Page 6 of Things I Wish I Said
Chapter four
RYLEIGH
I jolt awake, heart pumping as I stare at the shadows on the wall while my chest tightens. A thin sheen of sweat beads my brow, and I briefly wonder if I have a fever before I decide it doesn’t really matter.
A glance at my alarm clock reveals it’s just after one o’clock in the morning. My mind begins to race as fast as my heart, and I start thinking of all the other people across the world who are awake at this exact moment like I am. I wonder if any of them are sick like me.
I listen intently to the soft sounds of the house settling and the crickets outside my window, letting them soothe the tightness in my chest before my dry throat beckons me to get up.
With a groan, I push myself out of bed. My legs are stiff and an aching pang echoes in my chest with each step I take toward the bathroom, wishing I had an en suite.
It’s only ever been Mom and me, so the single bathroom and the small ranch-style house never bothered me much before, but now I could sure use the proximity .
I slip into the bathroom and grab the tumbler off the sink, then fill it with water. My hand shakes as I tip it back, trying to get a rein on my melancholic thoughts before they send me into a spiral.
I catch my gaunt reflection when I set the cup back down, but my gaze doesn’t linger. I don’t need to stare at my face to know I look like shit.
Padding my way back into my room, I head to my desk instead of my bed, certain it’ll take me forever to fall back asleep.
I sink down in front of my computer, boot the monitor, and wait, the glow of the screen illuminating the darkness around me.
My home screen indicates I have new emails, so I click on the app, preparing myself to see nothing but junk mail.
It’s the same routine I’ve done since I sent my request to Wishing Well a week ago.
It’s stupid, a fool’s errand. I have next to no reason to hope they’ll grant my wish or even acknowledge my request. Just because you send one, doesn’t mean they’ll grant it.
Most cancer patients get nominated by doctors, friends, or community members.
Most of them have been battling cancer for a lot longer than six months.
It’s not every day you nominate yourself, and it’s certainly not every day you ask for a boyfriend.
It’s like asking for a miracle, but as I log in to my email account, I can’t help but hold onto hope, something I haven’t done in months .
The page loads and I scan through the handful of new emails, most of which are junk, when my eyes zero in on one a familiar sender and my stomach bottoms out.
The Wishing Well.
My heart hammers in my chest, my throat bone dry despite just having a drink. My palm on the mouse trembles with anticipation as I click on it.
It’s probably just a rejection email. Either that or an explanation as to why you can’t ask for a fucking relationship and to try again— better luck next time .
But when the email loads, it doesn’t take me long to read it.
My mouth drops as I scan it for a second time to be sure my mind isn’t playing tricks on me.
It isn’t.
Dear Ryleigh,
We at Wishing Well have agreed you are a phenomenal candidate for a wish and would love to grant your request. Please call us at your earliest convenience to schedule a meeting to discuss the details.
With love,
Victoria De Leon
CEO and cofounder of Wishing Well.
I flop back in my chair, stunned.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. “I did it.”
A few days later I sit in my room, waiting for my mom to leave for work.
When I hear the door shut, I shower, then do my makeup for the first time in a long time.
Because I’m so pale, I don’t bother with foundation and skip right to a cream blush and a little bronzer for color.
By the time I’m done with my eyes and lightly adding some color to my bare brows, I look semi-presentable.
Maybe I’m not what I used to be, and I desperately miss my long chestnut locks, but I almost pass for pretty.
At the very least I look normal, and I feel better than I did in the past week, which is more than I could ask for.
I tie a silk scarf around my head, then wander to my closet where I stare into its depths, feeling more than a little lost. What the hell do you wear to a meeting with the head of a nonprofit meant to discuss your fake boyfriend?
With a grunt, I pull a pretty summer dress off the hanger. It’s a gorgeous coral color that somehow compliments the varying shades in my hazel eyes, and I try not to imagine how it looked when I was healthy as I slide it on.
It’s looser than it once was, my having lost weight. Even my boobs are slightly smaller, though I’d been gifted—or cursed, depending on how you look at it—with a large chest, so my 34Ds are now 34Cs and somehow look bigger on my now smaller, less muscular frame than before I got sick.
With a sigh, I strap on some sandals, then snatch the rollerball of perfume my mom bought me and rub some on my wrists. It’s all natural, mostly a blend of essential oils that smells like flowers and sweet orange oil—one of Mom’s many nontoxic swaps since getting sick.
Once I’m ready, I rush downstairs, feeling the burn in my lungs as my quick stride eats up the stairs.
I used to run a five-minute mile, but a flight of stairs now leaves me winded.
It pisses me off.
I glance at the clock in the living room and realize they should be here any minute.
Thank God they were able to accommodate me and schedule the appointment for this morning while my mother’s at work.
Her schedule at the diner is unpredictable, her time in the studio even more so.
I’m not sure what—or who—to expect. I should’ve asked if it’s the CEO or an administrator coming today, but I’d been so floored when I called to make the appointment, I couldn’t think of anything other than the fact this might work.
If I can convince my mother I have a doting, loving boyfriend who would do anything to protect me, then maybe she’ll let me take the trip.
At exactly ten o’clock, the doorbell rings, and I tense.
For the first time since shooting off that email, I wonder if I should be embarrassed.
Most girls my age would probably feel like a complete loser asking for a boyfriend, and though I loathe the idea of being someone’s charity case, my drive to attend the ESPYs is stronger than my pride.
Never mind the fact that I’ve never actually had a boyfriend.
What little I know about high school relationships, I learned watching my peers.
My lack of experience directly correlates with how much time I spent on the fields and the fact I went to an all-girls' high school.
For a long time, I was okay with that, because I was going places.
Soccer was my world. Everything else came second, including a social life and dating.
I had goals—a vision—and it wasn’t that I didn’t want a relationship, but most of the boys I knew couldn’t handle my success.
It was as if my talent was somehow a reflection of them and their lack thereof.
A few dates here and there with boys I met through camps and travel, and I quickly decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.
I push my shoulders back and head for the door, swinging it open so fast, it takes me a moment to process the boy on my porch.
His back is facing me, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his slacks. His dress shirt is untucked and rolled at the sleeves, revealing thick chords of muscle.
He turns around at the creak of the door hinges, and I suck in a breath.
This tall, gorgeous human with rumpled black hair, gray-blue eyes, a jaw that could cut glass, and tanned, smooth skin is more man than boy.
A tie hangs loosely around his neck, like he’s been yanking at it for a lot longer than he’s been standing there. Combined with his mussed-up locks, he looks disheveled, and it’s sexy as hell.
I gawk, like I’ve never seen a boy before. Like my hormones have decided to take this exact moment to come out of hibernation .
Until I remember why both of us are standing here, and I blush.
“Hey,” he rasps.
Oh, God, his voice is sexy, too.
He steps forward, reaches a hand out. “I’m—”
I don’t even let him finish the sentence before I slam the door in his face, shutting him out.