Page 37 of Things I Wish I Said
“I don’t know. I just . . .” He shakes his head and leans back in his chair, raking a hand through the mass of raven locks on top of his head. “I guess I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And maybe a little part of me felt like a dick for . . .”
My lips twitch. “For asking if you could hook up with another girl?”
He exhales. “Yeah, that.”
I don’t ask him if he did. He had no reason not to after I gave him the green light.
Grayson De Leon isn’t a boy girls turn down. Even Hellen Keller herself would’ve placed her hands on his head, traced the perfectly symmetrical lines of his frustratingly handsome face and surmise he’s gorgeous.
A restless ache burns through my stomach, stronger than a shot of whiskey. It’s been a while since I’ve been jealous. It’s not an emotion I’ve had the misfortune of experiencing often in my life, so to feel it now with the boy sitting across from me—one I hardly know—is a surprise.
The creak of the bathroom door sounds in the silence as Mom steps back into the room. For once, I’m grateful for her presence; the interruption allows me to avoid analyzing how I feel.
I glance up at Grayson and force a smile as I grab my cards. “Prepare to be destroyed, Slugger.”
Chapter ten
RYLEIGH
I change my clothesfor the millionth time and stare at myself in the floor-length mirror over my closet door. My gaze trails up my body, nitpicking as I go. I’m not thrilled with what’s staring back at me, but I acknowledge I’m being unfairly harsh with myself. These days, all I see is disease. Dark shadows beneath my eyes. Chapped lips. The hollows of my cheeks and the dry, slightly pale skin.
Mom says she sees a fighter when she looks at me, but I don’t. I see a shell of my former self, a girl who’s merely existing.
I reach a hand up to the wig I’m wearing beneath a Nike baseball cap. The locks are long and brown, almost the color of my real hair but not quite—though the texture is all wrong. It’s been so long since I’ve worn it, I feel like an impostor with it now. Like the whole world will know the second they catch a glimpse of me that it’s not mine, when the truth is wigs have come a long way over the years. Probably no one would ever guess it’s fake. Still doesn’t make me feel better about wearing it, though.
So why wear it, dumbass?
I grunt and take in the length of my reflection.
I know why, and it’s the same reason I changed five times. Because I want to look good—cute for Grayson’s game—which is ridiculous. I’m not a normal girl and this isn’t a normal outing. Grayson has zero interest in me, and I have zero interest in him. I have no one to impress. Besides that, since when do I care about impressing anyone? I’ve only ever cared about what I think of myself. But I guess things have changed.
I’ve changed.
I don’t have soccer to drive my confidence anymore, and the fact that Grayson is probably the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on makes me want to look the part.
What if he has friends there? What if his teammates ask about me?
God, the thought of embarrassing him—or myself—is almost too much to bear, but with the wig and cap, I almost look normal. I might not be as toned or as tan as I used to be when soccer was my whole life, but I have a nice figure. If anything, boys might prefer this look to when I was zipping around a soccer field. My curves have softened. The muscle I dropped with treatment has given way to the quintessential hourglass figure.
I have no idea what the hell girls are supposed to wear to a ball game, but I assume it’s not much different from spectating a soccer game, so cool athletic wear seems the way to go, and the yoga shorts and cropped tank I’m wearing suit me perfectly.
Tearing my gaze from the mirror, I bend down and lace on a pair of sneakers, ignoring the slight cramping in my legs that warns of dehydration from my most recent treatment, then snatch my keys off my dresser.
I head for the hallway, ignoring the heaviness in my lungs?evidence of my morning coughing jag?and make my way into the kitchen where I know my mother is sitting at the table, going over bills. Without glancing her way, I fill my stainless-steel flask with water and ice, readying myself to tell her I’m headed out when her voice breaks the silence first.
“Off to somewhere special?”
I clear my throat and turn to where she’s staring up at me, her gaze lingering on the wig.
“Um, kind of.”
Surprise dances in her eyes before shifting her attention to my outfit and arching a brow. I lean against the counter, reminding myself to play it cool. Be casual.
This is your opening to push the boyfriend needle a little more.
“It’s just a baseball game,” I say, screwing the cap on my bottle. “Grayson’s game,” I add.
Her eyes brighten. The couple of hours Grayson spent with me at the hospital really impressed her. I think she might be his number one fan, though I admit I’ve set the bar ridiculously low. I haven’t had so much as a single soul visit me throughout any of my chemo treatments.
