Page 45 of Things I Wish I Said
I’m standing here smoking a cancer stick in front of a chick with lung cancer.
“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling like an ass.
Cameron’s brows rise at this, obviously unused to me apologizing to anyone and especially not over smoking. He’s been getting on me about it for the better part of a year.
“So, are we going to this party or not?” Sinclair crosses her arms over her chest, her gaze flicking to the cigarette and back, her head cocked in challenge.
A weight settles inside my chest as I stare over at her and sigh. “Fucking fine,” I say. “We’ll go.”
I try really hard not to be pissed about Cameron and his big mouth inviting Ryleigh to Kip’s party as we walk into the Liberty Grill, but the short drive from the ball field to the diner has left me little time to decompress. It’s not about spending time with her. We need to hang out, and her mother needs to see us together. It’s part of the deal, and I’ve already committed myself. You can’t fake a relationship if you’re never together, at least not with any sort of credibility, and seeing as how the award ceremony is only five weeks away now, the clock is ticking.
But still, when I envisioned this whole thing in my head, I pictured something a little lower key, a little less invasive. Like hanging out at her house or the local coffee shop, not traipsing to parties with my friends. Worse yet, parties with Dustin.
Fuck, I need a smoke.
“Are you still sulking about Cameron inviting me to the party?” she asks once we’re seated.
I glance at her over the menu in my hand, wondering how she can read me so clearly, or maybe I’m just that obvious. “I’m not sulking,” I mumble, barely able to say the words.
“Sure ya aren’t, and I’m the new lead for the next Pantene commercial.” She rolls her eyes, and I feel a pang of regret. She’s ill and here I am sulking over a party with my friends.
“You wore a wig today.” I motion to her hair, mostly to change the subject, but also because I’m curious.
She reaches up and touches a lock of the chocolatey tresses as if she’d forgotten they were there. “I didn’t know if a bald chick cheering you on would embarrass you.”
My heart squeezes.
She says it like it’s nothing, but my instincts tell me to tread carefully. I would be hard pressed to find any female who wasn’t at least a little bit self-conscious with losing their hair.
Whatever I say in response will define the parameters of our relationship, fake or not.
I reach out to her, pinching her chin with my fingers and holding her gaze, more than a little surprised at the spark that jumps from her skin to mine. I know I shouldn’t touch her. I should keep my hands to myself, but I hate the idea that she thought for one fucking second I might be embarrassed by her. “For the record, I don’t embarrass easily, and you look fucking hot with or without hair, Sinclair. Are we clear?”
Her throat bobs and the copper flecks in her eyes darken with her nod.
I drop my hand, wondering why the fuck it takes everything inside of me to release my hold on her. “Good.” I pick up the tacky café menu that I know by heart and stare down at it anyway.
“You have a tattoo.” She leans forward, sliding her fingers over the ink on the inside of my bicep, lifting the sleeve of my uniform so she can see it better.
I almost jolt at the feel of her touch; it’s light and soft like a bird, yet I feel it everywhere.
I swallow. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you about personal space, Sinclair?”
Ryleigh chuckles and leans back in her seat, declaring, “It’s hot. What does it mean?”
“It’s the coat of arms on the flag of Mexico.” And then because I know she’ll ask, I add, “My father was Mexican.”
“I love it.” This seems to appease the curiosity burning in her eyes until she asks, “When do you leave for college?”
“The fourteenth of August.”
She nods. “Two weeks after the award. Perfect timing for us to ‘break up,’” she says, making air quotes with her fingers.
I nod, but I don’t want her asking any more questions about me. The last thing I feel like doing is talking about my father, the tattoo I got in his honor, or about how I don’t feel ready for school in the fall, not even close.
I lift my menu up and pretend to study it, hoping for a diversion. “What are you getting?”
She exhales, giving a little shrug. “Probably a salad.”
