Page 163 of Secret Obsession
I feel it every day. Constantly. It’s become an undercurrent to other emotions, tainting even precious, happy memories. Few and far between as they are. It’s a black stain on my soul, and some days, I fear the stain is only getting darker. Going deeper.
Eventually, there will be no coming back from this.
Every time we stand and wait for the national anthem, I think ofher.
My songbird wasn’t a singer, but she did make lovely noises in other circumstances.
Melody Cameron was a painter. Her easels were always covered in canvases, with mixed paint on wrapped palettes waiting nearby for her to restart her work.
English professor by day, artist by night.
Tonight feels more visceral. Maybe it was Willow singing. I tried not to stare at her, standing on the line on the ice. But seeing her, with Miles just beyond the door, was like a punch to the gut.
Him, Greyson, Steele—they got their girls. They hold on to them so fucking tight.
I should’ve done that. I should’ve caged my songbird when I had the chance, because she flew away without a fucking word. There was no trace of heranywhere.
And then that asshole made a comment under his breath, how it’s no fucking wonder I’m single because of my goddamn playing. It wasn’t even that big of a deal.
But I was already rubbed raw, and I snapped.
His fists against my face, his knuckles snapping into my cheek and jaw, wasn’t enough. The victory wasn’t enough either.
His blood coats my skin as I’m ejected from the game for misconduct. Coach follows me out, screaming at me all the way into the locker room, but I’ve got no reply. I get out of my skates and pads and leave the locker room in silence, heading down one of the hallways toward the exit.
I won’t leave—then I’d truly be fucked—but I need something.
Fresh air or whatever. But I find myself heading up to the next level, then up again. The doors to the suites are all mostly closed, the spectators enjoying their private rooms without being bothered by attendants or stray sports fans.
Art lines the walls. A sign catches my attention, something about all the proceeds from purchasing the paintings going to charity. I glance at the plaques under each painting, noting the name and title, the medium. Oil, watercolor, mixed media. On and on.
Then I see it.
A bird shouldn’t be conspicuous. It’s bright teal, almost fictional in its coloring, but the feathers look soft and real and alive. I draw closer, taking it in. The bird’s feet are covered in a black substance. Oil or tar, maybe, that also got on the tips of its wings. Probably rendering it unable to fly.
I shouldn’t be drawn to it.
But I try to take in all of it, right down to the shimmer in the bird’s eye, before my attention falls to the name.
M. Cameron
My heart stops, and I spin in a slow circle. Almost like I’m going to catch her watching me, laughing.
“Joke’s on you, Rhodes,” she’d say.
My skin is fucking burning.
I note the little number taped next to it and stride down the hall to the table, where an attendant sits.
“I need number seven,” I tell her.
She blinks up at me. “Um, it’s an auction. We’re taking bids until the end of the second period.”
“Great. Number seven, what’s it up to?”
She clicks on her computer. “Eight hundred dollars.”
“What can you tell me about the artist?”
