Page 129 of Things I Wish I Said
“Oh, you can smoke, but I can’t?”
The second the words leave my mouth, he rips the cigarette from my fingers and shoves it back in his pocket, so I ask him again, “What was that back there?”
He shrugs like him kissing me in front of all his friends and his ex-girlfriend was no big deal. “I didn’t feel like kissing her, so I kissed you.”
I stare into his eyes, but I can’t read them. They’re as dark and stormy as the night, with little room for interpretation. “But did you kiss me to get back at her?” I pause. “Or did you kiss me because you wanted to?”
I’m not sure I want the answer.
“Are you for real right now, Sinclair?” he bites out. “You’re seriously asking me that?”
“I think it’s a valid question. I mean, how am I supposed to know anything about how you feel or what you’re thinking when you won’t fucking talk to me, Grayson? You don’t tell me anything.” I slash a hand through the air. “Every time anything remotely personal comes up in conversation, you shut down. You know damn near everything about me, but you don’t tell me a thing about yourself, at least, nothing that really matters.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“Really?” I draw closer, closing in on him. “Because you’d think that something you might wanna share with me, considering the circumstances, is that your father died of freaking cancer.”
“What difference does it make?”
I throw my hands up. “It makes a huge difference. How you can even stand to be here with me is a fucking mystery. And what about Rachel?” I ask, pouring all my frustration and emotions out for him to see. “All I know is that you dated a long time. The rest you sort of just glazed over. And then we show up here, you’re completely rattled, and it seems she’s still in love with you.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not exactly something I like to advertise, Sinclair. What was I supposed to fucking say?” he snaps. “That she left me only a week after my father got diagnosed with cancer because she didn’t want to be depressed going into the summer? Because it was too heavy for her? Because it hurt her too much to wait around as he died?” His throat bobs as I flinch at his words. “Or did you want me to tell you that only two weeks after she dumped my ass, my father died.”
The blood drains from my face, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. “Yes,” I croak. “That’s what I want. I just want the truth.”
I want you.
I almost say it, and the realization frightens me more than any cancer diagnosis ever could. Because I can’t want him. I promised myself I wouldn’t.
“I was fucking broken,” he says, his voice cracking over the last word. “I’ve spent the last year doing everything in my power to numb the pain, and I’ve started to lose myself in the process. I can’t even pick up a fucking baseball without thinking of him. Without remembering how much he loved the sport andhow much he taught me.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “He wasn’t supposed to die like that. It wasn’t supposed to be so soon. And she left me right when I needed her.”
He straightens and runs his hands through his hair. The pain emanating from him is palpable, reaching for me like a lasso flung into the air, catching me and pulling me in.
“Fuck!” he hisses, then starts for the edge of the lake where he drops down beside the water.
I follow him, taking a seat on his right, the silence stretching and pulling between us like a bow ready to snap.
“When my parents told me about my father, I was shocked. One of the first things I asked was how much time he had left, and they gave me some bullshit answer about how the doctors didn’t really know. Said that if we’re lucky, he’d make it a year. So, you can imagine my surprise when my mother headed to the drugstore to refill his meds, leaving me to keep him company. He must’ve known, somehow . . . and he wanted to talk. He fell asleep, and a few minutes later, he took his last breath, leaving me shocked to my core.”
I reach out and take his hand, giving it a little squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
“I saw how quickly he was deteriorating. I wasn’t blind, but I blindly believed what they told me. Or maybe I just wanted to believe it.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “My mother came home, and I was a fucking mess. I was in pieces. Shocked. I thought I did something somehow. The only way she could calm me down was by admitting the doctors gave him a coupleof months at most, not the year like they had said. They thought they were doing me a favor. My mother told me they didn’t want me spending all my time at his bedside, counting the days like dominoes, waiting for everything to fall. But I would’ve rather known. At least I would’ve been prepared.”
I don’t wait for permission, and I don’t speak. Words do little to repair wounds. Instead, I reach out and pull him into my arms, holding him close to my heart where I wish I could keep him forever.
“I miss him,” he whispers into my neck, like it’s a sin he’s afraid to confess.
“It’s okay to miss him. But he’d want you to be happy.”
He stiffens, and I close my eyes, wondering if this is the moment where he’ll pull away and reject me, the one where his walls go back up.
Slowly, he pulls back, cupping one side of my face in his calloused palm. “You make me happy.”
I swallow, afraid to move and break the spell we’re under. “No, I don’t,” I say, my throat raw.
“You do. This last month, I’ve laughed more than I have since I lost him. You make me forget to be so damn sad all the time.” His other hand rises, and he drags his thumb over my lower lip while my heart crashes into my ribs.
“Grayson . . .”
