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?”
“Menthol spray.” She nudges past me. “Get in the shower, unless you want me to drag you outside and hose you down. We have a schedule to keep, and I’ve timed everything so that we’ll be home right before the game starts.”
I want to argue, since the game doesn’t start for another three hours, but instead I do what I’m told. Also, it’s not that warm out, and being sprayed down with a hose seems a lot like something that would happen in prison.
The hot water feels heavenly, so I stand under the spray for a long time. When I’m done washing off the past few days of melancholy and sour cream and onion chips, I turn off the shower, wrap myself in a towel, and open the door. Stevie nudges Violet out of the way and thrusts a pile of clothes at me.
“Where did those come from?”
“Your closet. We weren’t sure if the hills of clothes lying all over the place were clean or dirty, so I felt like if it was hanging up, it might be safe.”
“Okay.” There’s a very solid chance something on a hanger would be clean. Or cleaner than anything lying on the floor or draped over the back of a chair. I dress quickly in a shirt I haven’t worn in three years and a pair of equally old jeans. But they don’t smell like onions, and I don’t either anymore. I brush my teeth and rinse with mouthwash to help with the bad breath, but my mouth still tastes like onions. Minty ones, though.
When I’m done putting myself together—I definitely look better, and I feel better too—I step out into my living room and freeze. “What’s happening here?”
There’s a woman I don’t recognize in my kitchen, cleaning it.
“Queenie, this is Aurora. Aurora, this is Queenie.”
She flashes me a bright smile and extends her hand. “Mr. Kingston requested I come by to help clean up.”
“King sent someone over to clean my house?” I ask no one in particular.
Aurora scans the absolute mayhem. “He intimated that you’ve been busy as of late and the assistance would be helpful.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” I motion to the corner of the room, where my easel and canvases are stacked. “Just don’t touch those, please.”
“Of course not. Mr. Kingston already informed me as such.”
She sounds like Mary Poppins; thankfully, she looks like a slightly younger version of my grandmother. I hope she hasn’t had to deal with our pile of sex sheets. I wonder if King does those himself. It seems like something he might take care of so someone else wouldn’t have to.
“Okay, well, thanks so much, Aurora, for tackling this. We need to get a move on if we’re going to make it to the spa on time for our mani-pedis.” Violet consults her phone.
“Mani-pedis?” I parrot.
“Kingston set up appointments so we could all go together. He thought you might need a little pampering, and we were inclined to agree.” Stevie motions between herself and Violet.
“Kingston set this up?” I don’t know why I’m even surprised by this. It’s 100 percent something he would do.
“Yup, pretty sweet, huh?” Violet grins.
And because I’m an emotional mess, I burst into tears.
“We got you, girl.” Stevie gives my shoulder a squeeze, grabs a few tissues and my purse, and steers me out the door so I can have my breakdown without Aurora witnessing it.
We pile into Stevie’s SUV; I’m in the passenger seat, and Violet sits in the middle seat in the back so she can stick her head between the seats. “You’re staying off social media, right?” Stevie asks as she pulls out of the driveway.
“Uh, well . . .” I chew on the inside of my lip when they both give me a What the hell? look.
“Oh God.” Stevie and Violet share a glance in the
rearview mirror. “Queenie, rule number one is to never, ever look at social media.”
“I wanted to see how bad it was,” I mutter.
“Social media is a cesspool of angry bunnies and jealous bitches. We’ve all been raked over the coals at some point, right, Stevie?” Violet says from the back seat.
Stevie glances in the rearview mirror. “Yuppers. My ex took a video of me and Bishop kissing—”
“Mouth fucking. Kissing sounds sweet, and you two were fucking each other’s mouths with your tongues and pretty much dry humping each other. In public.”
“Would you like to tell the story?”
“Sure. My version is always more exciting anyway.” Violet props her fist on her chin and launches into the story of how Stevie and Bishop met and ended up together. Including how the mouth-fucking video came to be.
“The point is, all of us have had to deal with at least one social media shitstorm. I mean, Alex told the entire hockey-watching nation that we were just friends, when that clearly wasn’t the case. We mouth fucked all over the damn place. And we were dating. And he’d asked me to move in with him—while playing naked Scrabble, but that’s another story. What I’m saying is that we get that it sucks, but you’re not alone, and you don’t have to hide from the world and wait for the dust to settle.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Have you met me?” Violet points to herself. “I’m a walking embarrassment. I can’t go anywhere without saying something regrettable. Alex has to script everything I say when we do interviews—which I hate, by the way—and I sound like a robot. And even then there’s a good chance I’ll accidentally say something I shouldn’t. You got married when you were eighteen, and that douche nozzle screwed up the divorce papers. Everyone in the hockey-watching nation knows that Corey is an asshole and that his fiancée is a loon. Unfortunately, that combination makes for great headlines.”
What Violet is saying makes sense, and I know all of this will eventually blow over, but it’s more than that. It’s all the other pieces that are the problem. It’s the fact that I got married on a whim in the first place, that I’ve been relying on my dad for a job, that I’m still living in his house, that I’m too afraid of failing to even bother trying to do what I really want. Because one of the people who was supposed to encourage me liked to tear me down instead. And now Kingston’s family has a horrible impression of me.
The mani-pedis are a nice distraction from the shitshow that is my life. Stevie and Violet tell me all kinds of embarrassing stories, which definitely makes me feel better about everything. I’m still stressed about the meet-the-parents situation, but at least I have a sounding board that isn’t my dad and my boyfriend.
When we get to Violet’s, plans change a little. Her brood and Lainey’s son, Kody, are in the theater room, already watching the game with Lainey, who couldn’t make the mani-pedi session.
Violet’s oldest, Robbie, is reading a book in the back row with his feet propped up on the back of the seat in front of him. Maverick is watching the game at the front of the theater, and so is Kody. Well, Kody is sort of watching, but he keeps looking over his shoulder at River and Lavender, who are sitting at a round table covered in art supplies. River hands Lavender crayons, his attention half on her, half on the game.
When Lavender realizes her mom is home, she pushes back her chair and rushes over, wrapping herself around Violet’s leg.
“I hope you still love me this much when you’re a teenager.” She tugs on her ponytail.
When Lavender spots me, she abandons her leg and rushes over to me, giving me the same hug treatment. Then she takes me by the hand and tugs me toward the door.
“Where are we going?”
“My room! I show you my wall!”
“Do you have new art?”
She nods and pulls me along, practically skipping. When we get there, I can see she’s been busy with paints, and of course she insists that we make something together. Violet comes up and tries to persuade her that I’ll come back another time, but Lavender won’t hear it, and I’m more than happy to lose myself in finger painting for a while. I miss all of the first period of the game, but it’s 100 percent worth it. Lavender is extremely chatty when she feels safe in her element, and her art room definitely provides that.
She tells me all about the things she loves: that she wants a pet cat but her dad is allergic and that she likes dogs but they lick their bums and then your face, and that’s gross. She also tells me that her friend in her art class has a dog, and it ate his favorite stuffie, and he cried.
When we’ve finished our masterpiece, it’s already eight o’clock, and I have to remind her not to rub her tired eyes with her paint-covered hands.
We wash up, and she gets ready for bed on her own, although it looks like her pajamas might be on backward. Violet puts her and River to bed. Kody’s already passed out on one of the mats on the floor, and Maverick is sprawled across the front seats, eyes popping open every once in a while, but it’s clear he’s ready for bed. Robbie seems to have disappeared, likely to his room.
We set ourselves up in the back row with drinks, and the girls fill me in on what I missed while Lavender and I were finger painting.
Violet drops down into the seat beside mine a few minutes into second period. “Thank you so much for indulging Lavender: she would spend all day in that room if she could, and she adores you.”
“It was really my pleasure. And I adore her too,” I tell her. “How long have you had the art room?”
“Alex had one of the spare rooms converted about six months ago, when we started taking Lavender to art therapy classes with Kody.”
“They go together? That’s so cute.”
Lainey nods. “We thought we’d give it a try. Kody likes working with clay the most because he’s more kinesthetic, and he only makes hockey pucks, but it’s been so good for his anxiety, and mine to be honest,” Lainey says.
I know this about Lainey, that she worries a lot. She’s brilliant, has three master’s degrees, and has already completed a PhD, but she wants to start a second one. She’s kind and sweet and lovely, but crowds are not her thing.
“Lavender loves it, and it’s definitely helping bring her out of her shell.” Violet then addresses me. “She’s constantly asking about you, so feel free to drop by and get your finger paint on anytime.”
“I’d love to, if you’re serious.”
“I’m totally serious. She likes the instructors at the therapy center, and she’s making such great gains with the other kids, but for one on one, we still can’t find someone she’s willing to open up to.”
“I’d be happy to come over anytime.” I drum on the arm of the chair for a few seconds before I confide, “I actually went to college to become an art therapist.”
“Why aren’t you doing that now, then? You’re amazingly talented, and you’re like a kid whisperer. They love you,” Violet says. “I poked my head in while you two were doing your thing, and Lavender was talking up a storm. She only ever does that with us. We’ve tried three different therapists, and no one has gotten her to open up like that.”
“I didn’t finish the degree, but I made an appointment with one of the course counselors at the college to see what classes I still need and if they have any openings in their program.”
“How long do you think it will take to complete it?”
“Not long: a semester, plus an internship.”
“We’re taking Lavender and Kody to the art center tomorrow if you want to check it out with us. She’d be over the moon if you came along.”
“Yeah. Okay. That would be great.”
I can’t fail if I don’t try, but I can’t succeed, either, and this seems like a baby step in the right direction.
CHAPTER 26
DONE DEAL
Queenie
The next morning Violet gets the two older boys off to their respective activities. Robbie requires zero prodding. He wanders around the
kitchen with a book in front of his face, barely sparing a glance at the bowl as he fills it with some kind of homemade granola, covers it in almond milk, and slowly shovels it into his mouth while still reading.
Maverick isn’t so easy. He complains about not being able to eat Froot Loops for breakfast and then points to the Pop-Tarts sticking out of her purse, saying he knows those ones aren’t for Lavender and River, because they only like the strawberry ones. Eventually Violet gets them ready and sends them on their way with their nanny.
Lainey shows up five minutes later in her giant seven-seater SUV. Kody’s sitting in the middle seat—he only has a booster now because he’s freaking huge for his age. I help get Lavender’s seat secured and get her buckled in while Violet argues with River about where he’s sitting.
She finally says something to him that seems to placate him, and he gets in the car, albeit grudgingly.
When we get to the art center, Lavender wants to show me around. When she reaches for River’s hand to drag him along, he crosses his arms and plops into a chair, sulking.
Lavender shrugs and leaves him there, too excited to be bothered, I suppose. She shows me all the pieces she’s done since she started coming here. Once I’ve had the full tour—it’s an amazing space—Lavender grabs a smock and takes a seat at one of the painting tables, and a still-grumpy River does the same, settling in the chair beside his sister.
Kody heads for the clay tables. Once they’re settled at their stations, we hang back and watch them for a few minutes.
“Do they always come together? The three of them?” I ask.
Violet shakes her head. “I only bring River about fifty percent of the time, because I think it’s important for Lavender to do things on her own, without him. It forces her to have her own voice and not rely on him so much.”
One of the staff comes over to say hello, and Violet and Lainey issue an introduction. We start talking about their programs, how they have informal drop-ins, classes, and a special art therapy program with both group and private sessions.
By the end of the half-hour session, I’ve already filled out their volunteer forms and assured them I can make the three-month minimum commitment. I’m excited by the prospect of volunteering in a place that’s in line with what I’ve always been passionate about.
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