Page 33 of Things I Wish I Said
“I can’t.”
“Why? Do you have a game? I could go?”
I swallow. I do have a game, but not one I’m going to. “No. No game.”
“Oh.”
She doesn’t even know my schedule because she’s never bothered to look at it. If she had, she’d know I’m lying.
“Where are you headed, then?” Her gaze flicks from my face to the keys in my hands, and I glance up and meet her eyes.
“The hospital.”
Chapter nine
RYLEIGH
Sucking on one ofthe ginger drops Mom gave me before she left for breakfast, I will my nausea to go away. I contemplate finishing the book I brought as a distraction—the same one I’ve been staring at on my nightstand at home for the past six months—but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Groaning, I shift in the bed and bring my knees to my chest, but my stomach churns even more, the nausea rising inside of me like a flash flood.
A knock sounds on the door before a food-service worker pushes it open, strolling in with a cart that holds my breakfast.
I wave them off at the same time the scent of breakfast meats hits my nose and my stomach lurches. I gag then vomit, singeing my esophagus as I fight to keep it down, knowing the second the floodgates open, it’s all over.
I slap a hand over my mouth and bolt for the bathroom. Flinging the door open, I fall to my knees in front of the toilet, my mouth flying open on its own accord.
Vomit burns my throat as I unload into the porcelain with amazing accuracy.
My stomach jerks, squeezing and clenching until I’m wrung dry, and even then, the convulsing continues while I breathe in and out through my nose, knowing it won’t take much to get me going again.
My stomach squeezes, and I dry heave once more, then lift myself from the floor and amble to the sink. Turning on the tap, I cup some water into my mouth, gagging as I swish it around, when another knock sounds on the door. “Go away!” I shout out.
Silences follows, and I shiver, swallowing down the remaining nausea as I shuffle out of the bathroom.
Another knock, and now I’m pissed. Shuffling over to the door, I wrench it open. “I swear if this is about the fucking food—”
Shock hits me square in the chest.
I stumble back, blinking like I’ve seen a ghost.
“Whoa.” Grayson reaches out, his hand firm on my waist as he steadies me. “What did the food in this place ever do to you?”
I blink up at him, my nausea temporarily forgotten. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Is this how you’re always going to greet me, Sinclair?” Grayson shakes his head, a smirk forming on his ridiculously kissable lips. “Cuz I gotta say, it’s not very inviting.”
He skirts past me and into the room like he owns the place, with me following after him. It’s as if this is his world and I’m just living in it.
“Sorry, I was just . . . uh, puking,” I say, deciding to be honest. Chances are, he’ll witness round two in a minute.
“Nice.” I watch as Grayson flops down in the chair next to the bed?my mom’s chair.
Shit.
I forgot about Mom.
What are the chances he’ll be gone before she’s back?
