A Secret for a Secret

by Hunting, Helena

“Which is precisely why you probably need one,” Mom says.

  “Look, I appreciate that you’re concerned, and likely shocked, but dropping everything to come out here is not reasonable. I need time to deal with this. Besides, I’m leaving for away games, so you coming out here is pointless.”

  “Okay. Fine. But we’re still coming at the end of next week,” Mom concedes.

  “Okay. It’s been a long day; I need some sleep. I’ll talk to you all tomorrow.”

  It’s a chorus of good nights and I love yous before I end the call. Three seconds later my screen lights up again. This time it’s just Hanna. I accept the video-chat request, and her face pops up on the screen.

  “You handled that well,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “How are you really doing?”

  “Honestly? I have no idea.”

  “Do you want to go through what exactly happened without all the color commentary? That way I can get a better picture of what you’re facing.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” I give her the full rundown of the day—well, mostly the full rundown, minus any private moments. “You know, I can appreciate why she didn’t want to say anything to me before I got on the ice tonight. I can even understand why she lied and said Corey didn’t corner her when obviously he did, but she could’ve told me the actual truth about their relationship when he first joined the team. It was an intentional omission, and technically that’s not a lie, but it’s certainly a choice, and it feels a lot like the same thing.”

  “Okay, I can see your point, but I want you to put yourself in her shoes.”

  “I would never do something like that.”

  “Lie by omission? I’m pretty sure you just did that when you told our family you’re okay, since you’re clearly not.”

  “This isn’t the same thing at all, and I mean I wouldn’t have gotten married at eighteen and then hid it from everyone.”

  “Well, of course not, King. Look at how you were raised. There was a lot of negative role modeling going on. I love Mom and Dad, but you were an easy kid, and you toed the line because you didn’t like getting in trouble and you didn’t want to end up in the same situations as your brother. Uncle. Whatever. They used fear to keep you in line, and it worked. Guess who it didn’t work for?”

  “You and Gerald.” I push up off the couch and take my phone with me to the kitchen. I could use a drink.

  “Exactly. I mean, Gerald got caught growing pot plants in Mom’s garden, and how many times did he and our cousin Billy get caught drinking underage?”

  “I can’t remember. I was pretty young.”

  “The point is, you have always been a rule follower, and that’s worked well for you, except now it’s not because you’re sitting in a very gray area. It’s easy to say she lied by omission, but would you really want to tell her that you’d been married at eighteen, for what was supposed to be all of a handful of weeks, filing fee notwithstanding?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “But what, then?” She doesn’t let me finish, though. “You’ve had a rough year, between ending things with Jessica and finding out that I’m your mother, Ry. It makes sense that you’re hypersensitive to omissions, because we all lied to you for three decades. I’m partly responsible for that. But then so is everyone else, our parents included.”

  “Yeah, that might be part of why I’m struggling,” I admit as I pour myself a glass of milk, then pause when I see the bottles of vodka and coffee liqueur in the door of the fridge. Queenie brought them over the second time she slept here, and sometimes she’ll make me a white russian to help me “loosen my reins.” I don’t know what the milk-to-alcohol ratio is, but I’m sure it’s not that hard.

  “What in the world are you doing?”

  “Making myself a white russian.”

  “Wow, you must be stressed if you’re drinking.”

  “Queenie was supposed to stay over tonight. Neither of us have to be up early, and she usually makes me one of these on occasions like this, except now she’s dealing with her dad and I’m—”

  “Talking to your momster on video chat, trying to make yourself an alcoholic beverage.”

  “Yeah.” There’s a shaker thing in my cupboards somewhere, but I don’t feel like looking for it. I pour some vodka and some coffee liqueur into my pint glass and stir it up with a spoon. It looks like chocolate milk, but it’s not frothy, and there’s no ice. I take a sip. It’s not half as good as the ones Queenie makes for me, but I can suffer through it. “You know, I think with a little time I can get over this whole thing, but I’m not sure about Queenie.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I can handle the media going squirrelly and all the ridiculous crap that Corey’s fiancée said on that crack-pipe show, but I think Queenie is going to have a hard time with it, and from what I’ve seen, her response to problems is to run away from them.”

  “So be someone safe for her that she can run to.”

  “I want to be able to be that for her.”

  “But?”

  “But I’m angry.”

  “Okay, and that anger is understandable. But what exactly are you angry about? The situation? The omission?”

  “All of it, I guess? I don’t know. She says she loves me, but she doesn’t trust me enough to tell me she was married to that jackass.” And that truly is the crux of it, I suppose. I feel . . . let down. Again. Something important was withheld from me by someone I love, and it’s compounded and magnified by the family secret that was dropped on me like a bomb this summer.

  “Oh honey, I love you with all my heart, and I couldn’t tell you I was your mother for three decades. The only reason it came out was because my asshole ex wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. I’d like to think I would’ve eventually had the gumption to go against what Mom wanted and tell you, but there were too many layers of complication. I wanted to tell you a million times, but I didn’t want to upset the balance, or run the risk of losing the special bond I already had with you. Can you see, at all, how it might be the same for Queenie?”

  I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “I guess, when you put it that way . . .”

  “I’m not telling you not to be angry. You have a right to be upset with a lot of people right now, but you’re an incredibly empathetic soul, and that’s as wonderful as it is difficult, because it means you put other people’s feelings ahead of your own. So be angry if you need to, but also be compassionate and gentle.”

  “I’m going to try my best.” I drain half my drink in two gulps. It’s definitely not as good as the ones Queenie makes for me.

  “Do you need me to come visit this weekend?”

  “I’ll be all right until you come out with the family.”

  “Okay. I always have your back, Ryan, no matter what.”

  “I know. You always have.”

  Sleeping on it gives me the perspective I need. Or restlessly rolling around in my empty bed, wishing Queenie were next to me, married to a jerk or not, is enough for me to conclude that I can get over this, because I don’t like the alternative. The next morning I pop into Queenie’s office before I head to the gym, but she’s not there. Jake’s door is open, though, so I knock.

  He gives me a strained, tired smile. “I assume you’re looking for Queenie.”

  “I am, sir.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Is she okay?”

  He sets his pen down on his desk and runs a hand through his hair—based on the state of it, he’s been doing this a lot today. “That’s a loaded question.”

  “I’m sure it is. She’s had a difficult twenty-four hours. Does that mean she’s at home?”

  “She is. She’s going to take some time off.” I can see where she gets her reticence from, seeing as Jake likes to provide limited answers much like his daughter does. Although it’s very possible he doesn’t have an actual answer.

  “More than a few days?”

  “I’m not sure. She’s pretty up
set right now, and facing the team after what happened last night won’t be easy for her if she decides coming back is what she wants to do.” He sighs and leans back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his neck. “And I honestly don’t know if having her come back is the right thing to do.”

  “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.”

  I take her in, messy bun knotted on top of her head, black and green paint streaked across her cheek and the oversize white button-down shirt she’s wearing. I don’t detect shorts or any other bottoms, although the shirt does hit her midthigh. “Hi.”

  “I wasn’t expecting company.” It sounds like an apology. She glances over her shoulder at the disarray inside her house.

  “Do you mind if I come in? So we can talk.” I hook my thumbs in my pockets so I’m not tempted to tuck her hair behind her ear, or make unwelcome physical contact. What I want is to wrap her up and protect her from Corey and the hell this is probably wreaking on her.

  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