to the back of my throat, but I force it back down because this isn’t about me, and right now, she needs me.
“What does that mean?” I ask, knowing I don’t want the answer, not really.
“The chemo didn’t work to remove what was left of the cancer, and it’s now in my lymph nodes.”
My pulse pounds in my ears as her words buzz in my head .
I don’t accept what she’s telling me. I don’t want to believe it, so I choose to ignore it.
“I called a ton of times. Why didn’t you answer or call me back?” I ask, desperate to understand where her head is at.
“Sorry. I just . . . I needed to wrap my head around this, to work out a few things.”
What things?
So many times when we’ve been talking, I’ve been obtuse, purposefully vague, and now that she’s doing the same to me, I fucking hate it.
“But you’ll fight this, right?” I ask, hating how desperate I am for her to say yes. “There are other treatments?”
It’s lung cancer, not pancreatic cancer. My father never had a chance, but her odds are better, they have to be.
She hesitates, and I can tell there’s something she’s not telling me.
“There’s no reason to think chemo will work, since I haven’t responded to the latest treatment, but there’s a trial my mom found.
My doctor said it’s a longshot but might be worth it.
It’s either that or . . .” She pauses, as if deciding her next words.
“Any further treatment at this point is likely just prolonging the inevitable.”
I swallow the scream building inside my chest.
It’s like my father all over again.
Fucking no.
I refuse to accept it.
“So, you’ll do it, right? The trial?”
She stares at me for a minute, like she’s trying to decide something, and when she smiles, it’s not right.
It’s not Ryleigh. It doesn’t crinkle the corners of her eyes or light up the room.
It’s not snarky or the bright toothy grin I’m used to.
It’s stiff and forced, like someone’s pulling a rubber band too tight, and any minute it’ll break.
She shakes her head, but what comes out is: “I don’t know.”
The air leaves my lungs, and I deflate.
“At this point, if I would’ve responded to treatment, I’d have a thirty percent chance of beating it, but I’m not responding. The odds aren’t great, and this trial is a long shot.”
“Yeah, but you’re young. You’re only eighteen and strong, so your odds will be better. You can’t—”
“My mom is broke, Grayson.” Her eyes soften as if it might ease the impact of her words.
“She’s already taken out a second mortgage on the house and is behind on payments.
I found out a few weeks back. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want me to know, but she’s in debt up to her eyeballs, and any further treatment will only add to that. ”
For the first time since meeting Sinclair, I’m at a loss for words.
I don’t know what to say because money has never been an issue for my family, and though I’ve never talked about it with her, I’m sure she has some idea that I’m well-off.
I want to give her advice, talk some sense into her, but I’m not sure it’s my place, and I find it wholly unfair there are treatments available that she can’t have while I could .
“There are programs dedicated to helping in these kinds of situations.”
Ryleigh snorts. “You mean, charities?”
I swallow, feeling sheepish when I say, “Well, yeah.”
“I don’t want charity.” She shakes her head.
“The Wishing Well can—”
“Grayson.” She places a hand on my arm, and I clench my jaw to keep the words from spilling out.
In the grand scheme of things, I’ve just begun getting to know Sinclair.
If she wants to stop fighting, I have zero reason to stand in her way.
Except that in the short amount of time we’ve been hanging out, I already know she’s someone worth fighting for, and the throbbing ache inside my chest tells me I don’t want her to quit.
“So, what? You’re just gonna give up? Your mom would probably rather have all the debt in the world if it means keeping her daughter alive.”
She falls silent, staring down at her hands.
“Did you tell her you were giving up?” I ask, and I see the answer on her face before she gives it.
“I told her I’d consider it.”
“But you’re not, are you?”
She hesitates. “Right now, I’m going to take it one day at a time. My focus is the wish. It’s more important now than ever. Mom will double down on how unsafe it is for me to go. She won’t want to risk me getting sick.”
I want to shake some sense into her, make her see that her life is a whole hell of a lot more important than any award.
I want to yell and scream, tell her to forget about soccer and focus on the fight, but I can’t because doing so means admitting I care.
It means admitting that I might feel something, and I can’t. I can’t feel anything.
My heart is numb. Frozen. A deserted island. A barren desert. Or at least, it needs to be. Eventually, whether in life or death, everyone you love leaves.
And now Ry is telling me she’s planning an early departure.
She glances up at me, her mouth a grim line, her eyes bright with determination.
It’s the same girl I watched on the screen just moments ago crush a soccer ball like it was nothing, and I realize I’d do nearly anything for this girl.
I might not be able to give Ryleigh my heart—not that she wants it—but I can give her this. The wish.
I reach out, giving her hand a little squeeze, even while my stomach riots. “Okay, Sinclair. We’ll make sure you get your wish.”
The farther I get from Ryleigh’s house, the deeper the boulder sinks in the pit of my stomach. She didn’t say she was refusing further treatment in words, but she didn’t need to. I could read between the lines quite clearly, and it’s clear to me she’s done. Finished.
I grind my teeth so hard I think they might crack as I come to a red light.
I didn’t want to take this fucking wish. Didn’t want to catch feelings or get invested. Everything inside of me told me to cut and run in the other direction when my mother suggested it.
I still could. It’s not too late.
But here I am, determined to still help despite how much it might hurt, all while I tell myself I don’t care, even though it’s the furthest thing from the truth.
Because Ryleigh’s dying.
Dying.
Just like my father.
I turn into my driveway, stopping shy of the garage, and stare ahead at nothing, unraveling.
I picked up the pieces, sewed myself back together again after the unexpected loss of my father, but now it feels like all the stitches are falling out. The thread holding me together is disintegrating.
Without thinking, I grab my phone and hover over my contacts, debating on my next move.
Texting Dustin after Kip’s party is a death wish.
I haven’t heard from him since the party, but I’m out of weed, and booze won’t be enough to wipe the conversation with Ryleigh from my mind.
Nor will it mitigate the news that her cancer has spread.
Hell, even pot isn’t enough.
I need something better.
Stronger.
Don’t do it, De Leon.
I groan and drag a hand down my face .
Even on my worst of days, I won’t go there. It’s how I know I’m not entirely lost.
Still, smoking will at least provide a momentary reprieve from my thoughts, a much-needed vacation. But the only one who can deliver is Dustin.
My fingers hover over his name on the screen.
I click once and open a new text, debating. I have two choices. Pretend like nothing happened and hope he’d rather keep a client than get revenge, or admit to fucking up and eat crow.
I absolutely hate the idea of the latter. I can still remember his hands on Ryleigh. Even now, it pisses me off. Even now, I hate myself a little bit more for giving him my business.
ME :
I need to buy some smoke, you down?
I clutch my phone in my hand, waiting to see if he’ll text back. Maybe he’ll tell me to fuck off, and that will be the end of it.
After a moment, three text bubbles dance on the screen, so I wait.
DUSTIN :
Seriously? You’re texting me?
So much for letting it go.
ME :
Come on, man. I’m desperate. I didn’t mean any harm at Kip’s. I was wasted and not thinking clearly.
I choke down the lie, hoping he’ll bite. I wait what feels like forever until the phone pings again, and I check his response.
DUSTIN :
How much do you want?
I sigh, relief sweeping through my veins.
ME :
An ounce.
That should be enough to get me through the month and past Ryleigh’s award while making it worth Dustin’s while.
DUSTIN :
How about something stronger?
I swallow, fighting the urge to agree and ask for something that will fuck me up enough so I can forget the conversation I just had with Ryleigh entirely.
Something that will drown out the loss of my father and satiate my desperate fucking need to forget for longer than a few hours.
But I don’t. I’m not a fucking junkie. I don’t use drugs.
Just a little pot. There’s a difference.
After this, I need to get serious about baseball again, and I can’t do that if I get hooked on something else.
ME :
Nah. Just grass.
I fight the urge to tell him not to fuck with it. I know for a fact he sells laced shit.
DUSTIN :
Okay, but if you want it, and you’re desperate, you’re gonna pay.
I sigh. I’m already buying an ounce, but I suppose if the worst that comes from my kicking his ass at Kip’s is overcharging me, I’m lucky.
ME :
How much?
DUSTIN :
$400
I scoff out loud at the sum.
ME :
You’re fucking joking. That’s nearly double.
DUSTIN :
Feel free to go elsewhere.
I snort. Dustin knows damn well he’s the only dealer in town, he made sure of that, and the last thing I’m going to do is wander aimlessly in the city for a little ganja.
ME :
Fine.
DUSTIN :
Meet me at Ernie’s in five.