“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.”

He’s not wrong. “My mother is the one who told me that.” And she is most definitely both of those things.

His eyes fall closed, and his cheek tics with his slow exhale. When his lids flip open, his gaze holds sadness and anger. “I want you to listen to me, Queenie. You are not mediocre. You are amazing and the world is at your fingertips. The sooner you realize that, the easier it will be for you to shine like you’re supposed to.”

“Please don’t say things like that to me,” I whisper.

“Why not? Especially when it’s the truth.” He unbuckles his seat belt. “You should be proud of yourself, Queenie. I know I am. You were amazing with Lavender today. You make me want things I’ve only thought about in the abstract until now.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know that you’re ready for what that means yet.” He drags his fingers down my cheek. “But you should seriously reconsider finishing that art degree. Success and worth don’t need to be based on something as arbitrary as whether or not you have pieces in a gallery. It can definitely be part of your dream and your journey, but I’d hate for you to walk away from something you’re so obviously passionate about because you’ve allowed one person’s misguided jealousy to form your entire opinion of yourself.”

“Where did you even come from?”

“Tennessee.”

“Ha ha, that’s not what I—”

He presses his lips to mine. “I see you, Queenie. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not worthy.”

I slide my hand around the back of his neck and deepen the kiss instead of responding with words. Because as much as I want to believe him, there’s a heaviness that weighs on me. One I thought I’d buried six years ago when I walked away from Corey and ran where it was safest: home. And the only person who’s never turned his back on me: my dad. Even he doesn’t know how very bad some of my mistakes have been. If he did, he might turn his back too. So why wouldn’t Kingston?