Page 39 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter twenty-four

RYLEIGH

It takes me an hour to get to Grayson between the time he woke me from a dead sleep to when I finally spot his car behind a thicket of brush, beneath a towering pine.

I pull over and flick my hazards on, even though the road is desolate. It took me several passes of this exact spot to find him and when I did, I quickly realized he’d been in a car accident.

My stomach tumbles to my feet as my shoes sink into the soft grass and I take in the wreckage, illuminated by the beam of my headlights.

Inside, I can barely make out a shadowy figure, and the closer I get to the car, the more my heart sinks.

The windshield is a spiderweb of shattered glass, and a tree branch has impaled the driver’s side window where Grayson’s head rests, a smear of blood coating its otherwise translucent surface .

With a shaking hand, I knock on the glass, calling out his name, “Grayson?”

Instead of answering, he lifts his head and wretches into the passenger seat.

“Grayson!” I rush to open the door, unperturbed by a little vomit. Lord knows I’ve had my fair share of puke these last months.

I place a firm hand on his back, learning early on that no amount of rubbing, consoling, or comfort when you’re emptying your stomach out provides relief.

Instead, I just stand here, offering my silent support as he empties himself.

His face and body are darkened by shadows, partially obscured by the branch, but I desperately want him to glance up at me, so I can see his face, make sure he’s okay.

It feels like forever until he’s finished, and when he sags back against his seat, I assume he’s done.

“Grayson? It’s me, Ry. Can you look at me?”

The rise and fall of his chest stills, as if he’s holding his breath before he finally turns and lifts his gaze.

I gasp, my hands flying to my mouth.

Bile rises to the back of my throat, but I choke it back.

Bruising is already visible around his left eye, but that’s not what has my stomach roiling.

Dried blood from a large laceration above his brow covers his face like the melting wax of a candle.

I have no idea if it’s from the tree branch or a shard of glass or debris, but my stomach sours all the same .

He grunts and raises his hands to his head, wincing. “You came,” he breathes.

My heart kicks. “Of course I did.”

He hums, and his eyes fall closed.

“Grayson?” I gently shake him. “Grayson?”

Panic grips me like a vise when he doesn’t respond.

Breathe , I tell myself. Just fucking breathe .

“I’m going to call an ambulance.”

His eyes fly open, alarm turning the gray to blue. “No. You can’t.”

“You were in an accident,” I say, taking in the smashed hood of the car. “You need to get checked out, make sure you’re okay.”

“I can’t.” His head flops back against the headrest and he shakes his head. “They’ll arrest me.”

“Why would they arrest you?”

I think of the puke, and I freeze.

“Were you . . .” I can barely say it. “Drinking?”

He grunts out a response I can only assume is confirmation.

I spin around, trying to fight for composure. I have half a mind to leave his ass here.

How completely reckless.

He could’ve killed someone.

Hell, he almost killed himself.

“Fine,” I say once I can speak again without strangling him. “I’ll take you home then.”

“Not home. My mom . . .” He shakes his head while I worry my lower lip with my teeth .

I stand there a moment, debating what I should do. “Okay, then. I’ll take you to my place.”

This must appease him because he closes his eyes once more, which is the opposite of what I need because he’s yet to get inside my car.

I need to get him the hell out of here in case someone drives by and stops or the cops show up.

I reach inside the car, dodging the branch and cupping his face in my hands. “Grayson!”

This time he moans, so I lift his arm and slide beneath it while I wrap my other one around his side. “Come on. I need you to help me get you in my car. It’s not far, but you need to move, Grayson. Can you do that for me, Slugger?”

I ignore the whimper of pain that escapes his parted lips as he starts to move.

His left leg slides out of the car before he pauses, his breathing labored. “My other foot. It’s stuck.”

I sink to my knees, sliding my phone from my pocket for some light while I try not to panic. The undercarriage is damaged and it’s wedged under a big piece of plastic, but after a few minutes of jostling, he’s free.

Once Grayson is on his feet, he leans most of his weight on me as we slowly amble toward my car while I rattle off a string of encouragement. With every foot we gain, my lungs burn until I fall against the side of my car, and somehow manage to help him down onto the passenger seat .

Out of breath and exhausted, I round the car and make the drive back to my house, worried a concussion is to blame for his drowsiness and not booze.

By the time I pull into my driveway, I realize I hadn’t thought this through because I have no idea how to get him inside without waking my mother up.

I try shaking him and calling his name, but all I get is a soft moan.

I contemplate letting him sleep it off in the car when I decide that’s not a great idea on the off chance my mother wakes and finds him here. That and I’d like to monitor him through the night to ensure he’s okay.

Glancing around me for something that might help, I spot an old water bottle. Uncapping the lid, I mutter an apology under my breath as I splash the cool liquid all over his face.

He starts awake, his arms fling out in front of him.

“Easy, Slugger. I need you to climb through my bedroom window, so my mom won’t see.”

He nods, or at least it’s some approximation of a nod, so I slide out of the car and fling his door open. Much like before, he leans against me while I support his weight, careful to shut the car door quietly so as not to alert my mother.

We make our way over the lawn and to the side of my small ranch, and for once, I’m grateful it’s so tiny because it makes it lot more accessible.

I lean Grayson against the faded siding and remove the screen of my bedroom window, grateful I like to sleep with it open .

When I spin back around, he’s folded like a pretzel, slumped on the ground.

“Man, do you owe me,” I mutter as I coax and prod him back to his feet.

Panting and out of breath, I take a minute to regroup, praying for strength before I shove his upper body against the open window frame, thanking God for his height, then use my legs and body weight to hoist his lower half upward until gravity takes him and he tumbles inside and onto my bed with a moan.

“Sorry,” I mutter, bending at the waist to catch my breath.

My lungs feel like they’re on fire, so I wait for the flames to extinguish before I follow behind him. Sweat slides down my back as I manage to squeeze myself through the small space with him in my way, then sit on the side of my bed, staring at him while my thoughts race.

I want to know why he got shitfaced, then sat behind the wheel of a car, but it doesn’t look like I’ll get answers until morning.

As gently as I can, I rearrange his massive body, so he’s a little less contorted and seemingly in a comfortable position.

His shirt rides up when I fix his arms, and I catch a glimpse of his bare abdomen and hiss. A massive black-and-blue bruise is already spreading in a swatch of color across his lower abdomen from his seat belt.

I lift his shirt slightly to inspect him for more wounds but find none .

His body is honed to perfection, carved from hours in the gym and work on the field, with hard abdominals, a cut Adonis V, and a muscular chest that matches the swell of muscle in his biceps.

But the last thing I want to do is stare at him like a creeper, so I quickly lower his shirt, then head for the bathroom where I fill a glass with warm water and grab a washcloth.

Once I return, I set to work, gently scrubbing away the dried blood from his face, being careful not to aggravate the bruising around his eye.

I finish and dispose of the water and cloth, then return to my perch on the bed where I stare at him, wondering if I made a mistake bringing him here instead of the hospital. He clearly hit his head. He could have a concussion, broken bones, or bleeding somewhere.

I groan and drop my head in my hands, praying I did the right thing when he suddenly rolls onto his side and vomits all over my bedspread.