by Kennedy Ryan
“So you’re already in love with her, or what?” Simone scoffs, but her bravado doesn’t hide the hurt and fear.
“I care about her a lot. We’re in a relationship. I think you’d really like—”
“Are we done?” she cuts me off, jerking her glance to Dr. Packer.
“We actually have a few more minutes.” Dr. Packer glances at her watch. “But we’re almost finished and—”
“I’m done.” Simone stands abruptly and strides to the door. “I’ll be in the car, Mommy.”
The door slams behind her and I release a heavy breath, lean forward, and rest my elbows on my knees. My head feels so heavy in my hands. My heart, like lead in my chest.
“Well, that went well,” Bridget drawls dryly.
The tenuous hold on my frustration snaps. I swivel my head to scowl at her.
“Why the hell did you show up at my apartment unannounced yesterday, Bridge?” I grit out. “We could have avoided all this if you’d just—”
“If you’d just kept your dick in your pants?”
“Don’t you worry about my dick. Stay out of my personal life and away from my relationship.”
“Your relationship.” Bridget twists her lips into a disdainful curve. “With a girl barely out of college you’ve known for, what? A couple months? Spare me. It won’t last. I don’t even know why we bothered telling Simone.”
“We bothered because Lotus is important to me,” I tell her, seeing through her bravado the same way I saw through my daughter’s. I force myself to soften my tone, despite my irritation. “Simone’s not the only one who has to accept that, Bridget.”
She stares back at me, the ire flickering and fading until she bites her lip and lowers her lashes.
“I agree this wasn’t an ideal way to introduce this subject,” Dr. Packer says, “but at least you’ve been honest with her. She’s hurt and confused and still getting used to her new life. Her foundations have been shaken, and any hope she had of restoring things seems farther away than ever now.”
She leans back in her seat and eyes us both.
“I think Simone may benefit from a few one-on-one sessions with each of you,” Dr. Packer says. “There could be some things she’s reluctant to say in front of one or the other.”
Bridget and I nod our agreement.
“Give her time, watch her closely, and put her first,” Dr. Packer says. “That means setting aside all this acrimony.”
She splits her gaze between the two of us, her brows lifted. “Think you can do that?”
Bridget and I exchange a look charged with all the things that infect our every interaction—resentment, anger, fear, regret—before both nodding curtly. Bridget stands as abruptly as Simone did, and she, too, walks away.
28
Kenan
I’ve returned to the scene of the almost-crime.
And Kenya’s not with me this time when I enter the Gilded Bean, so I need to check myself.
“Oh.” The woman with the glasses from the other day looks up from her writing pad. “You’re back.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry if I . . . came on too strong the other day,” I say, pulling from my very limited supply of charm. “I was disappointed the photo wasn’t for sale.”
“Yes. I picked up on that, Mr. Ross.”
“You know who I am?”
“When a man offers twenty-thousand dollars for a photo in my gallery,” she says wryly, “I make it my business to know who he is.”
“The offer still stands. I want that photo very badly.”
“It’s not for sale. Actually, as you can see,” she says, gesturing to the wall where the photo of Lotus hung before, “it’s no longer in the exhibit.”
I study a picture of the High Line where the Lo photo hung. So Lotus was right. It has been removed.
“May I ask why you were so interested?” she asks “I mean, besides the obvious. She’s a beautiful girl.”
“She’s my girl. My girlfriend, and that punk ass didn’t have her permission to display that photo.”
“That’s a serious allegation.” She glances at the new photo and frowns.
“I’m not here to make allegations. It’s up to Lotus how she wants to move forward. I just want to speak to Chase. Is he here?”
It’s a tiny lie. I want to do more than speak to him, but I school my expression into something harmless and only mildly interested.
After a pause and a searching glance, she points down a hall to the left. “He’s in one of the rooms working with a few photos.”
“Thanks.”
I follow the direction she pointed and sure enough, Chase is up on a ladder, adjusting the mounting for one of the displays. I kick the ladder lightly, and it wobbles for a few seconds, almost toppling. Chase lets out a high-pitched curse, and I grab the ladder to stabilize it at the last minute.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Chase frowns at me from his perch.
“Get down,” I say in as calm a voice as I can. He’s not nearly as big as I am, but he’s much bigger than Lotus, and he put his hands on her. I keep seeing the dark marks on her arms, and I’m getting madder by the minute.
“Excuse me?” he asks, one brow lifted, the picture of arrogance.
“You can climb down and we can talk face-to-face, or you can stay up there, and I kick this ladder so you fall. Either way, you’re coming down.”
He runs a hand through his hair, left loose to his shoulders today, and expels an exasperated breath. He climbs down and, once he’s on the ground, folds his arms over his chest.
“Look, Lo came and we sorted it out,” he says. “So you and I have nothing to discuss, as far as I can see.”
“That’s the problem. You don’t seem to see very far.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“If you’d had any foresight,” I say, stepping closer to him, “you wouldn’t have grabbed her. You wouldn’t have bruised her arms, because then you might have forecast that you’d have to deal with me.”
He swallows, his eyes shifting nervously to the door behind me. “She had bruises?”
“She actually tried to hide them because she was afraid I’d come and punch you in the face or something.”
I bend slightly until our eyes line up. “Because I am going to punch you in the face.”
“You can’t just go around hitting people,” he says, but he doesn’t sound completely sure.
“Why not?” I frown and tilt my head, as if I’m really contemplating this. “You go around taking naked pictures of women without their permission and displaying them in your exhibit.”
“You may not realize this, but Lotus and I have a history,” he says, his expression self-satisfied. “She and I used to—”
“Fuck,” I cut in. “I’m aware.”
He pauses, his eyes narrowed.
“But we’re getting off topic,” I say with deceptive calm. “I’m here to punch you in the face.”
“Why? I took the photo down.”
I step even closer to make him feel every one of the inches I tower over him. Let him see how it feels being threatened by someone bigger.
“You left marks on her,” I say, “so I leave marks on you, and you won’t press charges because you broke the law and she could prosecute you and your career could be over. Yadda, yadda, yadda.”
“And I’m supposed to just let you hit me?” he asks, expression outraged.
“Do I look like I need you to let me hit you? I just hit you. I’m explaining to you why I get to do it without any consequences.”
“Dude,” he says, swallowing anxiously. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Dude,” I mock with malice. “You should have thought about that before you put your hands on my girl.”
“Your girl?”
I won’t repeat myself. I squint one eye and survey his pretty-boy features.
“So chin, nose, eye, cheek? You get to pick.” I touch my balled fist to his face. “You’re welcome
.”
29
Lotus
I don’t have time for this.
We’re only a week away from the show. It’s as hectic, as it always is, and I’ve been working closely with Sasha, the show stylist, coordinating as many details as possible. JP designed about a hundred and fifty pieces for the collection, and we’ve landed on thirty looks to send down the runway. We’ve booked most of the models, of course, but there were a few girls JP saw in Paris last February who were unbelievably still available. They’re doing other shows during Fashion Week, but the scheduling works so they can squeeze us in, too. Which means last-minute fittings and shuffling some of the other look-pairings to adjust. The three of us—JP, Sasha and I—slept in the atelier last night and probably will again tonight.
Like I said, I don’t have time for this.
And yet here I am, standing outside a Presbyterian church on a Thursday night when I should, by all rights, be at the studio. I told JP, though, that I really needed a couple of hours to take care of something personal. He knows I never allow myself to need anything the week before a show, so he knew it must be important.
And this is.
I’ve been showing up a little earlier each week until I was actually sitting in the circle, nibbling on cookies and sipping coffee. At first, it helped simply to know that I wasn’t alone. Childhood sexual abuse is so invisible and prevalent. I’m staggered that one in every four girls is sexually abused before the age of eighteen.
I’m one of them.
So many of us are walking around like I’ve been, living with secrets—living with resentment that the adults who should have protected us, failed us.
Living in the dark.
I’ve been mostly listening to the other women. There are only four of us and Marsha, who guides the group. I’m thankful for the small size. It builds trust faster. I don’t know what these women do from nine to five, but I know who hurt them. I know how far it went. I know how it affects each of them to this day.
Sherrie’s uncle started touching her when she was only four years old, and it wasn’t discovered until she was eight. He was never allowed to be alone with her again, but no charges were brought against him. He never spent a day in jail. She got no real help, and it wasn’t until she was battling depression and had attempted suicide that a therapist unearthed what was really beneath it all.
It was Chloe’s cousin.
It was Kyla’s aunt.
I may not know where they live, or their favorite TV show, but I’m intimate with their pain, and I sit in a circle of light where they expose their darkest secrets.
Kenan doesn’t know about my Thursday nights. The last few weeks have been magical in so many ways, with our relationship growing, deepening, at the perfect pace. We’ve had relatively little time together because of my schedule and his. He’s had to travel overseas for a few commitments and appearances, and my life is confined to the atelier. But when we are together, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and more fun than I’ve ever had. Exploring the Brooklyn Museum, Coney Island fireworks on Fridays, Saturdays at Smorgasburg, Brooklyn’s food flea market in Prospect Park, ferry rides, music festivals, and Shakespeare in the Park. He’s seeing New York through my eyes. I’m seeing life through his. We’re stretching each other, absorbing each other.
We’re falling in love.
We haven’t said the word, but I’m sure I’m falling in love with Kenan Ross, and I’m certain he’s falling in love with me.
And, yes, the sexual chemistry between us is combustible. Simply a look, a barely-there touch sets us on fire. He knows my body’s secrets, and I know his. Sometimes I’m the one who drags us back from that last step. Sometimes it’s actually him because he wants me to be sure. He wants me to be ready, even though he doesn’t know all the reasons I’ve held back.
I haven’t told him details, but I think he has his suspicions. Marsha said it would require a patient man. Kenan has been that and more. He really must think he’s robbing the cradle. We’ve been dating for a month and we haven’t “gone all the way.” Soon I’ll ask for his letterman’s jacket and a corsage for prom.
He’s in Croatia, of all places. Apparently, basketball has become a big deal there. The letters I receive in the mail every day almost make his absence worthwhile. He must have someone local sending them while he’s gone because there’s no way they’d get here from overseas in time. I reach into my bag and pull out yesterday’s card.
“You have made my heart beat faster.”
--Song of Solomon 4:9
I slide the card back into my bag, careful not to bend it. When I get home, I’ll put it with all the others in this vintage metal lunchbox I used as a sewing kit when I was a teenager. That old lunchbox has been with me through high school home ec, traveled from the Bayou to Spelman, and got me through my stint at FIT.
“You coming in?” Sherrie asks from the top of the church steps. Her smile is open and friendly. The look she gives me, compassionate.
She waits while I climb the steep stairs to reach her, and we walk inside and down to the basement together.
I’m the only one in our little group who hasn’t shared my story. I’ve told them a little about the emptiness; how I sobbed the last time I had sex. The sensory-triggered flashbacks and panic attacks. They even know I’m dating someone amazing, but I’m afraid to take that final step with him.
“Good evening, ladies,” Marsha says, taking a sip of her coffee and looking into the eyes of each woman in the circle. “How’s the week going?”
“I finally told my family about what my cousin did to me,” Chloe says, blinking rapidly at the tears crystallizing over her eyes. “They didn’t believe me. Not even my own mother.”
The silence that follows should be filled with astonishment, but it’s not. We’ve all been betrayed by someone close to us—all been let down or disbelieved.
“My mother had the nerve to bring up ‘my past,’ as she likes to call it,” Chloe says, biting one of her already nubby fingernails. “She says a girl can’t be as promiscuous as I was and expect people to believe her when she makes accusations. I was seven when it happened. She made me feel like a whore. Like I was some slut crying wolf.”
Tears course down her cheeks unchecked.
“I tried to explain.” She sniffs and looks helplessly at Marsha. “I used the language you helped me with. I told her some of us may have a lot of sex, or some of us may not be able to have sex at all, but we’re all trying to gain mastery of the original abuse. She didn’t get it, though, and said I was making excuses.”
“Tell me your truth, Chloe,” Marsha says, her voice pitched low, and soothing but firm. “Your mother made you feel dirty, but tell me what is true about you. What you’ve discovered about yourself.”
“My self-worth was connected to sex,” Chloe says haltingly, casting quick looks around the circle. “I believed I had to be sexually desirable to be worth anything to anyone, but that’s not true.”
Kyla went on a second date with a man she met online.
“He’s so sweet,” Kyla says, her smile coming and then going. “He tried to kiss me, and I froze. It wasn’t as bad as it’s been before when I . . . fought, but I still froze.”
A single tear skids over her cheek, and she swipes at it impatiently. “I just want to kiss someone nice, someone good, without thinking about what she did to me.” Kyla swallows and closes her eyes. “I’d forgotten for so long. I wish it had stayed buried and I’d never remembered.”
“Our minds don’t usually let us get away with that forever,” Marsha says. “And even if we don’t remember, it will find a way to manifest. At least when you remember, we know what we’re dealing with. We know how to deal with it.”
“He was really sweet about it,” Kyla adds with a smile. “We’re going out again.”
“That’s amazing, Kyla,” Marsha says, real affection evident in the look she gives the other woman. “Keep us posted.”
M
arsha glances at her watch and then around the circle. “Anyone else want to share before we close out?”
Chloe sniffs and accepts a tissue from Marsha with a smile. They’re all so brave, so vulnerable, and have never pressured me to share much at all. Each week they allow me to sit here and absorb. The trust it takes to share such difficult things with strangers—to trust them with your deepest hurts—is remarkable.
“I wanted to share something,” I say, my voice so low I barely hear it myself.
“Sure, Lotus,” Marsha says, not overly eager and with exactly the right amount of encouragement. “Go on.”
“I told you that I’m on a . . .” How do I say this without sounding ridiculous? “A sexual hiatus, for want of a better word.”
We exchange smiles around the circle.
“Sex was always completely devoid of intimacy,” I say with a shrug. “I wasn’t hyper-sexed and I wasn’t afraid to have it. I just detached, and that started to feel really shitty, so I’ve stopped having sex for a while.” My laugh emerges, harsh and humorless. “Leave it to me to meet a great guy right as I swear off the dick.”
The other women laugh, and we seem to collectively relax for a moment.
“So he’s been patient?” Marsha queries. “Understanding?”
“He has, one hundred percent,” I confirm. “And I haven’t even told him what happened, but I think he suspects.”
My throat burns when I approach the next words, and I swallow several times, stopping and starting before getting it out. “I’ve learned so much about intimacy with him, even though we haven’t had sex.” I laugh dryly. “I mean, we make out long and hard, and do everything possible, except the kitchen sink.”
Their laughter comes again, and it makes me feel a little lighter, but that fades with the next words I want to say.
“But I didn’t cry before until after sex,” I say. “And it’s an awful, lonely, feeling. I’m afraid it’ll happen with him and that‘ll somehow mean I’m not getting better, and I need to feel like I’m getting better. Things are so good for us. I don’t want to mess it up—to think I shouldn’t have tried. It’s like if I can’t find intimacy, satisfaction with him, who’s such a good man and everything I could have asked for, then maybe there’s no hope for me.”