Page 43 of Things I Wish I Said

“My husband founded it on his deathbed. We’re .

. . blessed,” she says, glancing at her surroundings.

“But Antonio was leaving behind a wife and a son, and he knew how hard that would be on most families, so he wanted some way to help. A way to give back. He came up with the idea and we ran with it. I’ve spent the better part of the year building the foundation from the ground up, and Antonio’s one request of Grayson was for him to help me, at least until he left for college. ”

“So he’s honoring his father’s final wishes?”

“Yes.” She picks her tea back up and takes a sip.

“I didn’t push him on it until I got your email, and then all at once it felt like an answer to a prayer—like fate or Antonio standing over my shoulder and giving me a nudge.

I don’t know that Grayson ever fully grieved his father’s death.

It’s like he’s holding on to all that pain.

The question is why. I guess I thought that confronting cancer again might be cathartic somehow.

I also know my son, and I have no doubt he’s plagued with guilt for not following through on his father’s wishes.

I guess you could say I gave him a push, hoping he’d find closure. ”

She worries her lip with her teeth, and I’m at a loss for words when she adds, “At first, I was afraid I made a mistake, but your presence here, and the way he looked at you in there"—she glances back toward the house as if he might reappear—“I don’t think I did.”

I straighten in my chair, determination whipping through me like gale force winds. “You didn’t,” I say, my tone firm. “I’ll make sure of it.”

I pause for a moment in front of Grayson’s closed door, struggling to catch my breath after my hike up the stairs.

My lungs burn, a cough threatening to rip through my chest.

I breathe through my nose, bracing one hand on the wall beside his door until my heart rate slows and the air fills my lungs at a slower rhythm.

Finally, I knock on Grayson’s bedroom door, then push it open after he tells me to come inside.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed in a fresh change of clothes, his head bowed.

The minute I see him, my heart flutters, and when he turns those blue-gray eyes on me, the sight of his swollen eye is a shock all over again .

Dustin could’ve killed him last night, and a small part of me hates myself for it. It’s hard not to feel at least partly to blame.

“Hey.” He watches my approach, his expression wary. “How’d it go?”

I sink down onto the upholstered bench at the foot of his bed, taking a glance around me.

He’s been in my room a dozen times now, but I’ve never been in his.

It’s all clean lines and dark furniture.

A single pair of sneakers sits by his closet, the only thing out of place in an otherwise orderly space.

A green bedspread covers his bed. MLB posters plaster the walls.

It’s the most color I’ve seen in their house yet, and when I inhale, it smells like him—like leather and cinnamon.

He’s patient during my perusal, and when I finish, I meet his eyes. “I actually think she’s going to let you off the hook pretty easily, but she does want to take you to get looked at. Just in case.” And given the gash on his head and the bruising in his abdomen, I can’t say I disagree.

He exhales, rubs the sharp lines of his jaw. “Yeah, I guess that’s fair.”

“She told me about your father,” I say, watching him closely.

He drops his head. “Shit.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I’ve shared a lot with him: my diagnosis, how it felt to lose soccer, what the Gatorade award and the wish mean to me. About my dating life and friends, my mother and John and Katie. It hurts to think he couldn’t share this one thing with me—the one, huge thing that explains so much.

The muscle in his jaw ticks, and for a moment, I think he might not answer me. For a moment, I think I might walk out if he doesn’t.

But I know I won’t.

I’m in too deep.

Whether I want to admit it or not, I have feelings for Grayson. Big feelings. Not just fake-boyfriend feelings. The kind of heart-stopping, stomach-twisting, skin-tingling, I-would-do-just-about-anything-to-see-him-smile feelings.

But I know what this is, and I know what it isn’t.

I don’t expect him to reciprocate how I feel. I know he’s not in a place to give himself emotionally, and now, more than ever, I understand why.

“I’m sorry. I just . . . I don’t talk about it. Ever.” He stares ahead, the muscle still working in his jaw.

“You should’ve told me. This wish and everything else going on, I can’t imagine this is all easy.”

He says nothing.

I’m not sure what I expected, but I guess I was hoping to get more than this—more than silence.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

His throat bobs, and he shakes his head. “No.”

I sigh, trying not to suppress the ache inside my chest that has nothing to do with cancer.

I follow the trajectory of his gaze and realize he wasn’t just staring at the wall.

His eyes are locked on a photo. It sits on top of his dresser.

A man with dark hair and equally dark eyes crouches down next to a young Grayson.

The similarities between them are striking—the tawny skin, raven hair, straight nose, and full lips.

The only contrasting feature is their eyes, an attribute I now know Grayson gets from his mother.

They’re both wearing matching baseball uniforms and smiling ear to ear, a trophy sitting between them.

Grayson can’t be more than eleven, stuck in that awkward phase between boy and man, held captive by the camera.

“Is that your father?”

“Yeah.” The soft sound of his voice is closer than I expected.

I glance beside me and find him hovering over my shoulder. He takes a seat next me on the bench, and my heart gives a little kick. “You look like him,” I say, returning my attention back to the photo.

A soft sound escapes his lips. “Yeah, Dad was proud of it, too.”

“He coached you?”

He nods. “All through little league, right up until junior high.”

“I assume he played, too?”

“Yep. Went to George Mason, played through college.”

I glance over at him. “That’s why you chose George Mason.”

He swallows. “He always said coaching me and watching me play was like reliving his glory days, but better. ”

“You were really close,” I whisper.

Grayson grunts out a response, dropping his gaze from the photograph.

Only a foot of space separates us, and it’s all at once too close and not close enough.

I wait to see if he’ll tell me more about him, explain what happened, but he doesn’t, and I don’t push. He’s so closed off, I’m not sure even a crowbar could pry him open. I wonder if he realizes how much. While I’m an open book, he has a padlock around his heart.

I think about what his mother said, about how she felt like my wish was a sign from his father.

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe putting us together was some kind of stroke of fate or divine intervention.

His father’s death broke something inside of him.

And I want to be the one to heal him, but I can’t do that when I’m muddying the waters with my feelings.

This whole time Grayson’s been helping me, working toward my goal, and I couldn’t figure out why, but now I know.

He promised his father, and up until yesterday, he’d been doing better.

Since he’s been helping me, he hasn’t been drinking or smoking or hanging out with the wrong people.

It wasn’t until I revealed my prognosis that he lost control.

So, we’ll go on this trip, and I’ll bury my feelings.

No more kissing, and certainly no more instances like what happened in my bedroom last week.

I’ll shove it all aside, hide my symptoms and avoid talking about cancer and treatments or anything else that’s a reminder I’m dying.

And I’ll find a way to remind him that he can still love baseball without his father here.

That it doesn’t need to be a painful reminder, but a joyful celebration of the man who raised him.

If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll ensure Grayson gets the closure he needs, and then when we get home, we’ll part ways.