The three of us lose it, and my laptop, the spec sheets, the show—all of it is forgotten for a few minutes of cutting up with my girls. I didn’t realize how much this residual hurt from my past has been weighing me down. Laughing with them, being silly, even for just a few minutes, feels good.
When we sober, I glance at my phone, see the time, and grimace.
“Okay, for real,” I tell them, opening my laptop again, “I need to finish this for JP.”
“Alright, it was good catching up,” Billie says, standing. “But you’re right. I have a report due to Paul by tomorrow morning.”
Yari and I raise our brows to the same level of don’t get us started, but remain silent.
“Don’t, you guys,” Billie says, all humor evaporating from her expression. “Just leave it alone. I know you think he’s not worth it.”
“No,” I counter, my voice quiet and sober. “I want you to see that you are worth it. Worth more than being some sidepiece for a man who would disrespect his wife, his kids, and you.”
“Yeah, Bill,” Yari says, shooting her a chiding glance. “You’re on the wrong side of the ‘Lemonade.’ Do you really wanna be Becky with the good hair?”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Billie says.
“What?” Yari asks with a frown. “This is my resting Bey face.”
Even Billie can’t resist that, and we laugh again before they go. Once it’s just me and the sewing machines for company, I replay the conversation with my girls, and hear it as Kenan probably would. Frivolous. He said I was young. He’s right. I’ve always felt mature for my age, like an old soul, but the things he’s navigating—divorce, his daughter’s well-being during the transition, family counseling—make me feel every year that separates us. All eleven of them. I need to be careful. I never want him to feel I’ve betrayed his trust. I don’t want to talk about him with my friends, with the press, with anyone. And I hate what his wife did to him. How do you choose someone else over a man like Kenan?
We aren’t in a relationship, but we’re in a something, even if it’s just a tug-of-war, resisting the pull of each other every time we’re together. I know I’m not ready for intimacy, which is what I could have with Kenan. I think I knew that from the beginning, and that was why I ignored or rebuffed him each time we met. The rapport we have developed even in such a short time speaks of a connection I’m not sure I’m ready for. I’m not ready to see it manifested between our bodies—to see how deep it would be and what it would require.
The studio has gone quiet, the workroom emptied out, and there are just a few lights on upstairs when I finish the things I needed to accomplish today. It’s dark, and I’m dreading my commute. I wish I could click my heels together and be home. I’m on the J train, head against the window, when my phone lights up with a text.
Unknown: This is Kenan. I hate texting.
Me: Um . . . Kenan who? And how did you get this number? Also, again, you sound like somebody’s granddaddy.
Unknown: Don’t change the subject.
Me: There’s a subject?
Unknown: SUBJECT: Saturday
Me: Oh. You mean the trip to “Antarctica?”
Unknown: Harlem’s not that far. Come. It’ll be fun.
Me: Send me the deets and I’ll see what I can do.
Unknown: I also hate the word “deets” and all text talk abbreviations.
Me: I’m sry. IDK. It’s NBD. I’ll BRB with more deets l8tr.
Unknown: Real mature.
Me: Such a grumpy old man!
Text bubbles appear and disappear. The J train keeps moving, depositing a few passengers at their stops while I wait, smile on my face, breath stalled, for Kenan’s reply.
Unknown: I am kind of grumpy with most people, but not with you.
Now it’s my turn to let the digital bubbles float, to let my heart float, as I start and stop a few messages before hitting send.
Me: Why aren’t you grumpy with me?
Unknown: For a million reasons I haven’t figured out yet.