Page 115 of Things I Wish I Said
I exhale, tipping my head back so I can stare at the ceiling.
How do I tell her my father died from the same disease eating away at her now? How do I explain that somewhere along the way my playing baseball became so intertwined with my father’s memory, it’s nearly unbearable now? That it only serves as a reminder of this thing we both loved and shared, and now thathe’s gone, every time I pick up a baseball bat or field a ball, it fucking hurts?
I can’t step foot on the field without thinking of the hell he went through those last three weeks, how quickly he deteriorated. The way it felt to watch him take his last breath and the shock that I was the only one to witness it when I thought I’d still have months.
When I was a kid, my father would take me out in the yard, and we’d practice for hours. I spent years with him as my coach in little league and rec ball. Then came junior high baseball for the school and summers filled with travel ball. Countless tournaments and practices, doubleheaders and weekends on the road. When I made varsity as a freshman, I’d never seen him prouder. As a junior, in the spring and just before his diagnosis, scouts started approaching us. And then the bomb hit. Dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, so I signed a week after his diagnosis as an early commit to George Mason—the same school he played for in college. It was one of the happiest days of my life, mostly because I could see how fucking proud he was.
Three weeks later, he was gone.
I can’t put my pain into words, so I don’t try. It’s too hard, too painful, when it’s so much easier to shove it all inside, bury it so deep I can’t reach it.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, knowing I should open up to her when she’s done nothing but be honest with me.
Still, what I should do and can do are two different things.
“I went through a rough patch senior year, but I’m going to get back on track. This thing with Dustin, it was the wake-up call I needed. I’ll get my shit together.”
I try to catch her eye, but she won’t look at me. I can’t say I blame her. My answer is vague and closely resembles a brush-off.
I wish there was something I could do to make last night up to her, a way to pay her back, but I’m already doing the only thing I can by granting her wish.
Still, it’s not enough.
“Hey, Sinclair?”
“Yeah?” She glances my way, finally.
“I shouldn’t have called you.” I pause. “But thanks for coming.”
“Why did you call?”
I swallow, my gaze roaming over her face. “When I came to, you were the first person I thought of, the only one I wanted to see.”
Just like she’s the first person on my mind every other morning, and the last one I think about before I drift to sleep.
“Why’d you come?” I ask.
“Because you called.”
Chapter twenty-six
RYLEIGH
Our bathroom is small,but with me and Grayson standing shoulder to shoulder, it’s exceptionally tiny. There’s nothing lavish or luxurious. A small pedestal sink sits beside a toilet, with a tub and shower combo across from it. It’s plain but functional and clean. Knowing his bathroom most likely resembles the one at Kip’s party, I try to ignore the insecurity threatening to color my cheeks as I point out the linen closet with the towels and make sure he has everything he needs.
“You sure you don’t wanna join me?” He smirks, or at least it’s some approximation of a smirk. His face is so swollen, it’s hard to tell.
I snort. “Don’t push your luck, Slugger.”
“I mean, it might make me feel better.”
I have a fleeting moment where I consider it, then push the thought aside.
He’s hurt, and he’s joking, Ry. Get a grip.
Still, I can’t help but think about that day in my room, and my face burns from the memory.
“Considering it?” He smirks, before raising his finger to touch the heat in my cheeks. “I love it when you blush.”
