“Your mother seems . . . nice.” Based on the glare I get, I’m not sure that was the best conversation starter.

“Really, Darren? That’s what you’re going with? My mom seems nice?” She steps around me and heads for the fridge. Wrenching it open, she pulls out the box of wine and slams it on the counter beside me. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on her brow and her neck. Her hands shake as she fills her glass and drains it, again.

As she fills it a third time, I would like to point out that it typically only takes her three glasses of wine to get a buzz, but I don’t want to make her more upset.

“I’m sorry.”

Charlene freezes with the glass halfway to her mouth. “What are you sorry about? That my mom is a lunatic? That you lied about your parents? That you tried to boss me around over text messages?”

I’m not sorry about meeting her mother. If anything, it gives me a much better idea of who Charlene is. But I’m also uncertain if I can explain fully what I am sorry about, so I address the parts of that question that I can. “I didn’t lie, and I was concerned.”

“Really? Because I’ve seen a picture of you with your parents, and neither of them looked like Cherry or Rod.”

“Rod and Cherry may have created me, but they didn’t raise me. My grandparents did. They actually adopted me.”

Her defiant, suspicious glare changes to confusion. “I don’t understand. You told me you were raised in a strict house that lacked affection, and privacy was not permitted. Those were your exact words.”

“And that is very much the truth.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were raised by your grandparents?”

“I didn’t think it was necessary.” I swallow down the panic that comes with being forthcoming about my family history. I’ve never told anyone about this. Not even Alex knows. Well, I’m sure he does now, but I’ve kept this terrible secret my entire life. Because it’s very much the reason I’m as fucked up as I am. And the reason for the NDA agreements. “Please come sit with me so I can explain.”

She exhales a shaky breath, but allows me to take her hand and lead her to the living room. She waits until I sit on the couch before moving to the love seat. I’m disappointed but unsurprised that she wants space.

I sip my wine and try not to allow the displeasure to appear on my face. I make a mental note to have a couple cases of good wine delivered to her house so she doesn’t feel compelled to drink this shit. Running my hand up and down my thigh a few times, I take a deep breath. “I’ve never shared this with anyone, Charlene. I had hoped I would never have to.”

I take her in, noting the protective way she cups the bowl of the glass in her palms, warming the white. When I reach her throat, I note her missing pearls and my chest constricts. Charlene always wears them, and the significance of their absence is like a razorblade slice across my heart. Her expression and her posture are both guarded. I hope I haven’t lost all my gains because of this.

I hate my parents so much for making me feel secrecy is necessary.

“I was raised by my mother’s parents.”

“Because your parents are porn stars.”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t ask for more information, but silence will only widen the gap between us. She wants me to tell her without having to prod.

“My parents started dating in their last year of high school. They were eighteen and careless.”

“And your mom got pregnant,” Charlene says softly.

In a lot of ways our stories are similar. Young adults making mistakes and having kids—us—way before they were ready. “She did. And because of my grandparents’ beliefs, she kept me. They agreed to support her if she broke it off with my father.”

“But she didn’t.”

“She did not. They ran away together—such a romantic notion, isn’t it?” I smile at the irony and glance at Charlene, who looks sad. “They learned very quickly how difficult it is to afford a child with no education and no support from family, so they found a way to make money. And they made a lot. But with certain professions, there’s a lifestyle.” I look down at my hands and a disjointed series of memories that never made much sense until I was older flicker like an old movie behind my eyes. “At a young age I was exposed to things I shouldn’t have been.”

Charlene’s teeth press into her lip as she puts together what I mean. “Oh,” she breathes.

“It was . . . damaging in more ways than I can count, which is why I don’t like to talk about it. Most of the memories are vague and indistinct, like wisps of a dream I can’t quite catch and hold.”

She nods. “I understand that. Sometimes I feel the same about my childhood, like it’s shrouded in a fog I can’t sift through.”

“Exactly.” I worry what telling her this will do to us. I worry more that we’re too cumulatively messed up to be good for each other. “When I was four, I was removed from my parents’ home and sent to live with my grandparents. I was raised in two very extreme households. The first was expressly permissive and overly sexual. The second was suffocatingly oppressive. There were restrictions put on me that weren’t always reasonable.”

“What kind of restrictions?” Her voice is a whisper.

I consider how much I want to tell her and decide I might as well let her in all the way. “As soon as puberty hit, the door to my room was removed.”

She frowns. “Why?”

“My grandparents wanted to eradicate the perversion out of me.”

“And they thought they could do that by taking away your privacy?”

“Mmm.”

“God, you must’ve had to take a lot of long showers.”

I give her a rueful smile. “They put a timer on the thermostat in the shower. The hot water shut off after five minutes.”

“How did you even manage?”

“I lived and breathed hockey. I spent hours at the rink every single day, and I became very accustomed to being uncomfortable. Thankfully I was drafted at eighteen. But sometimes, when you’ve been oppressed for so long, freedom causes more pain. I think you might understand that.”

Charlene nods, and her fingers drift up her throat, but stop when she doesn’t come in contact with her pearls. I want to ask where they are since they rarely come off.

“It’s hard to trust,” she murmurs.

I edge closer to her, my knee nearly touching hers. “Yes. That’s it exactly. The only people I could safely place faith in were my teammates.”

Charlene drops her head, her fingers dragging down the side of her glass. “Is it like that still?”

Charlene is just as broken as I am. Someone whole would be better for her, but I don’t think I’m selfless enough to let her go if she’s damaged enough to want to stay.

“I covet privacy because it was something I was never permitted. I didn’t tell you about my parents because I never anticipated you would have the misfortune of meeting them. I took my grandparents’ last name because it separated me from them and removed the threat of association. They didn’t want people to know, and frankly, neither did I.”

I exhale slowly, hating the tightness in my chest, wishing I could control it. “I’m not normal, Charlene. I don’t feel things the same way other people do. Relationships are difficult for me because I genuinely struggle to understand where the boundaries should be. Mine were always too close or too far away. Real intimacy is unfamiliar and terrifying because I have not allowed it. Until you.”

She startles when I trace the edge of her jaw without making physical contact.

“And I’m beginning to see I haven’t done a very good job at conveying that, or making it easier for either of us with all of this secrecy,” I say.

“I understand the need for secrets.”

“I know you do.” I skim the back of her hand, a whisper of touch that helps calm me. “The only good thing about my childhood was hockey. I learned very quickly that people like to use my past for their own personal gain, hence the NDAs and the lack of relationships.”

“I understand that a lot better now.” She flips her palm over, the ends of our fingers meeting.

“My childhood fucked me up, Charlene, and I would like very much if it didn’t have the same impact on what we have. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to drive you away.”

“Well, if you haven’t noticed, my childhood was pretty fucked up too, so I guess our broken parts sort of fit together, don’t they?”

“They seem to.” I stroke along her throat, where her pearls should be.

She covers my hand with hers. “I was fidgety today, and I couldn’t stop playing with my necklace. I worried I was going to break it again, so I took them off.” Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, she withdraws the pearls. “Will you help me put them back on?”

“Of course.”

She drops them in my palm.

Charlene gives me her back as she piles up her hair and bows her head, exposing the gentle slope of her neck. I clasp them around her throat and place a kiss just above where they lay. “I’m sorry if my secrecy hurt you, Charlene. I’ll try my very best not to do that to you again.”