Page 157 of Things I Wish I Said
I turn the phone toward him. “And what are you trying to convince me of?”
Grayson’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out and suddenly, it clicks.
I reel back as though I’ve been slapped. “Wait. She asked you to convince me to do the trial, didn’t she?”
Grayson snaps his mouth shut, and the muscle in his jaw pulses.
A wry laugh bubbles in my chest as I rise to my feet, placing my hands on my head. “Oh my gosh. Did she ask you to offer me money for treatment, too?”
“No!” Grayson steps forward. “Ry, you have to believe me. When I made that offer, it was all on my own before she ever talked with me. She doesn’t even know about that, I swear.”
I narrow my eyes. I want to believe him, but I want the truth more. “I don’t understand.”
“It was the day I came to your place, after I offered to pay your medical bills that she asked. I guess you told her you weren’t doing it, and she freaked out. Told me you could go on the trip and that I was to take you.” His throat bobs. “And then she asked me to try and change your mind.”
“Did you agree?” I ask.
“That has nothing to do with anything I’ve said and done since, I swear.”
My mind races as anger trickles through my veins. “How am I supposed to believe that? I told you the other night that I was considering the trial, but how am I supposed to know if that was because it’s what I really want or your influence?”
“Are you serious?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I am.”
“If you recall correctly, you were the one that brought it up, not me.”
He’s right. I know he’s right, but holding on to my anger is easier than admitting it. “You’re telling me you haven’t thought about her request? That it didn’t influence you at all?”
He straightens, the blue in his eyes fading to gray. “Of course I’ve thought about it. All I can do is think about it, because that’s what you do when someone you love is sick and all you want them to do is keep fucking fighting.”
I suck in a breath at the word love, hating the seed of hope that sprouts at the sound of it.
“But I can tell you with complete certainty,” he continues, taking a step closer, “that every single thing I’ve said or done since has been all my own. You’re a grown woman, Sinclair. Your mother might have forgotten that, but I haven’t. And I know how you are. You make your own decisions. There’s no stopping you if you want something, and there’s no convincing you or changing your mind when you don’t.”
He takes another step, until he’s close enough that I have to glance up at him to look him in the eyes. “Now, do you wanna keep talking about this bullshit or do you want to talk about what’s really bothering you?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Last night. I know that had to be hard, hearing everyone’s plans for the future, having to tell them about your situation. I could tell it affected you.”
His words wrap around my throat and squeeze, stronger than any choke hold could.
Last night felt a little like losing soccer all over again.
The pain is fresh, palpable, settling inside my chest like a metric ton. I’m used to the reactions from people when theyfind out about my diagnosis, but these were athletes, people at the top of their game, my peers. It hits a bit harder when people who once admire your achievements look on you with pity.
And I hate being pitied.
But I can’t talk about it. Each time I do, it’s like reopening a wound.
I glance away from Grayson, my throat tight as I say, “I’m going to go get ready,” and then I turn and head for the bathroom.
After a brief breakfast where I mostly keep to myself, I get ready for the award ceremony. We have to arrive early for pictures, but first I have a meeting with another representative from MaxPreps for an interview.
Dressed in my gown, a pale green dress that hugs my curves and flares at the bottom, I step into the summer sunshine. It’s a gorgeous day. The sun is bright in a clear blue sky, birds are chirping, and the air smells sweet. It’s the kind of beautiful day where I would have killed to play soccer.
I clench and unclench my hands, my palms damp with sweat as I round the corner to the gardens where the interviewer is supposed to meet me.
