Page 81 of Things I Wish I Said
“I wanted to.”
“Yesterday was such a good day, and today, I’m back to feeling like shit. I guess I deserve it, but I can’t find it in me to be mad or regret it because I had a blast.”
“Yeah?” I search her gaze for a lie but find none.
She doesn’t regret going to the party.
The kiss.
Bailing on her.
The fight.
It should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
Ry starts to eat her sandwich, so I kick off my sneakers, and move onto the bed, propping myself up beside her against the headboard.
If she doesn’t want me sitting this close, she doesn’t say so and shows no signs of discomfort when my long legs spread out next to hers. Our thighs accidently brush, and my skin heats at the point of contact.
She pulls away like I burned her, which confirms she felt it, too.
I take a bite of my sandwich, thinking. It’s intimate, I realize, sitting in bed with her this close . . . just being. I’ve slept with more girls than I’d like to admit, and I’m not sure it ever felt quite like this. Not even with Rachel, and we were together three years.
I finish the rest of my sandwich and glance around Ryleigh’s room, taking in the awards and medals. Everything about the space screams soccer, from the posters on the wall to the giant mural beside us.
I wonder what she’ll do with it now that she can’t play, or at least not like she used to. I glance over at her, watching the cute way she sips her coffee before taking a tiny bite of sandwich.
She turns and glances at me to catch me staring, and my stomach flips. This close up, I can see every fleck of green and gold in her eyes—they’re mesmerizing.
“What?” she asks, bringing a hand to her face. “Do I have something on me?”
“Nope.” I shake my head before tearing my eyes from her. “I’ve never heard anyone call you by anything other than your full name. Does it bother you when I call you Ry?”
“No. But you also call me Sinclair,” she points out.
“Doesthatbother you, Sinclair?” I arch a brow, nudging her arm with mine.
Her cheeks flush. “Also no.”
She goes back to eating her sandwich for a few minutes before she sets it aside, and glances over at me. “Can I askyoua question?”
I slowly nod, fighting my instinct to say no. I don’t typically like answering questions about myself. I’m not an open book, not anymore.
“What were you like when you were little?”
I run a hand over the back of my neck. Remembering my childhood means remembering my father, and I typically avoid anything that makes me think of him because it’s too painful, so I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “When I was little, I was kind of a goof.”
She arches a brow like she doesn’t believe it, so I continue. “I wanted to be a stand-up comedian, so I used to do these mock shows for friends and family.”
“No.” Ry’s eyes widen.
“Yes.” I chuckle.
“You mean you used to crack jokes and stuff? Like you had your own comedy show?”
My mouth twitches. “I even had a recording of laughter I used to play for myself after a particularly hilarious set.”
“Oh no. Now you must tell me some jokes.”
