Page 89 of Things I Wish I Said
“I don’t know.” The notion my fight might be over is hard to believe when that little voice in the back of my head tells me otherwise. My gut says otherwise. I know I said that’s what I’d want to do, but it’s hard to imagine. Before I got sick, my career was always going to be soccer. In a matter of months that changed, and ever since I’ve sort of been . . . floundering. Just going through the motions and not really living. My time spent with Grayson these past few weeks has been the closest to living I’ve done since before I got sick. “It’s hard when soccer is all I’ve ever been, all I’ve ever known. I feel like nothing without it.”
Grayson reaches out and grabs my hand. “You’re not nothing. You’re a lot of things, Sinclair, but never nothing.”
I swallow, my insides melting at his words. All the touching, the lingering looks, and flirty banter, I need to know if they mean something or if it’s all fake for him. If this thing between us goes off the rails, I have a lot less to lose than he does. It makes it a little easier to be reckless.
“Why did you leave me that night at the party?” I blurt.
His eyes harden, and I can already see him starting to shut down, to turn his emotions off. It’s the same thing he always does when I ask him anything personal. He did it moments ago when I asked about his father, then changed the subject like I wouldn’t notice.
I always notice.
“Because I never should’ve kissed you in the first place.”
“Because this ends at the end of the summer?” I ask.
“Partly,” he says, yanking on the ends of his hair.
“And what else?”
“I’m not doing this.” He glances away from me, his throat bobbing. “I’m not that guy, Sinclair. The kind that can stick around, that catches feelings. The happy-ending guy.”
“Is it because I repulse you?”
“What?” He rears back as if I’ve slapped him. “No!” He shakes his head. “If you remember correctly, I kissed you.”
“Yeah. I do remember,” I say, voice thick, “and I’ve been trying to puzzle it out in my head ever since, because the second our lips touched, you jerked back like the room was on fire. So that leaves a lot of room for assumption and none of it is good.”
Grayson drags a hand over his face. “It wasn’t that, I swear.”
“Then what? Because what I remember barely even qualifies as a kiss. It was so short-lived, it—”
“It qualifies, okay?” he snaps.
I fall silent, staring at the anguish painted in the lines of his face.
“The second my lips touched yours, it was like a fucking bomb went off. It was alarm bells and sirens. Fireworks. Stronger than any fucking drug I could take. Sharper than any knife. Is that what you want to hear?”
My heart beats like a bass drum, chest heaving like I’ve just run a mile as he stares me down, thunder crashing through his eyes.
“If that’s true, then . . . why?”
“Because we can’t go there.”
“Because I’m sick? Because you’re afraid of hurting me . . .?”
“Yeah, Sinclair. I’m scared to death of breaking you, and it has nothing to do with you being sick. At least not like you think.” He trails off, clutching his face in his hands as his words echo through my heart. “I took your book,” he says, giving me whiplash, “and I’ve barely gotten past the first couple chapters.”
I frown, annoyed and frustrated, having no idea what the hell he’s talking about until I remember the romance novel at the hospital. The one I’ve held onto for months without finishing.
“So?”
“So, I can see where it’s headed. The wounded hero who doesn’t believe in love meets the cute bakery owner, and by the end of the book, he’ll magically be healed because love conquers all.” He pauses and shakes his head. “And I will never be that guy, Ry. I can’t give you anything. Hell, I don’t want to fall for anyone. I don’t even want to date.”
I shift onto my knees, trying to come to terms with what he just said.
So, it’s not because he doesn’t want me? Or is it?
“If I weren’t in the picture, had I never made this wish, would you have hooked up with someone at that party?”
