Page 32 of Things I Wish I Said
GRAYSON
I stroll into thekitchen at eight o’clock in the morning, making a beeline for the coffeepot when I catch my mother leaning against the sink. Her gaze is trained on the kitchen window, a mug clutched in her hand, steam curling from her cup.
My steps falter, surprised to see she’s not in her office already. Then again, I’m not really around much these days, and when I am, half the time I’m either stoned, drunk off my ass, or headed to a game. Rarely am I around this early in the morning.
She turns at the sound of my footsteps, eyes widening at the sight of me. “You’re up early,” she notes.
I grunt in response, opening the cupboard beside her to pull out a mug, and remove the carafe from the coffee maker, filling it to the brim before I take a sip. I only had six beers last night and a little weed, but the electric pounding in my brain says otherwise.
“How’s Ryleigh?” The question catches me off guard, and I flinch. “You met with her the other day, right?”
I nod, then clear my throat. “Uh, yeah, I met her.”
“And? What’s she like?”
I shrug. “She’s a soccer player,” I say. “Or . . . she was a soccer player.”
“Yeah?”
I nod, not really wanting to get into it with her, but I know if I don’t, she’ll continue to pester me until I do. “She was good, too.”
Mom hums. “What else?”
“She’s funny. Has an . . . interesting sense of humor. Kind of cynical, but not really.”
“Is she pretty?” she asks, clutching her coffee cup with a grin.
I stare at her hard. Her eyes are bright, her expression oddly hopeful.
“Mom, don’t do this.” I shake my head.
“Do what?”
“This.” I wave a hand around us. “She’s sick, Ma. Don’t make this out to be something it’s not.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks, sounding affronted. “What am I making it out to be?”
“Something fun? Some kind of fairy tale? This isn’t a rom-com fantasy where the couple who are fake dating fall for each other in the end,” I say, hand clenched around my coffee cup.
“That’s not fair.”
No, it’s probably not. But life isn’t fair. I have enough fuckingproof of that.
And, okay, maybe I’m taking my anger out on her, but I can’t seem to help myself when she’s acting like granting this wish is no big deal when it’ll probably fucking gut me.
“You know where she is right now?” I sneer. “Sitting in a hospital bed getting her chemo treatment. This won’t end well.”
“You don’t know that.”
I shake my head, not wanting to listen because I do know. Cancer has done nothing but rob me of the people I love. It’s fucking vicious and cruel, and I’m in no place to watch someone else go through this, but here I am.
Sliding my hand into the pocket of my athletic shorts, I pull out my car keys when Mom stops me with a hand on my arm. “Grayson, I just want to know you’re okay.”
I stare down at the keys, hesitating because I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay in a while. “Yeah, sure. I’m great.”
“Do you want to, I don’t know, spend some time together? We could go see a movie?”
I glance away from her. Even if I weren’t going to see Ryleigh, I wouldn’t spend time with her. It’s too hard. It’s so much easier to keep my distance.
