by Kennedy Ryan
“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 yo
u 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.
“But the struggle is real,” Billie insists. “And we smokers do have rights.”
“Excuse me, White Girl Magic, but with all the shit wrong in the world,” I say, having to suppress my laughter, “you’re standing up for lung cancer? That’s your soap box?”
“We all have vices,” Billie says, trying to sound earnest, but her lips are starting to twitch, too.
“Just don’t blow your vice in my face.” Yari chuckles. “But we’re getting distracted from the matter at hand. Lo, how is celibacy treating you?”
“It’s only been a few weeks.”
“Yeah, but you can’t go cold jerky,” Yari says, chewing on her meat stick.
“I think you mean cold turkey,” Billie corrects.
“I mean cold . . .” Yari mimes pushing the meat stick in and out of her mouth. “. . . jerky.”
“That’s so bad,” I say with distaste. “I’ve gone weeks without sex before, so I’m fine.”
I don’t mention that the only time I think about sex is around Kenan. They’d run with that, and justifiably so.
“Just promise that if you break your vow with Kenan Ross,” Yari says, eyes closed and hands pressed together as if in prayer, “you’ll tell us how big his dick is.”
Billie snorts, and I roll my eyes.
“Not gonna happen,” I mutter, opening my laptop again in the hope that they’ll drop it.
“What won’t happen? You and Kenan, or you telling us about his dick?” Billie asks. “I mean, he’s such a big man. Can you imagine if he had a little dick? That would be like a cosmic joke. A curse.”
I’m totally silent. They don’t even realize how badly they’re trampling my nerves.
“And you know how much I love a big dick,” Yari says.
“Yeah, remember that guy you slept with when you thought he might have an STD?” Billie asks, her face crunchy with disgust.
“One.” Yari enumerates on her finger. “He wrapped it up really tight.”
I snicker, because only Yari.
“And two,” she says, a salacious grin painted on her lips. “He came back clean.”
“You got lucky!” Billie says, pointing at her and giggling.
“I sure did. He was so fine,” Yari agrees half-dreamily. “Now you know a man is fine when he has a gimpy dick and he can still get it. Okurrrr.”
“Don’t invoke Cardi B,” I say with a grin.
“And remember that guy you messed around with that time, Lo?” Billie’s peal of laugher sails from her mouth and fills the backroom. “The seminary student?”
I comb my memory and as soon as I recall the guy she means, I laugh, too. Hard.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp, covering my mouth. “The one who said if I didn’t go down on him, I was gonna miss my blessings!”
The three of us lose it, and my laptop, the spec sheets, the show—all of it is forgotten for a few minutes of cutting up with my girls. I didn’t realize how much this residual hurt from my past has been weighing me down. Laughing with them, being silly, even for just a few minutes, feels good.
When we sober, I glance at my phone, see the time, and grimace.
“Okay, for real,” I tell them, opening my laptop again, “I need to finish this for JP.”
“Alright, it was good catching up,” Billie says, standing. “But you’re right. I have a report due to Paul by tomorrow morning.”
Yari and I raise our brows to the same level of don’t get us started, but remain silent.
“Don’t, you guys,” Billie says, all humor evaporating from her expression. “Just leave it alone. I know you think he’s not worth it.”
“No,” I counter, my voice quiet and sober. “I want you to see that you are worth it. Worth more than being some sidepiece for a man who would disrespect his wife, his kids, and you.”
“Yeah, Bill,” Yari says, shooting her a chiding glance. “You’re on the wrong side of the ‘Lemonade.’ Do you really wanna be Becky with the good hair?”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Billie says.
“What?” Yari asks with a frown. “This is my resting Bey face.”
Even Billie can’t resist that, and we laugh again before they go. Once it’s just me and the sewing machines for company, I replay the conversation with my girls, and hear it as Kenan probably would. Frivolous. He said I was young. He’s right. I’ve always felt mature for my age, like an old soul, but the things he’s navigating—divorce, his daughter’s well-being during the transition, family counseling—make me feel every year that separates us. All eleven of them. I need to be careful. I never want him to feel I’ve betrayed his trust. I don’t want to talk about him with my friends, with the press, with anyone. And I hate what his wife did to him. How do you choose someone else over a man like Kenan?
We aren’t in a relationship, but we’re in a something, even if it’s just a tug-of-war, resisting the pull of each other every time we’re together. I know I’m not ready for intimacy, which is what I could have with Kenan. I think I knew that from the beginning, and that was why I ignored or rebuffed him each time we met. The rapport we have developed even in such a short time speaks of a connection I’m not sure I’m ready for. I’m not ready to see it manifested between our bodies—to see how deep it would be and what it would require.
The studio has gone quiet, the workroom emptied out, and there are just a few lights on upstairs when I finish the things I needed to accomplish today. It’s dark, and I’m dreading my commute. I wish I could click my heels together and be home. I’m on the J train, head against the window, when my phone lights up with a text.
Unknown: This is Kenan. I hate texting.
Me: Um . . . Kenan who? And how did you get this number? Also, again, you sound like somebody’s granddaddy.
Unknown: Don’t change the subject.
Me: There’s a subject?
Unknown: SUBJECT: Saturday
Me: Oh. You mean the trip to “Antarctica?”
Unknown: Harlem’s not that far. Come. It’ll be fun.
Me: Send me the deets and I’ll see what I can do.
Unknown: I also hate the word “deets” and all text talk abbreviations.
Me: I’m sry. IDK. It’s NBD. I’ll BRB with more deets l8tr.
Unknown: Real mature.
Me: Such a grumpy old man!
Text bubbles appear and disappear. The J train keeps moving, depositing a few passengers at their stops while I wait, smile on my face, breath stalled, for Kenan’s reply.
Unknown: I am kind of grumpy with most people, but not with you.
Now it’s my turn to let the digital bubbles float, to let my heart float, as I start and stop a few messages before hitting send.
Me: Why aren’t you grumpy with me?
Unknown: For a million reasons I haven’t figured out yet.
My heart performs a triplet in my chest, turning over once, twice, and again, the beat irregular as I read and re-read what he wrote.
Me: Do you want to figure it out?
Unknown: I think yeah, very much . . .TBH. ;-)
My grin grows so wide, I’m probably showing all my teeth. If this were a game, I’d be showing all my cards, but
it’s not a game. It’s butterflies and emoticons and heart eyes. It’s risk and emotion and intimacy and all the things a girl like me dreads. I’ve sworn off Prince Charmings, and the unresolved issues of my past keep intruding on the fairy-tale. It’s not a fairy-tale.
IRL.
Me: SUBJECT: Saturday. We’ll see.
10
Lotus
“I’m so proud of you, Lo.”
Iris’s encouragement has me clutching the phone tight like it’s my lifeline. Like she’s my lifeline, which she has been to me and I have been to her since we were kids.
“I haven’t done anything yet.” My short laugh is as shaky as my insides.
“You’re the strongest chick I know,” Iris says. “And taking this step to get help doesn’t make you weaker. It makes you stronger.”
Would Iris still think I was strong if she knew I’d been standing in front of this Presbyterian church in Brooklyn for the last forty-five minutes? That the Thursday night meeting ends soon, and I haven’t worked up the nerve to go inside?
“Thanks,” I reply faintly. I glance up the flight of concrete steps leading to the church entrance.
“Call me later to tell me how it went,” Iris says. “I have a doctor’s appointment, but I’ll be available other than that.”
I welcome discussing something besides my crazy. I’ve been genuinely concerned about Iris’s pregnancy.
“Everything okay, Bo?” I ask, keeping my voice deliberately even and unconcerned.
“Yeah, completely. The doctor says my pregnancy is boringly normal. This is a routine visit.”
“September will be here before you know it.”
“And I can’t wait. August is obsessed with the baby.”
“Of course he is.” August is one of the good ones. One of the few men I would trust with my cousin and her daughter Sarai.
“He told me Kenan asked for your number.” Iris lets the comment hang over the airwaves.