“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.