Page 121 of Things I Wish I Said
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 andKatie. 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 nothingto 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.”
