A Secret for a Secret Page 40

Her shoulders curl in and her head drops, eyes on the floor. “Sure. Of course.” She steps aside and lets me in. Then rushes to make room for us on the couch, which is littered with blankets, a few sweatshirts, and a couple of pairs of socks. The state of her place is significantly more chaotic than it was the last time I was here.

“Have a seat.” She motions to the now mostly clothing-free couch and wrings her hands nervously. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“I’m okay, thank you. Come sit with me.” I pat the cushion beside me.

Queenie chews her bottom lip for a few long seconds and finally drops down, but she leaves a cushion of space between us.

“How are things with Jake?” I felt awful leaving her last night, but I also knew she was right and that I wouldn’t have been an impartial mediator at all.

She plays with a loose string on her shirttail. “They’re . . . okay. He was hurt more than anything.”

“Because you kept a secret from him?”

She nods. “He’s angry at the situation, though, not me.”

“I’m not angry with you, either, Queenie.”

She exhales a shaky breath and lifts her eyes to meet mine briefly. “But I understand that this is all too much for you. You don’t need my drama.”

“Queenie—”

“It’s okay.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand before withdrawing hers quickly. “You don’t need to explain. I completely understand. My life is a mess and yours isn’t. It’s probably better if we end things now so you don’t get dragged into more of my bullshit.”

A hot spike of panic slides down my spine. “Is that what you want? To end things?”

Her gaze lifts again, eyes red rimmed. She looks exhausted and so, so sad. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

I realize I need to tread very carefully here, that I can’t direct my anger and frustration over this situation she’s found herself in at her, since the fault doesn’t lie with her. “No.”

“But I thought . . .” She trails off and brings her fingers to her mouth, nibbling on a ragged nail.

“That I came here to break up with you?” I finish for her.

She lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I’m a lot to deal with on a good day, and this is even more than I know what to do with.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, uncertain as to whether I’m more sad, angry, or frustrated at the moment. Because one of the people who was supposed to love her and embrace her wild, passionate soul made her feel like those were flaws she needed to apologize for.

“Come here: you’re too far away.” I don’t wait for her to move closer. I simply grab her by the waist and settle her in my lap.

Silent tears glide down her cheeks, and her chin trembles. She smells like paint and laundry soap and fresh rain. I wipe away the tears as they fall, but there’s more behind them. “Baby, I want you to listen to me and really hear me, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll try,” she whispers brokenly.

“I love you.”

“That doesn’t change all the crap I’m bringing into your life.”

“You’re not hearing me.” I cup her face in my hands and press my lips to her forehead, her cheek, the tip of her nose, and finally her lips. “You can push me away as much as you want, but it’s not going to stop me from wanting you. I love you because of all these perceived flaws you have, not in spite of them. I know you’ve been let down a lot, and I don’t plan to be one of those people in your life. Give us a chance to get through this together, Queenie. Let me catch you when you fall. Let me be your safe place to land.”

She covers my hand with hers and nuzzles her cheek into my palm. “I’m a mess right now. My life is a mess.”

“You made a mistake, Queenie; it doesn’t make your entire life a mess. Is the situation messy? Most definitely, but you’re not at fault for that.” I brush away more of her tears.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t think I’d ever have to tell anyone. It’s embarrassing.”

“I understand why you didn’t. At first I was hurt—”

“Because I kept it from you.”

“Because I thought you didn’t trust me enough to tell me. Everyone has secrets they keep from others, even from themselves. I know this is hard for you and that you’re very used to being let down by the people who are supposed to lift you up, but I want you to know that I’m not going anywhere, Queenie. I want all your dark secrets to be mine to keep. I want all your pieces, all the things that make you who you are. I don’t care if you think you’re bent or broken; let me love all of you.”

She gives me a soft smile, and her warm palm settles on my cheek. “I’ll try my very best.”


CHAPTER 25


THE POWER OF ESTROGEN


Queenie

I think I’ve eaten twenty bags of sour cream and onion chips over the last three days. My skin feels tight from the salt. I almost wish I craved sweets, because I think it would be a lot better than the salt swelling that’s currently going on.

It’s good that King is on an away series, since my breath smells like a field of chewed-up green onions. And that’s about the only reason his being away is good. After our talk I felt better. Like things are going to be okay.

And then he got on the plane, and I stayed behind so I could clean up the mess that is my life and make some much-needed changes. I’ve started doing both of those things, beginning with finding my dad a replacement assistant who is technologically savvy. So far I’ve found six promising prospects, whose references I plan to check thoroughly.

The downside of the guys being away is that aside from some light paperwork, I don’t have a lot to occupy my time or my mind. So I went online. And fell down the horrible, disturbing rabbit hole that has become the biggest embarrassment of my life.

Also, Sissy is an absolute loon. But the way I’ve been smeared all over the worst of the worst tabloids and the horrible rumors all over the hockey sites and bunny forums are . . . mortifying.

And I’m supposed to meet King’s family next week. I’m not sure it’s a good idea anymore. I’m convinced they’re going to decide I’m not good enough for him.

And I sort of believe I’m not, which isn’t helpful.

Maybe Corey is right. Maybe I am a nightmare of a girlfriend. Maybe Kingston is only staying with me because he feels sorry for me and he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. Half of me can’t wait for him to be home so I can shake the uneasy feeling that being away from him incites. The other half doesn’t want him to come home, because that will mean his parents and momster and brother are coming to visit, and I will have to meet them and impress them. After I’ve been painted as a home-wrecking, money-hungry puck bunny.

I feel like my current insecurities are fairly warranted.

The game doesn’t start for several hours. I should tackle some of the laundry that’s piled up over the past few weeks. But I don’t feel like it. I honestly don’t feel like doing much, other than eating chips and surfing the net, looking for the newest horrifying article about me.

I prop my feet up on the coffee table, and empty chip bags crunch under my heels and a couple fall to the floor, crumbs scattering on the carpet. I survey my bungalow and consider how the disarray very much matches me on the inside. I make sure I have my box of tissues before I flip open my laptop.

I’m about to start searching hashtags when there’s a knock at my door. I’m not expecting company, so my first thought is to ignore it. But whoever it is knocks again.

“I can see you sitting on the couch! Open the door, Queenie!” Stevie yells, and she knocks on the window behind my head. “Ow, shit!” She must have bumped into the rosebush, since she’s standing in a flower bed. The roses are long dead, but the thorns are still there because the bush hasn’t been pruned.

I open the sheer curtains and crack a window. “What’re you doing?”

“Staging an intervention,” Violet says from behind her. “Now open the door and let us in. It’s raining.”

“This is Seattle; it’s always raining,” I mutter, but I get my ass up off the couch and weave my way through the crap strewn all over the floor so I can get to the door.

I throw it open to find Stevie and Violet standing on my front porch with a grocery bin full of stuff.

Violet steps in front of Stevie. “Kingston was right to call us. Enough of this self-imposed exile bullshit. You’ve fulfilled your moping quota for the rest of the year.” She steps over the threshold and into my bungalow, gags, drops the bin on the floor, slaps her palm over her mouth, and retreats back outside. “What the hell is that smell?”

“Sour cream and onion chips, dirty laundry, body odor, and there might be something rotting in the garbage.”

“Right. Okay. New plan.” Violet addresses Stevie. “We get this one in the shower so she doesn’t smell like the inside of a jockstrap and take this party back to my place.” She pulls a spray bottle out of her bag and starts spritzing around me.

I cough and wave my hand in front of my face so I don’t inhale it. “What is that?”

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