Page 162 of Things I Wish I Said
Fuck.
I do a quick Google search of the local hospitals and call, but none of them have admitted a Ryleigh Sinclair or anyone matching her description.
With shaking hands, I dial her number a second time, and this time, when voicemail picks up, I leave a message asking where she is and telling her to call me.
Despair sinks inside me like a boulder—heavy and sharp.
I start walking. I have no idea where the hell I’m going. All I know is I can’t stand here and do nothing.
Another hour passes, and my desperation mounts.
Still no Ryleigh. No call. Nothing.
Signs of life surround me. Traffic and honking horns. Pedestrians and passing conversation. A trickle of music from a nearby car. The sound of dishes clanking from the open doorway of a diner. Yet the silence from Ry is all I hear.
Resigning myself to heading back to our hotel room, I call an Uber, trying to make a plan on the short drive from the Dolby Theater to the Marriot where we’re staying. If there’s no sign of her at the hotel, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m completely out of my depth here. I have no fucking clue what the next move is.
Call her mother? Contact the police?
I shove the thoughts aside, telling myself she’s fine. I’m sure there’s some logical explanation for what happened.
The Uber drops me off at the hotel, and I make my way to the second floor on rubbery legs. Letting myself inside our room, I turn toward the bedroom and freeze at the sight of a slumped form sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.
An instant rush of relief crashes through me, followed by the muted stab of anger. “Ry?”
She turns, glancing back at me. Even from here, I can make out the silvery tracks of her tears. Solemn, copper eyes meet mine as I close the distance between us, trying my best not to snap at her for her little disappearing act.
“Ry, where the hell did you go? What are you doing here? You missed your award,” I say, like it isn’t already obvious.
“About that . . .” She glances down at her hands, her throat bobbing with emotion. “It was a pity win. I didn’t really earn it,” she says, her tone flat.
“What?” I blink, confused.
“I overheard a couple of the other nominees talking when I left for the bathroom. Apparently, the award wasn’t really mine. They were still making their decision when they found out about my diagnosis. That’s why it probably took them so long to decide. They gave it to me because I’m sick.”
My thoughts pop and fizz. “So, you just . . . left?”
“I couldn’t go up on that stage and accept that award knowing my cancer is the only reason I got it. Knowing it should’ve gone to someone else.” Her eyes glisten once more, and a swell of anger rises inside of me.
“Okay, but Ry, you left me there without even letting me know. They announced your name, and everyone was staring, looking at me for some kind of explanation. As if they thought I had any clue where you’d gone when I was every bit as clueless as they were. It was embarrassing. You put me in an awkward position.”
“The award—”
“Is that all you fucking care about?” I snap.
Ryleigh flinches at my outburst.
“Did you ever stop and think about what your little disappearing act might do to me?”
When she says nothing, I rake my hands in my hair, tugging at the roots until it's wild beneath my fingertips. “When you didn’t show, I panicked, Ry. I searched every inch of that theater, the foyer, and the exits. I even walked an hour around the city in search of you. I called fucking hospitals, Sinclair. Hospitals,” I say again to reiterate my point. “Because I was scared to death something might have happened. Petrified that you were laid up in the ER, unable to breath and fucking alone, and this whole time you were here?”
Ryleigh stands, but instead of the remorse I expect to see in her eyes, there’s nothing. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I stare at her, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“That’s it?”
She throws her hands up. “What do you want me to say?”
