Page 165 of Things I Wish I Said
My gaze quickly sweeps the room to find all her stuff missing, my suitcase the only sign anyone is even staying here.
A cold wind whips through me, chilling the blood in my veins.
I spin around, my heart thrumming like a hummingbird as I check the living space and still turn up nothing—no sign of her—the only remnant of proof she was ever here is a folded piece of paper on the coffee table in her handwriting.
I swallow and pick it up, reading the few simple words with my heart in my throat.
I’m sorry. I thought I could do this, but I can’t.
Please don’t come after me.
-x
Sinclair
Chapter forty
RYLEIGH
The flight home isso different from the flight here, the contrast is startling.
It’s quiet. Stuffy. There’s no excited chatter about what we’ll do when we get to LA or what celebrities we might see. No plans about what lies ahead for us once we get home.
I close my eyes, and a tear slides down my face.
For more than six months, I didn’t cry, not once. And now, I can’t seem to stop.
I miss Grayson. Miss him like a hole in my heart.
The look on his face after I told him I didn’t love him will plague me for the rest of my life, which, all things considered, may not be all that long.
It’s for the best, I tell myself. I did this for him. He may not see it now, but months from now, maybe even a year, he’ll understand. Once he’s at school, he has the chance at a fresh start. All I’ll be is a burden, and he’ll realize I saved him from the guilt that would come from being unable to travel to see me on the weekends because he has exams or is training at college.From the pain of watching the trial fail and seeing me grow sicker. I freed him from the heartache of witnessing me die like his father. He can’t go through that again, and asking him to is selfish.
Even though it hurts now, hating me is a whole lot easier than loving me and watching me fade.
I blink my eyes open as a rush of emotion lodges in the back of my throat.
My lungs ache, burn—from heartache or cancer, I’m uncertain.
I choke down a sob, only for it to bubble back to the surface, tearing through my throat with a vengeance. The sob turns into a cough, the mucus in the back of my throat making it hard to breathe.
I hack into my hand in loud, sharp barks like the braying of a donkey.
I draw several stares from the people around me.
Embarrassed, I try to hold in the spasms racking my chest to apologize, but the tickle in my throat and the rattling of mucus in my lungs persists.
My eyes water. Tears that have nothing to do with my broken heart spill down my cheeks until the persistent nagging in the back of my throat wins, and I cough up the mucus in my lungs.
I hold the tissue over my mouth tighter, gagging on a wad of phlegm.
Wheezing, I pull the tissue away, noting the pink-tinged mucus, and rise from my seat. “Miss, are you okay?” I glance overat the sound of the voice, into the concerned eyes of a flight attendant.
I nod, unable to speak, afraid when I start coughing again, I won’t be able to stop. I turn away from her, making a beeline for the bathroom, and ignoring the pointed stares of the passengers around me.
The telltale tickle of another attack builds inside my chest. I only have precious seconds before it hits.
I reach the bathroom, only to see it’s occupied.
