“I decided to take a break from sex,” I say. “and I haven’t really missed it.” Kenan’s face, his voice, his scent all invade my imagination, my memory.
“That’s common, too,” Marsha says, nodding. “It’s not unusual at all to have a season of celibacy while you sort things out. It sounds like you’ve been listening to yourself closely, and your instincts are guiding you well.”
I am more self-aware than many. I know that is a result of how MiMi raised me—how she taught me to tune into things I can’t see with my natural eyes. Even my own pain.
“It’s fine if sex is sometimes just a release,” Marsha continues. “Many survivors have sex, but detach emotionally because such an early sexual experience was associated with abandonment or some trauma. Detaching emotionally is a protective measure. It could be a defense mechanism because you’re afraid to trust someone with much else, especially if you’ve been betrayed by someone you should have been able to trust, like a family member or . . . whomever.”
I weigh my next words. They’re queued up on my tongue, and sit there so long I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to push them out.
“It was my mom’s boyfriend,” I force myself to say.
“I’m sorry, Lotus,” she says so kindly.
“Yeah. Um, thanks.”
That’s all I want to say for now. I think I’m hitting a wall, and having said it out loud, I don’t want to be in the same room as those words. I stand and toss my half-full water bottle in the recycle bin.
“I’m gonna go,” I say in a rush. “I need to . . . to go.”
“Of course.” Marsha stands and reaches for her purse, extracting a business card and offering it to me. “We meet every Thursday evening. Same bat time, same bat place, and my information is there if you ever want to talk some more.”
I stare at the card for a few seconds before accepting it and looking up to find her eyes still on me. “Thanks.”
I start back toward the steps and pause when a thought strikes me. “Marsha, can I ask you a question?”
“Anything,” she says, and I can tell she means it.
“I guess when you’re in a season like this, it’s a bad time to start a relationship, huh?”
I can’t even believe I asked, but what’s happening between Kenan and me is becoming irresistible. When I finally do give in, I want to know how to cause as little damage as possible.
“It depends,” Marsha says. “Sometimes we hold so tightly to the hurt from the past that we miss the happiness ahead, and if there is one thing we deserve, Lotus, it’s happiness wherever we can find it.”
I nod, letting that sink in.
“It would require a patient partner,” she goes on, her tone gentle, instructive. “Someone who doesn’t mind if you lay down some rules, some guidelines, if those would help. Who won’t force you to do anything you aren’t ready for, and who is fine with you controlling the pace.”
“I see.” I smile at Marsha and turn to go. “Thank you.”
“I’d love to see you next Thursday if you want to come,” Marsha says. “Or we could talk again, just the two of us.”
I take the steps that will lead me back upstairs. I tell her the same thing I told Kenan.
“We’ll see.”
11
Kenan
The summer of my rookie season, I came to Harlem for the pro league tournament at Rucker Park, the most famous basketball court in the world. If you want street cred, you earn it here. It’s your pilgrimage to Mecca.
On the surface, it’s unassuming. There’s no glamour to the outdoor court with two hoops and five rows of bleachers, but legends were made here. Dr. J got his name here before anyone really even knew who he was. The summer he played, people crowded the rooftop of the school across the street, climbed, and watched from trees, and pressed their noses to the fence for a glimpse of this kid who flew through the air with unparalleled grace, and rocked the rim with more force than they’d ever seen. It was the crowds at the Rucker who first chanted “Dr. J.” They christened him, and it stuck. He played for Philadelphia, my hometown, and he changed the game. So every time I come to the Rucker, it’s special, but today I feel the excitement even more.
And it has nothing to do with the dunking contest I’m here to judge for charity.
With the contest over, the other celebrity judges and I have taken photos with the winners, and now the autographs have begun. The whole time I’m signing hats, slips of paper, shoes, and whatever else people have, I’m scanning the crowd for one woman. Lotus never texted me back, so I don’t even know if she’s coming. Chances are she’s not, but that doesn’t stop me from checking compulsively every few minutes.
“How you liking New York, Glad?” Ben Mason, a point guard who came into the NBA the same year I did, asks. We’re signing autographs back-to-back, encircled by a crowd of kids.