“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.

“Hmmmm,” I reply, finding a small smile despite the anxiety whirring in my belly. “So that’s how he got it.”

“Well did he call?” Iris demands, excitement and hope all up in her voice.

“You and August are such matchmakers,” I say, avoiding her question. One question will lead to another, and eventually she’ll realize I’ve seen Kenan a few times and we’ve been . . . conversant. Hell, we’ve been kiss-versant.

“Did. He. Call?” Iris persists.

“Text,” I reply, giving her just the tip of what she wants. “He invited me to the Rucker on Saturday.”

“Rucker Park is like the mecca of playground basketball.” I’m not impressed by the awe in Iris’s voice. Unlike me, she loves the game.