A Secret for a Secret (All In 3)

“What happened wasn’t her fault!” I snap. “None of this is.”

His left brow rises. I should probably apologize for my tone, but someone has to defend Queenie, and if her own father won’t, I sure as hell will. “I know Queenie can be impulsive, but she was eighteen, and from the little she’s confided, she didn’t have a reliable mother figure to help her navigate relationships. And that’s not to say you didn’t do your best, but it’s not the same.”

I should definitely stop talking, but now that I’m on a roll, I can’t stop. And it feels really good to say exactly what’s on my mind, even if it’s going to cause problems for me later. “She feels an extraordinary amount of guilt for the mistake she made, and I believe she also feels like she’s been an anchor in your life, rather than a buoy. She has so much potential and incredible talent, but she doesn’t believe in herself, which is a travesty. And so is telling her she can’t come back here. Especially because of a mistake she made six years ago that someone decided to twist around and throw back in her face in a horribly public way. That’s not going to help her at all.”

He holds up his hand. “I’m aware she’s not at fault. And I would never tell her she couldn’t come back to work here, but I have a feeling she’s not going to want to, and I can’t say that I’d blame her at all.”

“Oh.” I pause, realizing my error. “I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood.”

“Don’t apologize for standing up for my daughter. I don’t think she’s had enough people in her life willing to do that for her. And one of the people who was supposed to be the most supportive took every opportunity she could to cut her down.”

“Her mother.”

He nods. “She’s done nothing to earn that title.” He’s silent for a moment before he continues. “She was, and still is, a very selfish, self-absorbed person. Her concerns revolved around herself and what she wanted, not what Queenie needed.”

“I’ve gathered that from what Queenie’s said about her.” And how she reacted to the phone call from her when exhibition games first started.

“The only thing she’s ever done for Queenie is cause upheaval in her life.” He tosses his pen on the desk and scrubs a palm over his face. “Look, King, I’m probably overstepping every single boundary there is right now, but I know my daughter. She’s used to people leaving and letting her down. And while I’ve done everything in my power to make sure she’s taken care of, clearly I can’t always protect her. And I feel like I’m a big part of the reason she’s in her current predicament. So if you’re really in this like you seem to be, don’t let her push you away. And trust me: she’ll try.”

“I’m prepared for that, sir.”

He smiles, but his sadness weighs it down. “I figured you would be.”I take my chances that Queenie is going to be at home and head to her place without texting first. It’s purposeful, since I fully expect her to avoid me or do what Jake said and try to push me away. We have a series of away games coming up, and there’s no way I’m leaving things the way they are when I’ll be gone for several days.

Loud, melancholic music makes the windows rattle as I approach her front door. I knock and peek through the curtains. I can see her in the kitchen, standing in front of her easel, paintbrush in one hand, palette in the other. I’m almost relieved to see her doing something constructive, after yesterday. But another part of me feels . . . sad that this part of her is something she hasn’t been comfortable enough to share with me, and I believe that these two facets of who she is are somehow intertwined.

I want all of her, and she keeps tucking little pieces away, hiding the things she’s afraid to let me see.

I knock again, harder this time. She startles and curses, dropping her brush on the floor. She bends to pick it up, giving me a quick glimpse of the piece she’s working on before she eclipses it with her frame again. It’s not enough time for me to decipher the content, only enough to get a blur of green and black. She drapes a sheet over it and drops the palette on the table and the brush in a murky glass of water.

“Coming! Hold on!” she calls out as she surveys the mayhem. I see the moment she decides there’s nothing she can do about it and rushes to answer the door, tucking a bra under a couch cushion on the way.

The door flies open, and her eyes flare with surprise. “King, hi, I didn’t . . . hi.”