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.”

Marsha 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.”

“Don’t put so much pressure on it,” Marsha says. “I mean, it’s a big deal, yes, but if I’d given up with my husband the first time I had that same negative response I’d had in other situations, we wouldn’t be where we are today. Hell, we wouldn’t be anywhere. I would have run and assumed it would never get better.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “It does get better. It can take time, but it can get better.”

“Have you considered telling him what happened?” Sherrie, who’s been kind of quiet tonight, asks. “So he’s prepared for any negative response? So he can know what might be triggers or things he should avoid doing?”

“I’ve thought about telling him,” I say with ropes knotting in my belly. “But every time, I can’t imagine it. Only my family know what happened, and not even all of them. I’ve never told my story out loud. I don’t even know what it sounds like.”

“You could test it on us,” Marsha offers softly. “Or not. Whatever you feel like doing.”

I glance at my watch. They have to go, I’m sure, and soon, so do I.

“I know we’re almost at the end of our time,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t want to keep you from anything.”

Chole settles back and crosses her arms over her chest. “Frozen dinner is the only thing waiting for me at home.”

“My cat’ll be fine for a few extra minutes,” Kyla murmurs.

We all look at Sherrie, who’s typing on her phone. She glances up with a smile. “Telling my roommate to turn off the Crock Pot because I’ll be a little late.”

“See?” Marsha offers a triumphant smile that urges me to spill all my secrets. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

30

Lotus (Twelve Years Old)

“Sit still, Lo! I’m almost done,” Mama says, impatience popping in her words. “Hold your ear.”

I obediently pull the top of my ear down so it won’t get burned while she runs the hot comb through my hair. Smoke rises from the heat and pressure that flatten the crooking coils that bother her so much. I can do it myself sometimes, but I end up with even more burns, and it takes a long time. And we’re already running late.

“See?” she says, a smile in her voice even though she stands behind me and I can’t see her face. I can’t see the glowing red eye of the stove that lends the comb its heat. “In a few minutes, your hair will be straight like Iris’s.”

I glance at my cousin Iris in the corner, reading the library’s copy of The Witch and the Wardrobe. Iris doesn’t need a pressing comb, and her hair isn’t exactly straight. It’s wavy, but as fine as the white girls’ hair at school. Her skin is almost as pale, too. Her mother’s complexion, my Aunt Priscilla, is a mixture of dark honey and the palest caramel, just like Mama’s. Both of them have silky hair hanging to their waists.