A Secret for a Secret (All In #3)(65)

“I don’t think that’s a good plan at all. If anything, we need to come out there now more than ever. You need the emotional support.”

“That’s not a good idea. I’m not in the headspace for a family intervention.” I just found out my girlfriend is married to a complete jerk. Yes, it’s a technicality, and in some ways I can understand why she didn’t say anything about it, but this isn’t something I’m going to get over in five minutes like everyone probably expects me to. The last thing I need is my family thrown into the mix, giving their opinions while I’m still trying to form mine.

“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.”