Page 36 of Things I Wish I Said
“Ryleigh, hon, did you get anything to eat?” Mom asks, glancing around us for evidence of my breakfast.
“No.” I groan.
“I think the food is a sore subject.” Grayson chuckles, and I swat at him.
“When they brought it, I barfed. I don’t even want to think about it.” I shudder.
Mom gazes over at me with a sympathy I ignore as Grayson fishes something from his pocket and holds it out, revealing a deck of cards clutched in his hand. “Wanna play?”
“You brought cards?” I ask, my heart cartwheeling in my chest.
He shrugs, swallows. “My dad and I used to play. I just thought . . .” He trails off, a flicker of something in his eyes I can’t read.
“What game?” I say, sitting up straighter.
“Have you ever played Spit?”
I scoff. “I am the queen of Spit.”
“For now, but don’t come crying to me once you’re dethroned.”
“Ha! Fat chance, buddy. We used to play this at night in the hotel rooms when we had soccer tournaments because the coaches watched us like hawks and never let us leave. I have years of Spit-playing experience.”
Grayson grins and deals the cards as Mom rises from her chair. “I’m just going to pop in the bathroom really quick,” she whispers.
I nod, catching her megawatt smile as she goes. She looks so happy I almost feel bad about lying.
Once the door closes behind her, and I hear the lock snap into place, I whisper, “Have you ever done this before?”
“What? Pretend to be someone’s boyfriend?” he whispers back, clearly amused.
I nod.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? It’s my day job, actually. Only I’m usually escorting rich and thirsty middle-aged women.”
“Really?” I wrinkle my nose.
“No!” he hisses.
I bite back a laugh at his outrage. “Well, you’re unusually good at it. Maybe too good.”
He bites back a chuckle. “Are you mad that I’m good at it, Sinclair?”
“Not mad, just . . . mildly freaked out by it.”
He shrugs. “It’s not hard to imagine what your mom would want to see and hear.”
“Is that the only reason you came today? Because you figured she’d want to see you here, in this setting?”
He stops dealing the cards, his eyes laser-focused on the table. His mouth is set in a firm line, as if thinking about his answer takes all his energy.
My stomach clenches while I wait.
His answer shouldn’t matter, but for some reason, it does.
“No.” His eyes lift.
I swallow. “So, why did you?”
