A Secret for a Secret (All In #3)(54)

Together she and I put away all her art supplies. It takes far less time with me helping than it does when it’s her brother.

“Oh, this is for you. Do you want to put it in your sketch pad?” I pass her the crayon portrait.

Alex leans in so he can have a look. “You drew this? I didn’t know you were an artist.”

I wave off the comment. “It’s just a crayon doodle.”

“That makes it even more amazing. You know, if you get tired of working for this guy, you can teach Lavender art classes.” He thumbs over his shoulder at my dad.

I laugh at that. “I’m not sure that’s a great way to earn a living, but I’m always happy to spend time with Lavender.”

Once she’s all packed up, we head out to the parking lot, and Alex hands over his car keys, which is easier than moving the car seat into Kingston’s SUV.

“You want me to drive your car?” Kingston stares at the keys like they’re acid-soaked zombie piranhas.

“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.”