Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(93)

Don’t think about him. Forget he ever existed—

“You okay, Elle?”

I nod, pushing a smile up. “Of course. It’s only a play.” I wave her off. “Just do whatever you want with the makeup. The more the better.” I don’t want to talk about him. Not now. I’m done. All I have to do is walk in there, say my lines, and leave. Finished. He’ll go back to Nashville, and I’ll go on in Daisy. As if it never happened.

She nods and gets to work.

Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in leggings and a loose denim shirt that buttons for easy wardrobe changes that won’t mess with my hair and makeup. I grab my costume for Juliet’s first scene at the masquerade ball, a flimsy short white dress with lace. I frown, darting around my bedroom. Where are the little fluffy wings for the party scene? I worked on those for several days, adding little jewels and small roses.

“I can’t find the wings,” I wail as I run to the kitchen, where Aunt Clara and Mama are talking.

Mama studies my face. “Where did you have them last?”

I shake my head, feeling off. Disoriented. I chew on my lips. “I thought I had them hanging on the hook in my bedroom—”

She stands. “You’re scattered, dear. Go check again. I’ll look in the den.”

I nod and go back to my bedroom, swinging open my closet again, riffling through clothes, checking the hook on the bathroom door. Tears form. Dammit. I’m not thinking straight. I just saw them yesterday! What is wrong with me?

I dart out of the bedroom. “Mama, did you find them?”

She doesn’t answer, and I walk down the hallway.

“Elena.” Her voice is low, off. “What is this?”

No. No. No.

I turn the corner, see the door to my sewing room open, Mama standing in the middle of it, her gaze on my dress forms. She spins in a circle, her face white as she takes in the samples. Barbarian Princess with the fringe seems to get most of her attention. “Did you make these?”

Aunt Clara comes in from the kitchen, bumping into me. She gives me a wide-eyed look. “You left it unlocked.”

Mama turns to look at both of us, her eyes darting from me to her sister. “You knew?”

Aunt Clara nods and turns right around and walks away. I glare at her back. Thanks for the support.

“Mama, I can explain.” I walk in the room, wincing as I see that she’s moved to the glittery unicorn set.

“I’d like to hear it.” She fingers the bra, examining the fabric, rubbing her hands over the sequins, her brow furrowing as she sees how it changes colors. She makes a noise in her throat when the unicorns flash. “Is this why this door is always locked?”

“I didn’t want you to find them.”

“Why?”

I close my eyes. It’s now or never, and the truth is I’m sick and tired of hiding it. “I love making them. That meeting in Nashville was about this . . . a lingerie company.”

She sits down at my drafting desk, flipping through my sketches. “You want to quit your job?”

I ease in. Wings are here. I pick them up, clutching them tightly. I take a deep breath. “I have to go, Mama. Let’s talk later.”

Topher comes down the stairs and enters the room. “Elena, you ready—”

He comes to a halt, eyes flaring. “Shit.” He looks at Mama, then me, and walks right back out.

“Get right back in here, young man,” she calls.

He pokes his head in. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Did you know?”

Topher gives her a resigned nod. “Elena’s been dreaming about this for years—”

She cuts him off, her face tightening. “And Giselle, does she know?”

I nod, closing my eyes briefly. “Preston too. He hated it.”

“Bastard,” I hear Clara mutter from the doorway, and I guess she’s gotten the guts to slink back.

Mama sits there, her head dipping. “I’m the only person you kept it a secret from.” She swallows, emotions flitting across her face.

I shift on my feet and move to the chaise near the window. My legs are rubbery as I sit down. “I . . . I didn’t want you to think bad about me.”

She bites her lip, and I wince. I’ve only seen my mama cry three times. The day Daddy died; then his funeral, when she wept so hard none of us were able to console her; and when Nana passed. She’s a rock, a solid piece of granite.

Moving closer, I grab tissues and push them at her. “Mama, please . . . I’m sorry I enjoy sewing these. I’m a disappointment to you.”

“Stop that,” she says, her face crumpling. “Please. Don’t say that. You’ve never been a disappointment.”

“I didn’t go to medical school. I didn’t get married and have babies right away. I barely come to church—”

“You would have been a terrible doctor. You hate blood, and your heart is too tender. Although it would do you good to listen to a sermon every now and then.” Her shoulders cave in, tears rolling down her face, and it breaks me, to see this strong woman weep. “It kills me to think that you were keeping this from me when it was important enough for you to . . .” Her voice trails off, and she sniffs.

“Mama, don’t cry, because if you cry, then I’m going to cry, and my makeup is already done, and it looks good, and Clara will have to do it all over again.”