Page 47 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter twenty-nine

RYLEIGH

“I think it’s time.”

Grayson glances at me over his ice cream cone, his gaze steady. “You think your mother will say yes to the trip?”

“She has to.” I sigh. “I won’t accept any other answer, even if it means I have to push the envelope.”

His eyes, more blue than gray in the midsummer sun, search my face. “Meaning?”

“I’m eighteen. She can’t stop me from going. I’d rather do it with her approval, but I also don’t need it. I told them weeks ago I’d be there to accept the award, and I have zero intention of missing it.”

He nods, staring straight ahead, his ice cream forgotten as it drips down his hand. “Actually, I want to talk to you about something.”

My stomach churns. It’s only been a few days since we played truth or dare at the lake, and ever since, I feel like I’ve been walking on egg shells, waiting for this to crack and for him to realize he was simply caught up in the moment.

Regret is a funny thing; it can sneak up on you without foresight.

“What is it?” I ask. Gripping my own cone tighter, I straighten in my seat, staring out at the empty soccer field.

“I’ve given this a lot of thought, and . . . well, I want you to let me pay for your trial.”

My head jerks, a furrow in my brow as I open my mouth to speak, but he gets there first.

“I know how you are, and so I know the last thing you want to do is take my money, but my family is loaded. We have more money than we’ll ever need.

I can do this and it would be a drop in the bucket, nothing compared to the potential reward of saving you.

” He turns to me then, his expression earnest. “I want to do this, Sinclair. Please. Let me help you.”

I suck in a breath, so caught off guard, I’m at a loss for words. “I . . .” I swallow and glance away from him. The field stretched out before me is lush and green. I know exactly how it feels beneath my cleats, the way it smells, and how far I have to run to score a goal. “I don’t know,” I hedge.

I don’t want to take money from him. The second I do, what we have turns into something different.

I like that neither of us should want this, yet we do.

We’re both here freely. But if he helps me with money, that changes things.

It feels obligatory and codependent. He’ll be just another person I’m dragging down, another debt to be paid .

“Sinclair, my mother comes from money. Yeah, my father was successful, too, but she had money long before she ever met him. I could probably pay your mother’s debt with my trust fund and not bat an eye, barely notice a difference.

” He pauses, his gaze burning a hole through the side of my face. “Let me do this.”

The idea of leaving my mother better off than when she started is an enticing one. The freedom I could give her . . . dying with this knowledge would bring me a hell of a lot of peace.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, turning to him.

“Really?” He blinks, shock glittering in the darks of his eyes.

I nod.

“Like really think about it? Not like how you told your mother you’d consider treatment, but for real this time?”

“For real this time. I promise.” I lean forward and brush my lips over his, both wanting to change the subject and erase the doubt from the intensity of his gaze.

His free hand reaches out, sliding to my waist and tugging me toward him.

He tastes like ice cream and desperation, so I kiss him until we’re both breathless. Until the last of our ice cream melts and the desperation fades, swallowed by my promise and the hope it brings.

After Grayson drops me off, I shut the front door behind me and call out, but no one answers. I cock my head, hearing the soft sound of classical music coming from the basement and realize Mom must be in her studio.

I head that way, cutting through the kitchen to the thick oak door beside the refrigerator and swing it open.

I only get three steps down when the trickle of voices reaches my ears, the hushed tones of Mozart an incongruous backdrop to the husky sound of John’s voice.

“I know we said we’d wait, but I saw this and knew it had to be yours.

Just like I knew I couldn’t let another day go by without asking . . .”

I pause, a frown replacing my smile as I quietly walk down another step. Dipping my head, I peek beneath the landing to see inside the room and the breath catches in my throat.

Mom is wearing one of her stained smocks, hands covered in drying clay and paint while John kneels in front of her.

A black ring box is nestled in his outstretched hands, and though I can’t see his face from this angle, I imagine the crease he gets in his brow when he’s talking about something serious.

The twinkle in his eye whenever he looks at my mother.

Clarity hits me, smacking me in the face.

I grip the handrail beside me to steady myself, because I know what he’s asking, even if my heart doesn’t want to hear it.

Just like I know I shouldn’t be witnessing this moment between them.

It’s theirs and theirs alone, but I can’t seem to move my feet as I wait for him to ask her the question I know is about to come out of his mouth.

“The last six months with you have been both the hardest and best of my life,” he continues, voice shaking with emotion .

I close my eyes, squeezing them tight.

“But there’s no one else I’d rather go through life’s ups and downs with than you. Jillian Sinclair, will you marry me?”

“Yes,” Mom chokes out.

A sob rips through her throat as she throws her arms around him, her face splitting into a smile. “Yes, yes, yes,” she murmurs.

Their lips meet, and then they’re kissing.

A ragged exhale leaves my lips, my own eyes tearing as I slip back upstairs unnoticed.

I don’t know how much time I spend pacing the living room. All I know is that by the time they join me upstairs, I’m almost relieved, ready for them to put their secret out there in the open, to tell me the news so I don’t have to pretend that I don’t know.

Mom sees me first, her smile genuine as she crosses the room and draws me in for a hug. “Hey, sweetie. How was your date with Grayson?”

“Good.” I shift my gaze to her left hand, bracing myself for the news as she pulls away, only to find her ring finger bare. “We had a picnic and got ice cream,” I murmur.

“Hey, kiddo,” John says, and my normal prickle of irritation at the greeting is absent, too preoccupied with what’s going on to get pissed.

Maybe it didn’t fit and they’re taking it to get resized?

“So, what did you guys do? Anything exciting happen while I was gone?”

Mom shares a look with John, emotion I can’t read flickering through her eyes, before turning back to me. “Uh, no. Nothing much. I was just working in my studio and John stopped by for dinner.”

I nod, waiting.

Several minutes of awkward silence pass before I realize they have no intentions of telling me what just happened. “So . . . that’s it?”

Mom laughs. “Of course, honey. What were you expecting? Are you hungry? John wanted to go out.”

It’s like it never happened, like I didn’t just witness John on bended knee merely minutes ago.

“Celebrating anything in particular?”

“No.” John smiles, the gesture warm, kind. “Just thought it was a beautiful night to take all my girls out. We’ll pick Katie up on the way.”

All his girls.

I take a step back, my stomach roiling. The thought of food makes me want to barf. “Uh, actually, I don’t feel so well. I think I might pass, if it’s okay.”

Mom’s smile fades. She reaches out. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good. I just . . . I think I had too much ice cream. Rain check?”

John nods, trying to hide the disappointment in his eyes as I turn and head for my bedroom.

The stairs nearly kill me. My labored breath combined with my rising emotion make breathing a chore.

Panting, I shut the door behind me and make a beeline for my bed, sinking down on the edge and placing my face in my hands. I tell myself to breathe while trying to make sense of what the hell just happened.

Mom and John got engaged, but they’re hiding it from me.

“I know we said we’d wait . . .”

I already had my suspicions after talking with Katie that they’d broached the subject of marriage. Now I know.

But what would they be waiting for?

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, heavy and every bit as hard.

I want to deny it, but all the evidence is tough to ignore.

My cancer has spread, and though Mom’s pushing me to do the trial, she knows that even if I agree, it’s a long shot. My odds of getting worse are better than the odds of me surviving, but I know my mom well enough to know she’ll cling to hope until the day I die.

Which means she’s waiting for me.