Page 19 of Things I Wish I Said
“Because I don’t do the whole boyfriend thing. Or the love thing. I don’t believe in happily ever afters. And because lately I spend more time drunk or high as a kite than focusing on my relationships.”
There. Brutal honesty. Can’t say I didn’t warn her.
Maybe she’ll change her mind, after all.
“So fake it.”
Or not.
“Listen, I don’t expect you to win an Oscar. Play the part only when she’s around. All you need is her approval, and what she doesn’t know won’t kill her.”
I exhale, thinking about what she just said. I used to be that guy once. The doting boyfriend. Could I be him again, even if it’s for show?
I shake my head. “So, what’s this big trip?”
Her eyes brighten, her gaze catlike. “I won the Gatorade Player of the Year award. It’s in Los Angeles next month.”
“One of the state titles?”
She shakes her head, and my jaw nearly hits the floor with her casual shrug. “I won the single national title. It’s this prestigious award that?”
“I know what it is.” I sit back in my chair, assessing her in a new light. “That’s fucking huge.”
“Now you know why I’m so desperate.”
I nod.
“I’d give my left lung to go.”Her words echo in my head, and I’m hit with a wave of sorrow for this girl I’ve known all of five minutes. I’m sitting across from an incredible athlete, someone at the top of their game, because you don’t win the Gatorade Player of the Year award unless you’re next-level incredible. People who win that particular title go on to do amazing things in their prospective sports, almost always going pro. All that talent and dedication, right at the cusp of her career, only for it to be robbed from her by fucking cancer.
“Around the time of my diagnosis, I found out I won the state title, but there was a delay announcing the national winners. I just found out a week ago.”
I sink back in my seat with wide eyes, feeling a little unsettled. “You can’t not go,” I agree. “They announce the winner at the ESPYs, right?”
“Right.” Her jaw tightens.
“What sport?” I ask, truly curious now.
“Soccer.”
I stare at her through new eyes, with the mutual respect every athlete has for another athlete at the top of their game. I wonder how I haven’t heard of her before now, but then again, I don’t exactly follow women’s sports, and even if I did, this last year has been one giant shit show. The only thing I’ve focused on is killing as many brain cells as possible while just barely hanging on to my scholarship.
Regardless, the cruel injustice of her situation isn’t lost on me. I'd bet my life on the fact this girl has never so much as even touched a cigarette. She’s disciplined—dedicated. She’d have to be to get to where she is, and you don’t get there by smoking and destroying your body.
Yet she got fucking lung cancer anyway.
At eighteen, at the top of her game.
Just like that, with the snap of a finger, all of it was gone—her dreams imploded.
I know all too well what it feels like to have the rug swept out from under you. To feel like you’re floating on air one day, only to feel like you’re free-falling the next without a parachute.
My father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer one day, and three weekslater, he was dead.
Fuck.
My stomach twists.
The noose of guilt tightens.
