Page 21 of Offside Attraction

She follows me in.

“The last thing I want is to know what my son does in his spare time.”

“And yet you assume it’s masturbation.” I sigh and drop onto the edge of my bed.

She sighs too, scanning the room again before finally turning her attention back to me.

“What do you want, Mom?” I’m exhausted. All I want is sleep.

“I want to talk.”

Of course she does.

Talking with my mom usually ends the same way—raised voices, slammed doors, days of silence.

“Okay.”

She walks over and sits beside me on the bed.

And suddenly, I feel like shit.

This is the part where guilt creeps in. Where I remember she’s trying. Where I wonder if I’m the problem now.

Fuck my life.

“I’m sorry, Dakota.” Mom’s voice is quieter now. “I’m sorry for bringing you back here—after everything that happened. After all those memories. I just… I want you to be happy aftereverything we’ve been through. Coming back might not have been the best idea, but I thought we could make it work.”

“Right,” I mutter, rolling the ring around my right forefinger as I stare blankly at the plasma TV mounted across from my bed.

“So… how was your first day?”

“Great.”

She exhales. “The principal called.”

That gets my attention.

“You can’t do that on your first day of school.”

“And she had to call you personally to say that?” I ask, already standing. “Or did you tell her to keep an eye on me?”

“Dakota, I’m your mother. I have every right to worry about you.”

“Of course,” I scoff.

She shakes her head. “What is your problem? Every day it’s a fight. You expect me to ignore your habits? First day back and you’re already in the principal’s office because you were caught smoking.”

“What do you want from me?” I snap.

She laughs softly—but there’s no humor in it.

“I get it. I left when your dad died. I was drowning. Nothing was okay, and I did what I could just to survive.” She runs a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. But you can’t keep punishing me forever. You need to stop holding onto the past and blaming me for everything.”

Her voice lowers. “I may not have been the best mom—but I want to be here now.”

I don’t respond. Silence is easier. Safer.

Everyone has their own mess. Mine is heavy enough without her trying to carry it too.