by Kennedy Ryan
“I think you were the one trying to hold him last I checked.” I blink at her, all innocence and don’t test me, bitch. “That didn’t work out exactly as you hoped, though, did it?”
Her smile vaporizes, her mouth falling into a thin, flat line.
“Who are you guys talking about?” Chase asks, a frown hanging between his dirty blond brows.
“No one,” I say as Amanda says, “Kenan Ross.”
Chase sneers and takes a deep gulp of his beer. “You’re both out of luck since I heard he and his wife might be getting back together.”
I know it’s a lie, and I know I shouldn’t care, but my hand freezes midway to my mouth, and my Negroni feels too heavy. I set it down on the table, keeping my movements smooth and my face blank.
“Free to do what he wants to do,” I say and shrug.
“So it wouldn’t bother you if he went back to his wife?” Chase asks.
“Not one little bit,” I lie.
When did it become a lie? When did I lower my guard long enough for Kenan Ross to become a possibility? For him to become an exception to the rules that govern my life and keep my heart intact?
I’m not mentioning my heart in the same sentence as Kenan Ross.
Even as I assure myself of that fact, I remember watching him at the Rucker last week, admiring his confidence and ease with the crowd. He doesn’t try to command every space he’s in. It just happens. And it’s not just his height. There were other ballers there that day—taller, broader, but he stood out. All eyes were drawn to him.
At least mine were.
And I’ve mentally replayed our fascinating and disconcerting conversation at Sylvia’s so many times. He came right out and asked me about voodoo, and I spoke more freely with him about my heritage and MiMi than I ever do.
“Good thing you aren’t hung up on Ross,” Chase drawls, slicing his fork into a gargantuan slice of cake. “Your feelings might be hurt seeing him with his wife at that table over there.”
Chase nods his head across the room, and before I can stop myself (dammit!), I turn in that direction. My eyes collide with Kenan’s and my breath stutters.
The man is fine. There’s no getting around that.
Obviously, he’s back from Philly. It’s okay that he hasn’t called. I’ve been telling myself that it’s for the best so we can keep things in a little box marked ‘friendship.’ It’s only now, when our eyes meet and cling, that I admit I was lying to myself. I missed him and hoped he’d call even while telling myself otherwise. My gaze drifts to the beautiful blond woman at his side.
“Oh, pretty blue-eyed blondes with big breasts not your type?”
“Used to be. I was married to one for a long time.”
He said “used to be,” but it looks like they still are. I jerk my head back around and Chase’s cruel scrutiny is waiting for me.
“Like I said,” Chase says with a stiff little smile, “it’s a good thing.”
“I heard she’s on that new reality show,” Amanda interjects. “Baller Bae, and that Kenan moved to New York to be closer to her since it’s taping here.”
That’s not how Kenan told it, but I’ve taken a vow of silence on the subject of Kenan Ross, and I’m certainly not breaking it for these two loose-lipped fools.
“Open your presents, Bill.” I lean past Chase to tell my friend. “If you don’t love what I gave you, I want it for myself.”
Billie doesn’t need much persuading, and squeals and coos over every gift. The whole time, I stubbornly refuse to look back in the direction of Kenan and his ex-wife, even though I feel his eyes on me more than once.
“Lo!” Billie’s squeaks and holds up the gift I made for her. “This is gorgeous. One of your designs?”
I smile and nod, swelling with quiet pride when Billie puts on the little bolero jacket. It’s sequined, and the stitching is so subtle it’s practically invisible. The embroidery on the elbows and at the collar is intricate and vibrant.
“I love it so much.” Billie stands for her hug. I take the few steps to reach the head of the table.
“I love you so much.” I hold her close and whisper in her ear, “Be careful what you wish for, Bill.”
She jerks back and peers into my face, startled green eyes searching mine for a knowledge she can’t be sure I have. I don’t even really know, but I get these urges. Promptings. Strong feelings. I don’t always know what they mean, and most of them I ignore, but every once in a while, I say what I see, and I see Billie wishing for something she shouldn’t have.
“Okay, enough of the love fest,” Chase says. “Either you two start making out or break it up and open my present, Billie.”
Billie stumbles back to sit down, sending a dazed look at me before starting back in on her pile of presents. I return to my seat, and feeling eyes on me from that direction, finally give in and glance over to Kenan’s table. I’m ready to cross my eyes or stick out my tongue—do something that throws him off his game—but it’s not Kenan staring at me.
It’s her.
Bridget Ross’s eyes are chilled, blue curacao in a frosted glass. I look away quickly, wondering why she’s staring at me. I’ve felt something connecting Kenan and me ever since the first time we met. Is she astute enough to discern the invisible ribbon tying us together across the room?
“You ready for this train?” Yari asks me once we’ve all paid our bills, boxed up what’s left of the cake, and are preparing to go our separate ways. “Girl, we gotta make this hump back to Brooklyn.”
“Yeah.” I snap myself out of any thoughts about Bridget and Kenan. “I’m gonna use the restroom before we start home.”
I rush off to the bathroom, hoping no one from our table follows. I need a minute to compose myself—to regain the resolve I had at the beginning of this journey to keep things simple. To be just friends. Because somewhere along the way, things changed, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. If there’s one thing I have to be, it’s sure.
I’m walking down the dimly lit passage, almost at the women’s restroom, when one word from behind steals all the things I’m sure of, and dares me to take a chance.
“Button.”
14
Kenan
She stops midstride, but doesn’t turn.
She’s arresting enough from the back. While I was in Philly, she reinstated the braids. Bright and platinum in the half-light of the hall, they are gathered high at the crown of her head and held tight by chopsticks. She’s like a China doll, slight and curvy. Her emerald green dress with its high Mandarin collar and printed with pink cherry blossoms fits lovingly to the sinuous lines of her body.
She turns slowly, giving me plenty of time to brace for her, but I’m still not ready.
When she faces me, my mind scrambles a little. I reach for something to say, but my tongue feels heavy, clumsy. She always has this effect on me. I used to resent it, but now it just confirms that we’re meant to be special, not simple. If Lotus, with her trust issues and her temporary celibacy weren’t complex enough, my ex-wife waiting out in the dining room ensures that things will not be simple.
Make-up and false lashes exaggerate the already-dramatic tilt of her eyes. Tiny jade tassels dangle from her ears. Her mouth is scarlet and pouty and, if memory serves me correctly, sweet.
“I thought I told you not to call me Button,” she says by way of greeting.
“I thought we agreed I would when we’re alone.”
And we are alone in this narrow space, but there’s an elephant in the hall, and I address it right away.
“I’m here with my ex-wife,” I say, leaning against the wall. “And daughter. We had family counseling tonight. Simone’s been asking if we could all do dinner after the sessions. Our counselor thought it was a good idea.”
“That’s nice,” she says, lowering her lashes instead of looking at me. “I did see your . . . ex.”
“We were alone because my daughter noticed a friend from school and left the table to
say hi.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation, Kenan,” she replies, winged brows drawn in. “We’re not dating or a couple or . . . anything but friends.”
“Funny.” I reach for her wrist and gently tug her the few inches separating us to stand in front of me. “I didn’t think about my other friends every day while I was away.”
I tug a little more until the silk of her dress licks between my denim-covered thighs. She tilts her head down so all I see is a coronet of braids.
“And I certainly wasn’t tempted to text them every day,” I add. “My friends, I mean.”
“But you didn’t text,” she says softly, lifting her lashes to stare at me. “Me, I mean.”
“I wasn’t sure if I should.” I pause. “I’m not sure what we’re doing or which lines to cross. We have two absolutes. No sex, because you’re ‘off dick.’”
She snort-laughs like I hoped she would.
“And no kisses until you make them happen,” I continue. “but those are lines drawn for our bodies, not for our feelings.”
“And what do you think you’re feeling, Mr. Ross?”
The miniscule moment of silence following her question is a fork, two diverging paths. One is paved with self-preservation. I tell her I’m feeling nothing—protect myself from the wiles of a woman I don’t know well enough to trust. The other road is cobblestoned with hope—it’s uneven, maybe a little bumpy, but gives her the truth in the hope that she’ll return the favor.
“I’m feeling . . . more,” I say, sliding my hand down her wrist to link my fingers with hers. “More than I planned to feel. More than, if I was smart, I’d let myself feel.”
“If you were smart?” she asks, her eyes trained on our fingers meshed together between us.
“Yeah. The last woman I trusted ruined my life.”
I’ve never said it that way, but it’s true. When the news leaked about Bridget’s affair, I was living the dream. I’d won two rings with a team on its way to another championship season. I had a beautiful wife, a daughter I adored, success, and wealth. But it was just that—a dream. A frail illusion shattered by one choice and many lies.
“I’m not her, Kenan.”
“And I’m not whomever makes it hard for you to trust either.”
She traps her bottom lip between her teeth and nods.
“I’m not saying that to rush you, Lotus. I’m saying we both have reason to be cautious. I told you at the beginning, I don’t need complications. My family is a wreck. My ex is a circus. My daughter isn’t sure if she hates or loves me from one day to the next half the time. More than any time in my life, I need simple.”
I lift her chin, and when she looks at me, eyes shadowed with mystery, I answer her question of what I’m feeling.
“I need simple,” I repeat. “But I want you.”
She closes her eyes and squeezes my fingers as if she’s holding onto this moment—sealing it in her hands and searing it in her memory. I’m hoping after I’ve taken the risk of trusting her that she’ll trust me, too.
“Daddy?”
Simone’s voice startles me. It must startle Lotus, too, because she jerks her hand from mine and steps back. When I look up the hall, Simone stands there with a curious expression on her face. Bridget stands behind her, her eyes condemning.
Like she has a fucking right.
“Moni, hey, baby,” I say, keeping my voice even. “How was your friend? Camilla, was that her name?”
Simone stays silent for a moment, eyeing Lotus before looking back to me with a slight frown. “Camille. She’s fine. Invited me to a sleepover next week.”
“We’ll have to see about that,” Bridget says. “We’re ready to go home, Kenan, if it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”
Bridget’s love language is passive aggression.
“Of course not. I’ll get the car.” I turn to Lotus. “I want you to meet someone first. Moni, this is Lotus. Lotus, my daughter, Simone.”
Simone doesn’t move, but watches from a safe distance a few feet away. After a brief hesitation, Lotus steps forward and extends her hand.
My daughter is tall for her age. She has no choice considering her parents’ height. At fourteen years old and five-feet-seven-inches, she’s already taller than Lotus, who barely looks her in the eye wearing heels.
“Hi, Simone,” she says, her voice low and husky, strong. “Nice to meet you.”
Simone takes and quickly drops Lotus’s hand.
“And this is Bridget,” I say. “Simone’s mother.”
Bridget’s mouth tightens, and her nostrils flare. Based on Dr. Packer’s advice, I should focus on Bridget’s role as Simone’s mother, not on her former role as my wife. She should be happy to be introduced at all.
“Nice to meet you,” Lotus says, extending her hand to Bridget, who takes it with only the tips of her fingers, as if she’s afraid Lotus might contaminate her somehow.
“Mmmm,” Bridge responds with the rude syllable.
“Lotus is—”
“From JPL Maison,” Lotus cuts in, her smile impersonal and serene. “I work for Jean Pierre Louis, and Kenan’s the new spokesperson for our watches.”
That’s fine for now, but my hope is that at some point, Lotus and I will have some explaining to do. At least to Simone. Who the hell cares what Bridget thinks about my personal life?
“The car, Kenan?” Bridget asks sharply. “Simone needs to get home. She has an early morning dance rehearsal.”
“Well it was nice meeting you,” Lotus says. “Good night.”
She turns back toward the bathroom and walks in like nothing ever stopped her. Like I didn’t stop her.
The three of us are silent while I pay the bill. I collect the car and take Simone and Bridget back to the apartment Bridget is leasing on the Upper West Side. I’ve done nothing wrong, and have no intention of apologizing for talking to a friend in the hall. Still, there’s a chill in the air despite the humidity of the July evening. Neither Bridget nor Simone voice their thoughts, but I know they’re speculating. If things develop with Lotus as I hope, there will be a time and place to orient Simone to her. If things stall—if Lotus decides this is as far as we go—we’ve disrupted nothing.
I’ve walked them up to the apartment, and come back down to my car parked out front when my phone lights up with a text.
Lotus: This is Button . . . if you’re alone.
Wearing a face-splitting grin, I prop my elbows on the steering wheel, and reply.
Me: I’m alone. I didn’t get to say that you looked beautiful tonight.
Lotus: Don’t change the subject.
I chuckle when I realize she’s echoing our first text exchange, so I follow suit.
Me: There’s a subject?
Lotus: Subject: SATURDAY
Now we’re talking.
Me: What’s happening Saturday?
Lotus: Brooklyn, if you want.
Me: Oh, I definitely want.
Lotus: I’ll send deets. I know how much you love those. ;-)
15
Lotus
“This is not a date,” I tell the girl in the mirror.
I’ve tamed my braids into a top knot and I kept my makeup light, natural. I’m wearing a lilac strapless top and tiny denim shorts that barely cover the tattoos ringing the very tops of my thighs. My eyes are sparkling.
Dammit, why are my eyes sparkling?
What is this boom-crash-thump my heart does while I’m waiting for Kenan’s knock at the door?
Why is my belly flip-flopping at the thought of spending the entire day with him?
“This is not a date,” I grimly remind my reflection.
“If it looks like a date and quacks like a date,” Yari says from the door to my bedroom, “it’s a date.”
“What do you know?” I ask, turning around to grin at her. She’s still in her pajamas and her hair is a half-curly, half-straight mess all over her head. “Also, what bush did you sleep in?”
; “Girl, there wasn’t much sleeping,” she says, her smile a dirty, satisfied smear on her pretty face. “Pedro spent the night.”
“Oh, well look at you, getting some.” I laugh and put on oversized hoop earrings. “Haven’t you known him like forever?”
“One of those guys from the neighborhood who’s been sniffing around since high school, yeah. I never gave him the time of day, and after all these years, I finally did.” She tips her head down and slants me a meaningful look. “Lo, dude showed me what he was working with last night. It’s a lot.”
I smooth sunscreen on my arms and legs. It’s a myth that brown doesn’t burn. “That good, huh?”
“Yeah.” She pauses to look me over, head to toe. “You say you don’t want to catch a fish, but you baiting that hook mighty hard. You look good, Lo. You might have to remind Kenan it’s not a date, too.”
“He knows,” I say and grab my small leather crossbody bag.
The teasing leaves Yari’s face. “What’s really going on with you two?”
I pause in making sure I have lip balm and cash for the day. “What do you mean?”
“Look, I know you claim not to be into Kenan like that, and I know you’re in this legs closed phase, but you don’t fool me. I know you, Lo,” Yari says. “You like him, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.
“I don’t know, Ri. I’m attracted to him. He seems too good to be true. We haven’t kissed again since that party, but . . .”
I recall the firm, soft press of his mouth into mine. Remember him handling me like I was precious.
“But . . .” Yari prompts, smiling.
“He says the next time we kiss, I’ll have to make it happen.” I release a breathy laugh. “I want to make it happen. I do, but I got some real shit to sort through.”
I fiddle with the strap of my purse.
“I always thought the issue would be falling for a bad man, like my mother did, but falling for a good man could be worse.”
“How do you figure?”