Page 9 of Things I Wish I Said
“No, I wasn’t. I promised Cameron I wouldn’t miss any more games.”
Not that I was much help today.
Her mouth mashes into a thin line of disapproval I choose to ignore before she glances up at me, her eyes darkening as she looks me over. “You need a shower.”
I snort.
That’s the understatement of the century. I also need about a gallon of mouthwash in order to remove the scent of booze from my breath, according to Coach.
Leaning her hip against the kitchen island, she crosses her arms over her chest. “I got a phone call from one of the coaches at George Mason. He wanted to check up on you, says he’s worried about your performance this season as well as your grades.”
Shit.
I keep my expression impassive as I shove another cookie in my mouth. “So?”
“So?” Mom blinks at me, mouth gaping. “So, what if they drop you? What’s your grand plan, then?”
“They can’t drop me for performance or grades now. I’ve already signed to play for them in the fall.”
Mom’s blue eyes blaze. “They can if you get arrested.”
She’s got a point.
“It’s not like it was a real arrest.” I roll my eyes. “It’s fine.”
“No, Grayson, it’s not fine. What about the next time?”
“I’ve got it under control. Okay, Ma? I can handle it. I’ll stay out of trouble, and it’ll be fine.”
“You can’t handle it, Grayson, clearly. You can barely stay sober.”
I swallow, clenching my jaw as I glance away from her and stare over her shoulder out the kitchen window.
She makes it sound like I’m a drunk.
I’m not. At least not yet.
“I’m worried about you.” She steps closer, reaching for my hand, but I yank it away. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want comfort or sympathy or whatever the fuck anyone wants to give me.
Hurt flashes in her eyes but quickly dissipates. “You’re getting tattoos. You stay out all hours of the night. You’re hanging around with kids I don’t recognize. Ones I know are no good. Half the time, you stumble home drunk or high or hungover. And when you are here, you’re not really here.”
I scoff. “Lots of people have tattoos, and you’re one to talk.”
Mom flinches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shake my head, numb. “Nothing. Is there a point to this?”
Mom sighs, and I count the beats of silence before she says, “I think you should reconsider college. Stay here with me, work with the charity, get your head on straight, then reapproach George Mason once you’re better equipped to handle it.”
“No fucking way!” I roar.
“Grayson—”
“I should’ve known this is what you wanted. This whole time, you’ve been so hell-bent on me working for you. You never wanted me to take the scholarship. You never wanted me to leave for school. That was Dad’s dream.”
“That’s not true!”
I shake my head, taking a step back. “The second you see me struggle, you try to take it all away, huh? Nice parenting, Ma.”
