Page 4 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter three

GRAYSON

My brows rise as I watch her remove a tray of cookies from the oven and take them to the island where she scoops them off the pan and onto a rack to cool.

This certainly wasn’t the reception I expected.

I can’t even remember the last time I saw her in the kitchen, let alone making homemade cookies.

Something’s up if Ma is baking the morning after the local law enforcement picked me up.

Still, I’m not opposed to taking advantage of whatever this is.

Nothing helps ease a whiskey stomach like sugar or grease.

I make a beeline for the cookies before she can stop me, scooping one up and tossing it from hand to hand as it burns my skin, before inhaling the hot chocolatey goodness while Mom shoos me with her spatula. “You’re going to burn your mouth!”

“Worth it,” I say between bites.

“You weren’t in your room this morning.”

Here we go . . .

“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.”

She recoils at my words. I should feel bad, but I don’t because I’m so damn mad. I’m so fucking pissed all the damn time, I can’t take it anymore.

“It’s not like that, Grayson, and you know it. I’m worried about you. I have been ever since—”

“Don’t fucking say it!” I snap.

“Losing your father like that is a lot for a seventeen-year-old to handle, and I know how close you were. The two of you were thick as thieves, and now he’s gone, and I know you’re clinging to baseball because it was something you shared, but—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I clench my jaw until my teeth ache, trying to calm my racing heart. “I love baseball, and not just because of Dad.”

I love it more than the fucking air in my lungs or the blood in my veins, which is why it makes no sense to me I’m threatening to fuck it all up with my behavior.

And if it doesn’t make sense to me, how the hell can it make sense to her?

“Then why are you so hell-bent on throwing it all away? Because you realize that’s what you’re doing, right?”

I say nothing, unable to answer.

I have been pissing my dreams away, and no matter how much I try, how much I resolve to do better, I can’t seem to stop.

“Come work for me,” she says again.

“No,” I choke out. “I’m not working for the charity. Even if they pull the rug out from under my feet, and I lose my scholarship, I won’t work for Wishing Well. I won’t. I refuse.”

“And what will you do then? Pay for school without a scholarship?”

“I’m good for it.”

Mom snorts. “You can’t use Monopoly money, Grayson. This is the real world. You’d need loans and a cosigner and—”

“I have a trust fund.”

“Yeah.” Mom nods. “One I will release to you once you finish school. Or work four years at Wishing Well.”

I laugh, the sound as bitter as it feels in my chest. “Unbelievable. ”

“Why would I give you access to your trust fund if you lose your scholarship? So you can piss it all away on drugs and booze?”

I chortle. “That would be one helluva party.”

“I’m serious, Grayson.”

I sigh and drag a hand down my face. “This conversation is over, not to mention pointless because I won’t get dropped. I’ll make sure of it,” I say with far more confidence than I feel.

Even I know I’m slipping.

I’ve had several close calls with the po-po over the last couple of months already, and that was before last night.

Considering I don’t see my behavior changing any time soon, Mom’s probably right.

It’s only a matter of time before I’m with Dustin or one of his crew in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I’ll go down with them.

“What if I make you a deal?” Mom fidgets with a broken cookie on the rack, peeking up at me with tear-filled eyes, and I stiffen.

Fuck.

I hate tears. It seems unfair she would wield them right now to get what she wants.

“What?” I eye her warily, bracing my hands on the counter in front of me.

“You know your father wanted you involved with Wishing Well. It’s not just me.”

I nod, my jaw tight. “He also wanted me to play baseball. ”

“I won’t deny that, but you’re flailing around. Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re struggling right now, and you haven’t worked a day for Wishing Well despite the promises you made.”

I take a deep breath, trying to maintain my composure.

Wishing Well is the nonprofit organization she and my father created on his deathbed.

I kid you not. The man was dying of pancreatic cancer, and during his last days alive, he wanted to make a difference.

All he could think about was how he’d only been forty-four years young with a wife and son and how lucky he was to have the resources to live his last days how he wanted, without the worry we wouldn’t be taken care of financially after he was gone.

Hence, Wishing Well was born—a foundation geared toward granting the wishes of adults with cancer.

That’s the kind of man my father was, always looking for a way to better himself and everyone around him. Selfless to the core with an iron will. Sometimes I feel like it skipped a generation; since his death, I have proven myself to be nothing but selfish.

“I know the promises I made,” I say darkly. “Trust me, I’m well aware.”

How could I fucking forget?

I watched my father die, and one of the things he made me promise before his last breath was to help get Wishing Well off the ground in his absence. I haven’t helped once in the thirteen months since, and I live with the guilt every fucking day .

I swallow over the bile rising in the back of my throat. “But I just can’t do it,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t.”

That stupid fucking charity represents all I lost.

It’s a cruel reminder of how he’s not here, but we are.

It’s depressing as fuck, and all I want to do is get as far away from it as possible.

I have no idea how my mother does it, how she runs his foundation day in and day out, living with the constant reminder of his glaring absence in our lives while I do everything in my power not to think about him at all.

Watching him slowly die still haunts me. The life fading from his eyes. His mottled skin. The labored breaths. The wheezing. And then nothing.

Fucking nothing.

The image is seared into my brain.

I wasn’t supposed to be there.

It wasn’t supposed to be me holding his hand.

It wasn’t supposed to be so soon.

Mom stares at me for a long moment like she can see straight through me, to all the parts of me I hide from the world, the pain and darkness I want no one to witness.

“Just hear me out,” she says, and by some miracle—or maybe it’s just sheer exhaustion—I find the strength to keep my mouth shut while she explains.

“I got a wish from an eighteen-year-old, and it’s .

. . a little unconventional. If you help me with this one wish and decide you want nothing more to do with Wishing Well, you’re off the hook.

You can go to George Mason in the fall and play baseball, and I won’t ever ask you again.

I’ll even release your trust fund at the end of the summer should you need it. ”

I narrow my eyes, instantly suspicious. Her offer makes no sense. “Why would you do that?”

She shrugs. “I have my reasons.”

“Which are?”

“I think you need this.”

I scoff.