Page 49 of Things I Wish I Said
“Maybe she can help you?” she suggests, and I want to ask what exactly she’s going to help me with.
I glance over to Katie and take in her bright blue eyes and hopeful expression.
“I mean, I guess I could, if ya want.” She shrugs like it doesn’t matter to her, but obviously it does, and I can practically feel John’s eyes boring holes in the side of my face, so it’s not like I can say no.
It’s not that I mind Katie, per se. She’s nice enough. It’s just that I never had a sister, and I don’t need one now, yet I get the distinct feeling that’s what Mom and John are hoping for.
“Great. You can do my hair,” I say, my tone saccharine.
Katie gapes.
“Ryleigh,” Mom warns.
“What?” I smirk. “It’s a joke.”
Her eyes burn into my back as I turn and motion for Katie to follow.
Once we get to my room, I close the door behind us and head to my closet. Truth be told, I have no clue what the girls fromGrayson’s circle of friends wear to parties. Hell, I don’t even know where the party is. All I know is it’s being hosted by some kid named Kip.
In hindsight, it might’ve been useful to ask some of these things.
I debate texting him, then opt to go with what I’m comfortable in. It’s early June in Virginia, which means it’ll be hot and humid, so I slide on a pair of black cutoff jean shorts and a fitted white top. Both will look cute with my black Nike ball cap, which I intend on wearing with my wig again, because heading into a party with a bunch of strangers as bald as the day I was born isn’t exactly the kind of icebreaker I want.
I reapply some deodorant and tug on my shirt with Katie watching, not caring what she sees as her gaze sweeps nosily around my room, then back to me again.
“I hope I have big boobs like you when I’m in high school,” she blurts.
I glance at her, one brow raised. Katie might be twelve, but I wonder what her father would think of his baby girl hoping for big boobs.
She sinks down on my bed, seemingly oblivious to my silence. “My friend, Avery, says that boys only like girls with big boobs.”
I grunt. I don’t know her friend Avery, and I might not know a lot about boys, but even I know that’s bullshit.
At least I hope it is.
“That’s not true,” I say.
“How would you know? It’s clearly not a problem for you.”
“Because any guy that only cares about how big your assets are is clearly an asshole. There’s more to you than your body.”
She stares at me like she’s absorbing my words, and it’s the first time I realize they might actually carry some weight. It’s a weird, yet not entirely awful feeling.
“Besides, there are drawbacks, too, you know.” She cocks her head, listening. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished for small ones. Finding a sports bra that actually held them in when I played was next to impossible and they were always getting in the way. Just . . . appreciate whatever you have,” I say, flapping a hand at her, all out of advice.
“I guess.” Her gaze shifts, lingering on the trophies lining the shelves above my desk. Between those, the countless ribbons, awards, and the soccer mural next to my bed, this room is one giant tribute to the game. It’s almost like I can hear what she’s thinking. I don’t play soccer anymore, so nothing I’ve just said matters now.
A familiar ache balloons in my chest I fight hard to push back down.
Tonight is supposed to be fun, and I’m feeling better than I have in a long time. Maybe the chemo worked, because I didn’t wake with a cough and my lungs didn’t burn when I went for my morning walk.
Today is a good day—I’m going to my first real party with people my age. The last thing I want to do is ruin it with things I can’t change.
“Do you think if my dad marries your mom, we’ll have to share a bedroom?”
Her question throws me, cutting through my thoughts.
I laugh like her question is ridiculous. “My mother and your father are not getting married.”
