“You’re the safest driver I know. Much safer than my wife, but don’t ever tell her I said that. You either,” he says to Lavender.

She gives him a coy little smile but makes the zipped-lips sign and lets him buckle her into her car seat. Kingston and I get in the car, and he turns the engine over. It’s another two minutes of seat and mirror adjustments before Kingston is ready to leave the parking spot. I turn the radio on, and a familiar song comes on. I glance in the rearview mirror and smile as Lavender shimmies in her seat. “You know this song?”

She nods.

“Want me to turn up the volume?” Kingston isn’t a huge fan of loud music in the car, because he worries he won’t be able to hear emergency vehicles, but turning it up a little louder can’t hurt.

She gives me a thumbs-up, little head bobbing to “Fireflies” by Owl City. When we get to the chorus, I sing along. I can carry a tune most of the time, and it’s a catchy song. What I don’t expect at all, and apparently neither does Kingston, is for Lavender to start singing too. Not only can she draw but she has an incredible little set of lungs on her. I find her absolutely fascinating.

When we arrive at Alex and Vi’s house, we get to see the real Lavender. The one who speaks above a whisper. In full sentences. Lavender insists that Kingston and I see her bedroom and her art room. Violet puts the kibosh on the bedroom, since her brother is currently sleeping and they share a room, but I get to see where she obviously spends a lot of time. The room has great light and a balcony. The floors are covered in some kind of easy-to-clean vinyl, but the walls are what grab my attention. One wall boasts chalkboard paint, and the rest are covered in poster paper that turns the majority of the room into a massive changeable canvas.

“This is so cool!” I walk the perimeter, taking in the splatter-paint designs, the crayon drawings, and the chalk pictures.

“It’s her favorite place to be,” Violet says. “Isn’t it, Lavender?”

“Yup. I love coloring. And painting. ’Specially with my hands!” She grins up at us and rocks back on her heels.

Kingston has to get back to the arena, but I promise to come back and have an afternoon of finger painting soon.

Once we’re back in the car, I turn the music down and settle into the passenger seat. “Well, that was . . . something else, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve never heard her talk like that. It’s like she’s a totally different person when she’s at home.”

“It must be about her comfort level.” I kick off my shoes and cross my legs. “I wonder if they’re doing art therapy with her, and that’s why they have that room set up. It’s supposed to be great for helping with anxiety.”

Kingston shifts his foot from the gas to the brake when the light turns yellow, even though he totally could have gone through it. The person behind him obviously doesn’t appreciate it, since they honk at him. Instead of flipping them the bird, he waves.

But his hand doesn’t return to the wheel. Instead it slides along the back of my seat between my neck and the headrest. His thumb smooths down my nape. “Can I ask you something without you getting defensive or changing the subject?”

If it has to do with Corey, the answer to that will be no. “I guess it depends on what it’s about.”

He smiles, like he expected as much. “You said you had most of an art degree. Why didn’t you finish?”

This is definitely one of those questions I don’t want to answer. “Because I wasn’t good enough to make a career out of it.” And I’m too emotionally messed up to effectively be an art therapist; my mom made sure of that.

The light turns green, but the arm stays slung across the back of my seat. “Who told you that?”

“What does it matter? It’s the truth. I’m mediocre at best. I’ll never be in galleries, so it’s a waste of money.” The words taste like cardboard as I spit them out. Words that felt a lot like knives when they were given to me.

Kingston stays silent as he makes a right into the arena parking lot, and as usual, he takes a spot near the back. I hit the release on my seat belt, wanting to escape him and this conversation.

“Hey.” His warm, calloused fingers wrap around my wrist, and he lifts it to his lips, kissing each of my knuckles. “You’re anything but mediocre, Queenie. You’re magnificent, and whoever told you that you’re not talented is malicious and jealous.”

He’s not wrong. “My mother is the one who told me that.” And she is most definitely both of those things.

His eyes fall closed, and his cheek tics with his slow exhale. When his lids flip open, his gaze holds sadness and anger. “I want you to listen to me, Queenie. You are not mediocre. You are amazing and the world is at your fingertips. The sooner you realize that, the easier it will be for you to shine like you’re supposed to.”

“Please don’t say things like that to me,” I whisper.

“Why not? Especially when it’s the truth.” He unbuckles his seat belt. “You should be proud of yourself, Queenie. I know I am. You were amazing with Lavender today. You make me want things I’ve only thought about in the abstract until now.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know that you’re ready for what that means yet.” He drags his fingers down my cheek. “But you should seriously reconsider finishing that art degree. Success and worth don’t need to be based on something as arbitrary as whether or not you have pieces in a gallery. It can definitely be part of your dream and your journey, but I’d hate for you to walk away from something you’re so obviously passionate about because you’ve allowed one person’s misguided jealousy to form your entire opinion of yourself.”

“Where did you even come from?”

“Tennessee.”

“Ha ha, that’s not what I—”

He presses his lips to mine. “I see you, Queenie. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not worthy.”

I slide my hand around the back of his neck and deepen the kiss instead of responding with words. Because as much as I want to believe him, there’s a heaviness that weighs on me. One I thought I’d buried six years ago when I walked away from Corey and ran where it was safest: home. And the only person who’s never turned his back on me: my dad. Even he doesn’t know how very bad some of my mistakes have been. If he did, he might turn his back too. So why wouldn’t Kingston?

CHAPTER 20

THE FALL OF HAPPINESS

Queenie

The thing about happiness is that it isn’t meant to last. Life is a roller coaster: slow climbs to the top, a brief balance in euphoria, and then a steep drop that leaves you screaming and gasping for breath.

This isn’t a metaphor for an orgasm, either, although it could be, because they fall under the same principle.

Over the next few days I skip blindly through that state of suspended euphoria, ignoring the niggling worries and doubts that nip at my heels and threaten my bubble of bliss. I wear Kingston’s words like battle armor, protecting me from the fears and self-doubts that no amount of therapy—another thing my dad has footed the bill for—could ever seem to cure.

I should know better than to rely on any one single thing to make me happy. Especially not a single person. But I feel like I’ve finally found my person. The one who won’t try to tame my chaos but will let me live in it and help me balance my impulsiveness with stability. He’s yin and I’m yang. He’s sugar and I’m salt.

It’s a game day, so the team will be at the arena soon to get ready. I have a few more emails and memos to tackle, and then I can enjoy the game from the comfort of the box with Lainey, Stevie, Violet, and some of the other girls. I love watching Kingston tend goal. He’s so focused and intense. Just like he is in bed.

Once I’m done with the emails, I switch to my personal account and click on the new email from the University of Seattle. After the conversation with Kingston in his car the other day, I pulled out my college transcripts and reviewed all the courses and programs I’d taken over the years. I dropped out with one semester left to go for my art and psych degree. Then I tried a couple of other programs, but neither of them was a good fit.

So maybe it’s time to go back and finish what I started and see if maybe my mother is wrong—that even if my art isn’t gallery worthy, it’s still worth something. That I can do something that will give my dad, and me, a reason to be proud of myself for once.

I respond to the email from the local college confirming the appointment for next week with their admissions team, then head down the hall to the copy room to make duplicates of a few important documents. I kick the stopper in front of the jamb so the door doesn’t close on me. It’s wonky and doesn’t like to stay open without some help.