Page 100 of Things I Wish I Said
It didn’t matter if I shouldn’t.
It didn’t matter if we’d never have a happy ending.
She needed to know she was beautiful.
She needed to know she was more than a stupid game or some wish.
She needed to know she was more than her illness. That she was sexy as hell, desirable, sweet and selfless and strong.
Ryleigh is so fucking strong it makes everyone else around her pale in comparison. Including me. Especially me.
So, for one moment I just wanted to show her all of those things since I couldn’t tell her. Put into action what my words can’t say and make her feel good.
And the second my lips touched hers, I lost it. I took what I wanted, and I took it too far.
I lift my head. Trent and Cameron are still waiting for an answer.
Clearing my throat, I try to find the easiest way to sum up what Ryleigh is to me without telling them it’s fake, because whatever this is doesn’t really feel fake anymore and because the thought of her dating anyone else feels like taking a fucking nine iron to the ribs. I can’t—I won’t—fall for her. Maybe she can handle pretending we’re fake-dating with benefits, but I’m not sure I can. It’s different with her. That alone freaks me the hell out.
“We’re just friends,” I say, reiterating what I’ve already told them.
Silence yawns between us, stretching and filling the gap while Cameron stares at me, trying to read the lie.
My phone rings, and I jerk, glancing down at it in my hands. A frown pulls at my mouth as I take in the unknown number. “Hang on,” I mumble.
Turning away from them, I walk a couple feet before I hit accept and press it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Grayson?”
A chill creeps up my spine as I clutch the phone tighter. I recognize the voice instantly—Jill Sinclair—along with the anxious tenor of her tone.
“Is Ryleigh okay?” I rush to ask.
“Actually, that’s why I called. Do you think you can come over? I’m worried about her.”
My chest tightens.
That’s all she needs to say.
I’m already moving when I nod, my thoughts scattering in a million different directions to a million different possibilities,when I realize she can’t see me. “I’m on my way.”
I remember the day my father was diagnosed.
We ate dinner together—late, because I’d had a game—but instead of scurrying to the couch where my parents would inevitably watch a movie before heading to bed, they told me they needed to talk to me.
Before Dad died, I was always an easygoing kid. I never got into trouble at school. I chose my friends wisely and got good grades. Most of my spare time after the age of twelve was devoted to baseball. I can count on one hand the number of times my parents called a family meeting or said they wanted to talk. So, when they sat me down in the living room, and I noticed Mom’s puffy, swollen eyes for the first time, and Dad’s solemn expression, I knew. I had this bone-deep feeling that whatever they were about to tell me would change my life.
My palms began to sweat, my heart galloping like a racehorse as Dad looked me in the eyes. “I’m dying, kiddo.”
There was no sugarcoating it. No telling me he was going to a better place or beating around the bush or softening the blow, just the cold hard truth.
“I’m dying, kiddo.”
I broke down for the first time since I was five, but what I didn’t know at the time was that the doctors only gave him weeks to live. When I’d asked, they’d been vague about the details, and I was foolish in my expectations. I assumed Dad had a year, maybe more. So when I lost my best friend three weeks later, it fucking slayed me.
I have the same feeling now as I pull up to the small ranch and stare over at Ryleigh’s house with a thousand knots tightening in my stomach.
Unbuckling my seat belt, I slide out of the car and make my way to the door where I find Jill already waiting for me. Her face is a mask of worry. Her brows are drawn, her mouth tight, but her eyes aren’t puffy and they aren’t red, so I take this as a good sign. Surely, if Ryleigh got bad news, she’d have been crying.
