“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?