“I believe you. I do,” I reassure her. “It’s just I have to be so careful who I let into my life, because that affects my daughter. And she heard and knew too much too soon because our shit was everywhere. She’s my whole life, and I have to protect her.”
If anything, the look on her face is intent, understanding. “She’s very lucky to have someone who puts her first,” Lotus says.
One side of my mouth kicks into a grin that mocks me. “I felt like a national joke and today . . . I don’t know. I let my thoughts run and started drawing parallels that weren’t there. I took it out on you.”
“I’m sorry, Kenan,” she says, her expression pained, angry. “I hate she did that to you. That people didn’t support you like you deserve.”
“No, I’m sorry. I guess I have some lingering trust issues. I judged you today by what’s happened before.”
I reach up and pull one springy curl, watching it snap back into place. “I’m sorry. You deserved to at least know why I was such a dumbass.”
She’s quiet for a few moments, and I wonder if what I’ve told her has either scared her away, or doesn’t sufficiently excuse my asshole behavior earlier.
“There are things you should know, too,” she finally says. “But I’m not ready to share them with you.”
She looks up at me, and her eyes are filled with so much pain, I want to demand she tell me right fucking now who hurt her. I haven’t known her long enough to feel this way—to feel like I should be the one shielding her, but I do. I admit only to myself that I already do.
“What can you tell me?” I ask.
“My mother wasn’t like you. She never put me first.” She meets my eyes, but they don’t give away much. “I guess on some level I never got over it. I told you that I’m not doing sex right now. I don’t have a problem with sex. I love it actually. Very much.”
“That’s good to know.” We share a brief smile before hers disappears.
“It’s not sharing my body with someone that’s hard,” she says ruefully. “It’s trusting anyone with more than that. I’ve never done that. My problem is intimacy, and sex without it started to feel . . . bad. I can’t describe it except to say it felt empty.”
I’m quiet, hoping she’ll continue if I stay out of her way—if I don’t interrupt.
“You say you don’t have childhood trauma.” Her glance slides away to the side. “I do. I have a lot of that shit, and I’m realizing that never dealing with it is starting to haunt me. It’s affecting me in ways I didn’t think it would.”
I know better than to press for specifics when she’s already told me she’s not ready to share, so I ask her the more important question. “So what are you going to do about it?”
She shrugs, and for maybe the first time since I’ve met her, Lotus looks truly helpless. I’m used to the unassailable confidence, the cocksure attitude. I don’t hate seeing her unsure as much as I want her to know she can be unsure with me.
“I know it sounds clichéd,” I tell her. “But talking to someone might help. We’re seeing a therapist because my daughter’s having a hard time accepting the divorce. It’s for her, yes, but also for me.”
My short, cynical laugh echoes in the stairwell. “Bridget and I never made it to counseling, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to screw things up even more for my daughter than I have already.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Lotus protests.