“Something’s different,” she says after a few seconds. “What’s going on with you?”
I don’t understand Lotus’ intuition; her way of seeing beneath the surface of things, but it’s consistent. Like Lotus, I refuse to believe in her voodoo nonsense, but there’s no denying she has some inexplicable sixth sense. Tonight, though she hasn’t figured it out yet, it’s probably that Iris is pregnant.
“Girl, what?” Iris says lightly, waving her hand dismissively, playing it off. “Maybe I cut my hair since you saw me last. That’s probably it.”
“No, it’s something else.” Lotus narrows her eyes and runs a glance from Iris’ head to her toes. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Whatever, Lo.” Iris rolls her eyes and grins. “You haven’t even said hello to your biggest fan yet.”
Lotus immediately turns her full attention to my daughter, and they both squeal like little girls. Well, Sarai is a little girl. Lotus is just genuinely thrilled to see her.
“Have you been a good girl?” Lotus asks. It’s not the teasing adults usually use to ask children that question. There’s a weight to it, like Sarai’s answer matters. And Sarai answers in kind, her little face mirroring the seriousness of Lotus’ expression when she nods that she has been.
“Good!” Lotus brightens like someone turned on the Christmas lights. “Because I have your gift.”
“Yay!” Sarai claps and jumps up and down in her Christmas sweater and skirt. Her little hand pops out, ready for whatever goodies Lotus has for her.
“Oh, darn it.,” Lotus says, a frown pinching her thick brows together. “Where’s my bag?”
“Right here, Lo,” a man says from behind me. If Upper Eastside private school had a sound, it would be this man’s voice. I turn to find a guy, a little over average height, with his blond-streaked chestnut hair gathered into a man bun. A grin creases his pretty boy face and he hands Lo a coat and small clutch bag.
“You took off running and literally left me holding the bag,” the guy continues.
“Oh, sorry.” Lo takes the items with a quick smile. “Guys, this is Chase Montclair. He’s one of New York’s most promising photographers.”
She shoots him a wry, teasing smile. “At least that’s what he keeps telling everybody.”
“Very funny.” Chase extends his hand in greeting, and Iris and I both shake it. “Hey. Merry Christmas.”
He has soft hands, like the hardest thing he’s ever done is lift that camera. I shouldn’t judge, but I’m probably biased because of the way he keeps looking at Lotus like she’s Christmas dinner. Kenan has no claim to Lo, and they’ve only met a handful of times, exchanged so few words, but I still wish Chase wasn’t here with Kenan on the way.
“Grabbed you a drink, babe,” Chase says, proffering a glass to Lotus.
Babe? Iris and I exchange a look, both of us lifting eyebrows high.
“Ooooh. Aperol,” Lotus sighs and takes a long sip. “You know me so well.”
Does he? Who is this guy?
By the curious glances Iris darts between Lotus and Chase, she’s as clueless as I am. I catch a glimpse of Kenan entering, taller than just about everyone, which is saying something in a roomful of basketball players. His customary scowl clears when he sees me. Lo is as petite as Kenan is tall, so I don’t think he sees her through all the trees present until he’s right up on us.
“Rook, long time, no see,” he jokes and daps me up. His eyes drift around our small circle until they land on Lotus. Seems every time they’re in a room together, which hasn’t been often, a staring match ensues. Tonight is no different. A wordless war is being waged between them. Kenan watches Lotus like she might take off running at any minute, which usually happens. She stares back like a wily fox who finds herself in a trap, b
ut isn’t out of options yet.
“Dude, you’ve got great forearms,” Chase says, snapping the living thread stretching between their stares. Kenan shifts his glance from Lotus to the soft, pale hand caressing Lotus’ neck, and then to Chase’s face.
“Excuse me?” One arrogant lift of Kenan’s brow sends some grown men scurrying, but Chase is too oblivious to know he should be cautious with his next words.
“Your forearms,” Chase repeats, gesturing to where Kenan has pushed up the sleeves of his sweater, baring the whipcord muscle and veins of his lower arms. “Sorry. I’m a photographer. Noticing shit like that is my job.”
His comment falls into silence about as friendly as a vat of acid. Kenan tilts his head, studying Chase like he’s some other species. Maybe Millennial Manbunian. I’m privately congratulating myself on that bit of clever dopeness, when Lotus makes her move. Her move being to peace out.
“Speaking of your job,” she says, finishing her Aperol and placing the glass on a passing tray. “We should get going. My boss is throwing a Christmas party tonight and we’re supposed to be there. He’s really big on these parties.”
“But we just got—”
“Stay if you want,” Lotus interrupts Chase’s protest. “I’m out.”