“Anyway,” I continue. “I started thinking has she been talking about us? Would she talk to the press, too?”
“What?” She releases an affronted gasp. “I would never do that.”
“I believe you. I do,” I reassure her. “It’s just I have to be so careful who I let into my life, because that affects my daughter. And she heard and knew too much too soon because our shit was everywhere. She’s my whole life, and I have to protect her.”
If anything, the look on her face is intent, understanding. “She’s very lucky to have someone who puts her first,” Lotus says.
One side of my mouth kicks into a grin that mocks me. “I felt like a national joke and today . . . I don’t know. I let my thoughts run and started drawing parallels that weren’t there. I took it out on you.”
“I’m sorry, Kenan,” she says, her expression pained, angry. “I hate she did that to you. That people didn’t support you like you deserve.”
“No, I’m sorry. I guess I have some lingering trust issues. I judged you today by what’s happened before.”
I reach up and pull one springy curl, watching it snap back into place. “I’m sorry. You deserved to at least know why I was such a dumbass.”
She’s quiet for a few moments, and I wonder if what I’ve told her has either scared her away, or doesn’t sufficiently excuse my asshole behavior earlier.
“There are things you should know, too,” she finally says. “But I’m not ready to share them with you.”
She looks up at me, and her eyes are filled with so much pain, I want to demand she tell me right fucking now who hurt her. I haven’t known her long enough to feel this way—to feel like I should be the one shielding her, but I do. I admit only to myself that I already do.
“What can you tell me?” I ask.
“My mother wasn’t like you. She never put me first.” She meets my eyes, but they don’t give away much. “I guess on some level I never got over it. I told you that I’m not doing sex right now. I don’t have a problem with sex. I love it actually. Very much.”
“That’s good to know.” We share a brief smile before hers disappears.
“It’s not sharing my body with someone that’s hard,” she says ruefully. “It’s trusting anyone with more than that. I’ve never done that. My problem is intimacy, and sex without it started to feel . . . bad. I can’t describe it except to say it felt empty.”
I’m quiet, hoping she’ll continue if I stay out of her way—if I don’t interrupt.
“You say you don’t have childhood trauma.” Her glance slides away to the side. “I do. I have a lot of that shit, and I’m realizing that never dealing with it is starting to haunt me. It’s affecting me in ways I didn’t think it would.”
I know better than to press for specifics when she’s already told me she’s not ready to share, so I ask her the more important question. “So what are you going to do about it?”
She shrugs, and for maybe the first time since I’ve met her, Lotus looks truly helpless. I’m used to the unassailable confidence, the cocksure attitude. I don’t hate seeing her unsure as much as I want her to know she can be unsure with me.
“I know it sounds clichéd,” I tell her. “But talking to someone might help. We’re seeing a therapist because my daughter’s having a hard time accepting the divorce. It’s for her, yes, but also for me.”
My short, cynical laugh echoes in the stairwell. “Bridget and I never made it to counseling, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to screw things up even more for my daughter than I have already.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Lotus protests.
“It doesn’t matter that I didn’t cheat. I’m Simone’s father. I’m responsible for her. It’s not about blame, right, or wrong. It’s about making sure she’s okay. If I’m not healthy, I can’t be the best parent possible to her, so every week, we’re at counseling. And I hate every minute of it, having to hear my ex talk about her stupid choices and pretend she wants to put our daughter first when it’s obvious she doesn’t.”
I shake my head and run a hand down my face. “I’m sorry. This is about you talking to someone, not why I have to.”
“Iris has been telling me the same thing,” she says with a grimace. “Lately I’ve been . . . well, I’ve been thinking maybe she’s right.”
I sense that if I press on this anymore, I could push her away. I’ve said my piece. She has to make that choice for herself. I have a different choice to present to her.
“So full disclosure, I admitted I wanted to see you today, but I didn’t tell you I wanted to extend an invitation.”
“An invitation?” One brow shoots up. “What kind of invitation?”
“I’m judging this dunking contest at Rucker Park Saturday, and I wondered if you’d like to come.”
“Rucker Park? All the way in Harlem?”
“Um . . . you say it like it’s Antarctica.”
“I could pack lighter for Antarctica than Harlem.”
I laugh outright and take her hands again, pulling her closer and leaning down until our noses touch.
“Come on,” I whisper. “We could have lunch after the contest and hang out.”
The air grows viscous between us, and second by second, the humor drains away, leaving whatever magnetic thing that has drawn me to her since the moment I saw her. Her lips part and her breasts rise and fall with shallow breaths. The same desire that rises inside me at the sight of her, at the scent of her, at the promise of tasting her again, I see it in the look she angles up at me. Does she want to kiss me as badly as I want to kiss her?
“Remember what I told you,” I say, so close the words brush our lips together for just a second. “The next time we kiss, you have to make it happen.”
She steps back, putting some space between us, but it’s only distance. Those few inches can’t dispel the way we’re connected, and soon I think we’ll both have to stop ignoring it.
“I don’t kiss my friends,” she says, only half joking, her eyes sober.
“Good,” I say with a smile. “Then when you kiss me, I’ll know you want to be more than just my friend.”
9
Lotus
I’m in the backroom with my laptop working on spec sheets when the Spanish Inquisition shows up.
Or rather, the Dominican Inquisition.
“So have you talked to Kenan Ross?” Yari asks from the doorway, chewing on a stick of beef jerky. She loves that stuff.
I glance up, slightly exasperated. I’m sandwiched between two sewing machines to avoid the socialness in the office that sometimes distracts me.
Also, because I don’t want to talk to her about Kenan. Especially after my conversation with him in the stairwell. I haven’t talked to Billie or Yari about Kenan because there wasn’t much to report. Not anything concrete other than an attraction stronger than I’ve ever felt before. Otherwise, nothing to see here.
“Uh, we ran into each other on my way back from Mood Fabrics,” I say, eyes never straying from my laptop screen.
“He was here looking for you,” Billie says, appearing from behind Yari.
Great. Both of ’em.
“Was he?” I ask, all super caszh.
“Yeah, girl,” Yari says, coming all the way in and hopping up onto one of the dusty sewing tables. “But he was trying to play it off.”
“Not with me, he wasn’t,” Billie chimes in, taking the table opposite Yari’s. “Came right out and asked me where she was.”
I split an irritated glance between the two of them. “Have you asked yourselves why someone who has a perfectly good office up on the second floor is working in a backroom on the first?”
“Of course, we asked ourselves that,” Billie says sweetly. “And we deduced you wanted us to have some privacy so you could spill the tea.”
“What tea?” I elevate one brow.
“Yeah, like have you kissed him again?” Yari asks, gnawing on that damn jerky.
“Of course, she hasn’t,” Billie chides. “She would have told us.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” I reply, giving up on productivity and closing my laptop.
“Well at least tell us how you’re doing with the sex strike,” Yari says. “We live together, and I don’t even know what’s going on with you.”
“I’ve been busy.” I rub tired eyes. “There’s a little thing called Fashion Week coming, and we have a collection to produce, a show to plan. So, ya know, there’s that.”
“We have work, too,” Billie says defensively. “But we wouldn’t let that get in the way of the details.”
“What details?” I ask cautiously.
“The dick ones,” Yari says, looking at me like why do I have to explain this? “I mean, we know Chase has been trying again. Did he wear you down?”
“Or wear you out?” Billie flashes a wanton grin and pulls out a cigarette. “You girls don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”
“Yes,” Yari and I answer in unison.
“Whuh?” Billie asks, the word distorted by the cigarette dangling between her lips. “Where am I supposed to smoke? It’s like the whole world has turned on nicotine.”
“Because the whole world has turned on nicotine,” I say. “Around the time we found out it kills you.”
“But it’s not fair.” Billie pouts, still managing to suck on her cigarette like she’ll get some of the effect even with it unlit. “I’m sure it’s a violation of our civil rights.”
“Please don’t tell two women of color that not being able to freely smoke your cigarette is part of the struggle,” Yari says.