Page 3 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter two

GRAYSON

I accept the blunt passed to me and take a hit before handing it back. I hold the smoke in my lungs for an impossible amount of time before exhaling. Beside me, Garret presses it between his lips, then drops his pants and begins to piss all over the No Loitering sign.

I roll my eyes. I’ve had half a handle of vodka and you don’t see me pissing on the scenery, but when Garret gets fucked up, his destructive side comes out and urinating on a sign is the least of my worries.

The broken glass door of the abandoned Citgo and the graffiti he haphazardly scrawled all over the brick exterior would be a little more concerning if the old camera on the telephone pole was working.

I shift my attention to the sleek black Mazda pulling up beside Dustin while his right-hand man, Jaydon, stands at the other end of the lot, keeping watch.

The passenger window rolls down, a few words are exchanged, and then money and drugs are switching hands.

I don’t need to be standing beside Dustin to know he’s handed them something stronger than the grass Garret and I are smoking.

Most of his clients have money like me. But unlike me, they’re the kind of rich that like to have something a little stronger at their parties than booze and Mary Jane.

It’s either pills or cocaine he’s dealing.

I watch as the passenger drops his head, checking out his wares before nodding. The window rolls up, and I wonder how long he’ll wait before he’s cutting a line and snorting it up his nose. Probably won’t even make it down the street.

Dustin and Jaydon are only halfway across the lot when a loud bleep followed by a burst of red and blue lights flicker over the empty lot. “Fucking pigs!” Jaydon screams.

“Run.” The words are out of Garret’s mouth before I can even process what’s happening.

Dustin and Jaydon fly into the cover of trees behind the building while I spin on my heel and take off in the opposite direction.

Maybe that was my first mistake, but I’m not worried about being caught drunk or high so much as I am being caught alongside Dustin with the load he’s carrying and being booked for possession or as part of a drug deal.

My feet fly over the pavement, the soles of my shoes slapping as I near the end of the block where I round the corner, faced with the bright flashing lights of another cruiser.

Shit.

Spinning on my heel, I head back the way I came, but not before a voice yells at my back, “Stop right there, son, and put your hands up! ”

My feet slow, knowing I’m caught, and running is useless.

I come to a stop as I wonder if they can even charge me with anything and, deciding I don’t really give a fuck, I slowly raise my arms in surrender.

My mom’s face is not the one I want to see when the door of the holding cell opens and I step out.

But I guess you don’t get a choice when you’re an underage minor caught drinking and smoking weed, and your parents have connections with the whole fucking town.

I’m almost certain Officer Brown was friendly with my father, even more certain when I see my mother’s warm smile directed at him, her blue eyes softening in gratitude as she says, “Thanks, Dan. I owe you one.”

“No problem, Vick. You know I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t help out Antonio’s boy in any way I can.”

I snort, to which Mom responds by casting me a scathing look.

I lower my eyes, walking in line behind her like a dog following orders.

Once we’re outside, the balmy Virginia air presses over me along with my mother’s condemnation as she lays into me. “What exactly were you thinking?”

I say nothing, skirting her and taking the lead as I focus on her Mercedes .

“It’s nearly three a.m., Grayson. What are you even doing out this late? And who the heck were you with? Officer Brown said—”

I spin on my heel, startling her into silence. “Why are you even asking if Officer Brown already gave you the recap?” I snap.

“Because I deserve some answers, Grayson.” Her lips thin. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“You know what.”

“I was drinking. Smoked a little weed.” I shrug. “So what?”

“So what?” Mom’s brows rise. She’s pissed, but so am I. Have been for the last thirteen months. “One of these times, it’s going to catch up with you, and you’re going to get into real trouble.”

I smirk. “Good thing you can just make another donation to the Fraternal Order of Police to help grease the wheels, am I right?”

“No, you’re not right,” she barks out. “There won’t always be an old family friend to bail you out.”

I exhale and drag my hands over my face. “Listen, Ma, I’m tired. It’s been a long night, and I’m sorry I woke you with my . . . problems,” I say, unsure if that’s putting it mildly. “But can we just talk about this tomorrow?”

She says nothing. Makes no move toward the car. Instead, she just stares at me like she hardly recognizes me anymore.

I know the feeling.

“You promise?” she asks, her tone uncertain. “You’ll sit down and have breakfast with me, and we can talk. Really talk? ”

“Sure. Whatever you want. I promise.”

“What about your game in the morning?” she asks, testing me.

“Do I look like I’m in any condition to wake up in a few hours for an early game?” I ask, motioning toward myself.

Hell, I’ll probably still be drunk.

Mom throws her arms out, releasing an insufferable sigh. “Fine. Tomorrow, then. But I’m waking you at eight, whether you’re miserable or not, and we will discuss this.”

“I look forward to it,” I deadpan, then head toward the car, knowing I have zero intention of being there.

I pinch the shirt clinging to my sweat-dampened chest and flutter it to cool myself as I take a few practice swings.

It’s hot as fuck, thanks to the heatwave that moved in this week.

Record highs with heat index warnings. Pair that with the hangover I’m sporting and I’m questioning my decision to sneak out of the house at 6 a.m. for our 8 a.m. game nearly an hour away.

Facing my mother’s lecture might have been easier.

I inhale, focusing on the pitcher as I take the batter’s box. Our team, The Aces, are down by three, bases loaded in the last inning with two outs. As it stands, the entire game sits on my shoulders. If I strike out, we’re done. Game over. Tournament lost .

I used to thrive on scenarios just like this one.

The old me would crush one out of the park, winning the game, and we’d go home champions.

But these days, I’m just as likely to crash and burn.

If my throbbing head is any indication, the latter is more likely.

Still, that doesn’t stop my teammates from calling my name and cheering me on.

I ready my stance, rolling out my shoulders and digging my back foot into the dirt, bat wagging as I home in on the pitcher while willing the drill in my brain to quit for five fucking minutes so I can focus.

The pitcher nods his head—once, twice, to the catcher—picking his pitch before he starts his windup and it leaves his hand, arching with a mean curve.

I swing and miss.

Fuck.

I was late on the ball, my timing off.

I spit on the ground at my feet and take my place again, stance ready, eyes narrowed, going through the same exact motions while I remind myself to fucking breathe and focus.

The second the ball leaves his hand, my vision blurs, and I see double.

I stumble, the bat flailing wildly beside me as I do.

The umpire calls it a strike.

Shaking my head, I gape back at the ump. “It was outside.”

“You swung,” he says, tone clipped.

“I did not fucking swing!” I yell, taking a step toward him.

“Looked like a swing to me, kid. ”

Kid? The word boils my blood.

“That looked like a fucking swing to you? It was a check swing, asshole. Maybe you need your eyes examined.”

“Grayson!” Coach snaps from the sideline. “Let it go,” he warns.

Let it go.

Let it fucking go.

The ump is making an ass of me, and Coach wants me to let it go?

I turn back to the base, stance ready. “Dickhead,” I grumble under my breath.

“What’s that?” the umpire shouts. “What did you say, boy?”

I sigh, and turn to find him staring at me, his mask off, eyes wild. “I said you can’t see for shit, dick. Head,” I say, enunciating the words.

“You’re out of here!” The ump points to the bench, and I scoff.

“You’re kidding?”

“Out!” the umpire screams.

I turn to my coach with a fuck-all attitude, the umpire nipping at my heels as I rip my helmet off and chuck it into the dugout where it smashes against the wall and to the ground.

“Coach, I suggest you control your boys, or you’ll have to forfeit.”

“Seriously, De Leon? What the hell is wrong with you?” Coach asks, striding after me .

I shrug, avoiding eye contact as I shove my gear back into my bag with Coach Pickens buzzing in my ear because I know what the fuck is wrong with me, and it’s nothing he can fix.

“I saw your stats for your high school season. You’re losing it. And now you’re shitting up the field on my turf when we all know what you’re capable of?”

“Sorry, Coach. I’ll try not to defecate on your field again,” I deadpan before I meet his stony gaze, my face a mask of indifference.

He recoils, scrunching his nose. “Shit, Grayson. You smell like the bottom of a fucking whiskey barrel. Are you drunk?”

I laugh. He’s just now noticed?

“Is this funny to you? Is losing and getting your ass booted from the game funny?”

“No, sir. And I’m not drunk, just severely hungover.” I smirk.

Maybe.

I’m not sure.

“You have two minutes, Coach!” The umpire screams from the sidelines.

Coach’s body vibrates with anger. “You promised me—”

“I don’t make promises, Coach.” At least not ones I keep.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, ready to jet when Coach reaches a hand out and grips my forearm, his gaze softening on my face.

“If this is about your father— ”

“It’s not.” My jaw clenches, the muscle flickering as I mash my molars to dust. I can’t think about him right now. “I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “Everything’s fine.”

And then I rip my arm from his grip and turn to leave.