Page 120 of Things I Wish I Said
Grayson’s father died of cancer, and now he’s granting my wish, and a mere twenty-four hours ago, I sat in my bedroom and told him I was done with treatment.
I try to say something, but nothing comes out.
My stomach roils as I try to come to terms with the fact I share the same disease as the one that stole his father from him—that I will likely see the same fate.
“I, uh, I didn’t know,” I say, realizing too late I’ve already said this.
Why? Why would he grant my wish?
It’s cruel, heartbreaking.
I glance inside the house, to the sprawling kitchen and the stairs I now know lead to his bedroom, thinking once again about the news I delivered yesterday. How I told him my treatment failed, that my cancer spread. I can’t even begin to imagine being in his shoes, but I’m guessing it felt a little like twisting the knife.
The pressure in my chest grows as I remember his words.
“I needed something to take the edge off.”
If I didn’t blame myself for what happened to him before, I do now.
A nagging voice in the back of my head wants to know if he was upset because he cares about me or because it reminded him of his father—maybe it was both.
I shove the thought aside. It’s selfish and irrelevant, and something I have no right thinking about.
Now more than ever, his behavior at Kip’s party makes sense. I acted as if a kiss was no big deal, but now I understand why it spooked him. Now some of the pieces of the puzzle are coming together, I can comprehend his hesitation where I’m concerned. The fact that I have cancer does make it worse for him.
At the end of this, Grayson needs to be able to walk away from this wish unscathed. I need him to be okay—more than okay. It’s suddenly important that he’s somehow better off because of me, not more broken than I found him.
I clear my throat, hoping it’ll clear my head as I ask the one question still plaguing me. “Why would he agree to the wish?”
No matter how you slice it, I can’t imagine being in his position and wanting to help me.
Victoria bites her lip as if deciding whether to tell me. “Did you read how Wishing Well got started?”
I shake my head, feeling slightly foolish and wholly ignorant. Teaches me for not reading the fine print.
“My husband founded it on his deathbed. We’re . . . blessed,” she says, glancing at her surroundings. “But Antonio was leaving behind a wife and a son, and he knew how hard that would be on most families, so he wanted some way to help. A way to give back. He came up with the idea and we ran with it. I’ve spent the better part of the year building the foundation from the ground up, and Antonio’s one request of Grayson was for him to help me, at least until he left for college.”
“So he’s honoring his father’s final wishes?”
“Yes.” She picks her tea back up and takes a sip. “I didn’t push him on it until I got your email, and then all at once it felt like an answer to a prayer—like fate or Antonio standing over my shoulder and giving me a nudge. I don’t know that Grayson ever fully grieved his father’s death. It’s like he’s holding on to all that pain. The question is why. I guess I thought that confrontingcancer again might be cathartic somehow. I also know my son, and I have no doubt he’s plagued with guilt for not following through on his father’s wishes. I guess you could say I gave him a push, hoping he’d find closure.”
She worries her lip with her teeth, and I’m at a loss for words when she adds, “At first, I was afraid I made a mistake, but your presence here, and the way he looked at you in there"—she glances back toward the house as if he might reappear—“I don’t think I did.”
I straighten in my chair, determination whipping through me like gale force winds. “You didn’t,” I say, my tone firm. “I’ll make sure of it.”
I pause for a moment in front of Grayson’s closed door, struggling to catch my breath after my hike up the stairs.
My lungs burn, a cough threatening to rip through my chest.
I breathe through my nose, bracing one hand on the wall beside his door until my heart rate slows and the air fills my lungs at a slower rhythm.
Finally, I knock on Grayson’s bedroom door, then push it open after he tells me to come inside. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed in a fresh change of clothes, his head bowed. The minute I see him, my heart flutters, and when he turns those blue-gray eyes on me, the sight of his swollen eye is a shock all over again.
Dustin could’ve killed him last night, and a small part of me hates myself for it. It’s hard not to feel at least partly to blame.
“Hey.” He watches my approach, his expression wary. “How’d it go?”
I sink down onto the upholstered bench at the foot of his bed, taking a glance around me.
