My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth and I couldn't have said a word if it meant saving my life.
"And you cry."
When I opened my mouth to ask Kofi how he arrived at those conclusions, he beat me to it with an explanation.
"I remember what you asked me that first time," he said. "I've been thinking on it."
Our eyes met, but I kept still as if that would make him forget the mission he set for himself.
"I think someone hurt you."
My shoulders drooped and I let out my breath, pointing to the floor. "Can you pass me that coconut water?"
"You're running again."
"I'm thirsty," I said, avoiding his gaze.
He handed me the glass and drank from his, keeping his eyes on me.
I wanted to keep holding the glass to occupy my hands, but Kofi placed it on the table beside his drink before putting his arm around me.
"You don't have to answer, but here we go." He ran the length of my fingers with his and didn't look at me as he continued sharing his thoughts. "Like I was saying, I think someone took something you didn't want to give and since then, you've closed yourself off."
He continued stroking my hand. Then he sighed. "In some way, I think this person is related to your mother."
My sharp inhalation was loud in my ears.
"And I think you blame her for what happened."
Now I felt as if I was hyperventilating, but Kofi was unrelenting.
"I also think you've kept it from her for your own reasons."
A low groan escaped from me.
"And I believe that until you tell her what happened—show her the reality of it—you won't move beyond your resentment and her judgement of you."
Pain seared my eyes and I turned my head away. I didn't want to cry. Didn't want Kofi to think I couldn't handle my problems. Didn't want to admit he'd hit the nail on the head without trying hard.
He hugged me, supporting my body with his.
I let the tears come, biting my lips to stifle my sobs.
To give him credit, he let me cry without trying to tell me things would get better. I didn't have the conviction they would. All I knew was that Kofi made things look different and there was no way I'd allow my mother's disapproval to rob me of the one thing in my life that was working.
When my tears stopped coming, Kofi repositioned us in stages, so I was lying on his chest. With my cheek pressed to his tee-shirt, I closed my eyes. "How did you guess all that?"
"I've been studying you, Gina." He kissed the top of my head. "And I want to know you even better."
That floored me because I didn't think anybody had ever taken the time to analyze me the way Kofi had, pulling my actions apart to see what made me function and malfunction.
While the people on the television screen moved about, my mind was busy. I didn't want to bare my soul to anyone, but Kofi made me feel as if I meant something out of the ordinary to him.
It hit me then that my self-esteem had taken a beating. I hadn't thought about it consciously, but how could it not when I had so many issues? My mother, my dysfunction, my refusal to face reality—all things I avoided thinking about, but issues that needed to be addressed at some point.
Today wasn't the day I wanted to prove Kofi right, but the memories wouldn't go away—the familiar scent which still triggered panic attacks, the smell of the car leather, the scene that night and my actions after I returned home.
My mouth opened and everything I didn't intend to say flowed off my tongue.
