“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