Page 83 of Things I Wish I Said
“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel quite right, but I never pictured doing anything other than soccer either, so maybe it’s not supposed to. But I have this one nurse I always see when I go in for treatments. She’s almost become like family. Made the whole thing more bearable. She’s like this walking ball of sunshine, and when I’m there, I sometimes get annoyed by it, but honestly, I’m not sure what it would’ve been like without that—without her—and I think no matter what I do, I’d like it to be working with cancer patients. I’d like to make a difference.”
She glances at me sideways with a half grimace, as if there’s a chance I might think her answer is lame when there’s not a chance in hell.
“I think that sound amazing.” I can see her: older, wiser, the round lines of her face sharpened by time and the lack of chemo, bustling around a hospital, cracking jokes to all the kids. A walking ball of sunshine. That’s how I think of her; it’s how I described her just a week ago.
“Also, I’d get to wear scrubs. Can’t beat that.”
“You’d look hot in scrubs.”
“And there’s that.” She rolls her eyes, then grins. “Now it’s my turn.” She rubs her hands together with glee while I try not to squirm. “Favorite movie?”
Relief crashes over me. “Easy.The Rookie.”
“The baseball movie? Seriously?”
“I cried the first time I watched the scene where Dennis Quaid makes his debut with the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. I still get a little teared up when I watch.”
Ry snickers. “Wow. I didn’t take you for a crier at movies, De Leon.”
“Maybe there’s a lot you don’t know about me.” I grin, sipping my coffee.
“Hence the questions. So, what other movies have you cried at?”
“Old Yeller.”
“Obviously.” She rolls her eyes.
“The Notebook.”
“Seriously?” She shoves at my arm. “Get out. You cried atThe Notebook?”
“What? It’s sad!”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you messing with me?”
“Guess we’ll have to watch one together and see.” I smirk.
She hums under her breath, and I wonder if she thinks I’m just being polite when really, I’m enjoying her company and the questions far more than I should. I want to know what makes Ryleigh Sinclair tick. Maybe if I do, I can steal some of her sunshine and keep it for my myself.
“What’s the best place you’ve ever been to?” I ask.
“Oof. That’s hard.” She leans her head back on the headboard and stares up at the ceiling, a crease forming between her brows. “I’ve been to some pretty cool places for soccer, but . . . there was this one time, I think I was ten. I was heavily into soccer already, but the travel wasn’t as crazy, so Mom and I had a lot more time in the summers. We didn’t have much money, so lavish vacations were out, but she wanted to take me somewhere anyway. She spent hours setting up the backyard, stringing twinkle lights in the trees, setting up a tent and fire pit. We camped there for a week with the rule you couldn’t go in the house for anything. Every day she had something new planned. We drove out to Virginia Beach and body surfed in the waves, ate massive ice cream cones in the heat as they dripped down our arms, picked wildflowers, and caught fireflies at night. We roasted marshmallows by the fire and stayed up late, playing cards and watching movies on an old projector she bought. We walked around Williamsburg and tried our hand at fishing in the James, which neither of us were very good at.” She laughs, a low rumble in her chest. “We hiked and took long walks bythe water. Ate dinner at sunset and woke at dawn to watch it rise. Everything about that week was so simple but perfect at the same time. It’s like time slowed down just for us.”
She shrugs, almost sheepish. “It probably sounds stupid, like any summer for anyone else, but it was special, and I guess I remember it because it was the first time I realized just how amazing my mother was, not as a mom but as a woman, you know? She’s always been such a free spirit, but for those two weeks I saw just how cool she was to be around in a way I hadn’t before. And I realized I wanted to be like her. That if I could have even a tenth of her energy and spirit, I’d turn out all right. Sometimes I feel like she gets judged a lot for what she’s chosen to do with her life because it doesn’t make much money, but then I see these other people and they have everything—anything money could buy—and they’re miserable, you know? But my mom’s always been passionate. She loves creating pottery in the same way I loved soccer. And even through my treatments, she’s still the happiest person I know. Like this beaming ray of hope. Sometimes I hate it, only because I feel like I’m setting her up to fail.”
Her throat bobs. “The worst feeling in the world is knowing I’ll probably be the one to break her.”
Silence settles over us, the air thick with the weight of her words.
She could have easily been describing the relationship I had with my father.
I wonder if he felt like that in the days before he died. If he worried about being the one to break us, and I wonder what he’d think if he knew I can’t look at a baseball without feeling like my chest has been cleaved in two.
I don’t dare think about my mother and what I’ve put her through. I can only handle so much introspection without wanting to crawl out of my skin.
“Enough about me. It’s my turn, and there’s something I’ve been wondering about.” She turns, eyeing me warily in a way that makes my palms sweat. “Your girlfriend—who broke up with who and why?”
My chest tightens. “That’s two questions.”
