“They’re actually working out fine,” I reply carefully. “Lotus and I wanted to give Simone some time to recover, and for me to focus on her as much as possible while the season is still so demanding.”

“Very thoughtful of you.” An edge blunts her words.

“Lotus’s idea actually.”

Several drops of quiet form a shallow puddle of silence that starts becoming uncomfortable just when she speaks again.

“I saw you with her a few times, you know,” Bridget says, exhaling a breathy, bitter laugh. “There were a few shots of you this summer out doing things together. Laughing. Having fun. I barely recognized you.”

“Searching hashtags again?” I ask, unable to staunch that familiar irritation.

“How else would I know what was going on in your life?”

“Why would you want to know?” I demand, exasperated. “I don’t get you, Bridget. You have an affair with one of my friends. You throw our marriage out the window—”

“Our marriage?” she asks, a double-edged sword of scorn and bitterness. “Is that what you called it?”

My mother, as angry as she was with Bridget, expressed sympathy for her because we were ill-matched.

Bridget tried to crack you like a nut. For the woman you love, though, really love, it’s not hard work. I didn’t have to crack your father. He spilled himself with me.

God, my mother was right. I don’t know that I did anything wrong, but there must have been some things with Bridget I didn’t do right. And now I see clearly that I couldn’t, would never have trusted myself, the real me, my inner self, with the person Bridget has proven herself to be. I don’t think I was capable of it with her.

“Look, Bridge, we’ve been at war with each other for years, and if what happened with Simone showed me anything, it’s the value of a second chance. We have a chance to clean the slate. I’m tired of fighting. It’s destructive, and we both have to move on.”

“With Lotus, you mean,” she says, her voice subdued. “You’re moving on with Lotus.”

“Yeah.” I meet the disappointment in her voice head-on. “With Lotus.”

I ignore her sharp breath and continue.

“I’ve been angry with you,” I admit. “For years, angry that our family, our life was ripped apart.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Bridget whispers.

“I’ve been angry,” I continue. “But I could never understand why you were angry, too. You’ve been angry with me for not being what you thought I would be. For not letting you in, for abandoning you in our marriage.”

“It doesn’t excuse what I did,” she says faintly. “I never meant to cheat on you. It just . . .”

I’m grateful she doesn’t say it just “happened.” Those things don’t just happen.

“It wasn’t all you,” I tell her, clearing my throat. “It was me, too. You used to talk about the wall that came up during the season, but it wasn’t only when I was playing ball. It was all the time. I’m a hard man to know, to reach.”

“But not for her.” Her words come out on a light breath, but land with a thud.

“No, not for her.” A wry half-smile crooks my mouth. “I don’t regret us, Bridge, because we have Simone, and she’s the best thing.”

“She is.” She chuckles softly on the other end, hesitating before rushing on. “Can you ever . . . could you forgive me, Kenan?”

I’ve simmered in resentment for years, and in this moment, all the pain and humiliation and awful things Bridget’s affair caused me rush to my mind.

Then other memories slowly start to sift in. Bridget, young and alone in a strange city with a newborn while I was on the road. So many missed birthdays, anniversaries, milestones, and times I knew there was something she needed, and had no clue how to give it to her.

Bridget and I haven’t been on the best terms the last few years, but I’ve known her half my life, was married to her for more than a decade. She gave me my daughter. There may not ever have been a time when I loved her the way she needed to be loved, and there may not ever have been a time when she truly saw me, understood me, knew the real me, but there was a time when we were friends. There was a girl I met in college who walked with me through the challenging transition into the NBA, through being a father when I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Through my greatest accomplishments. I wish we could have focused on those things more instead of all the ways we failed each other, and now we have that chance.

“I’ll forgive you,” I say with a half-pained smile, “if you can forgive me.”

I don’t have to explain why I’m asking forgiveness. It’s fueled her own anger and frustration and hung over us for years.

“I can do that,” she says, the words tremulous. “Thank you, Kenan.”

It won’t be easy, and I have no doubt our anger and past hurts will resurface sometimes when we least expect it. Maybe it took this wake-up call for us to gain perspective on what’s most important—that it really is about Simone, and that maybe for her, we can set the past aside and focus on her future. Maybe for her, we can be friends again.

“Got everything?” I ask one more time before I leave Simone at the lush beach retreat where the dance camp is being held.

“Yeah.” She shifts the gym bag on her shoulder. “Grandma double-checked the list they gave us to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything.”

“Good. I’ll call you from the road. Our first game is Toronto and then Chicago and then San Antonio and then the Lakers. I’ll be back Saturday.”

When I look down at my daughter, a wave of gratitude overwhelms me. The “what ifs” have tortured me ever since the night we found her unconscious on my bed. My nightmares are made from dark alternate endings, and I’ve jerked awake more than once to rush down the hall and make sure she is real, not some grief-induced hallucination.

She’s beautiful and growing up fast. She’ll be fifteen soon, and won’t be thinking about her old man anymore. I’ve missed so much. Basketball has given me a lot, but it’s taken its money’s worth.

“I love you more than everything, Moni.” I kiss her forehead and press her head to my chest. “You know that, right?”

She glances up at me, her brows crinkling over her pretty blue eyes, and then nods.

“What?” I frown down at her. “What is it?”

“What happened to Lotus?”

I wish Dr. Packer were here right now. I’m not sure how to handle this. Simone knows I’m not seeing Lotus anymore, and I haven’t talked about her at all, so I’m not sure what prompted the question.

“Uh, she still lives in New York. Why do you ask, baby?”

“You seemed, I don’t know.” Simone shrugs her narrow shoulders. “You seemed happier when she was around.”

Damn, I miss her.

Isolation hits me with crushing force. My life is so much brighter with Lotus in it. I don’t speak. I’m still formulating the best answer—one that won’t unravel all that we’ve worked so hard to put together.

“It’s okay if you love her, too,” Simone says quietly.

I pull back and peer down into her face. Her eyes, when they meet mine, are sober. They’ve seen too much, know too much already.

“It is?” I ask tentatively.

“I want you to be happy.” She swallows, and looks down at the ground. “I want Mommy to be happy, too, but I know you don’t make each other happy anymore.”

“But we’ll always love you,” I say, cupping her face, “and always put you first, okay?”

She nods and offers a small smile. She’s a good kid. In spite of all the shit she’s been through. She’s the only good thing to come out of my marriage.

“Simone,” a tall, elegant woman calls. I remember meeting her at one of Moni’s recitals. “The other girls are all inside. Say goodbye and join us, please.”

“Coming, Madam Petrov,” Simone replies before turning back to me. “Gotta go.”

“Okay. Love you, Moni.” I swipe my hand down her face, our familiar expression of love. She smiles, looks happy. God, let it be real. Knowing your child is hurting in a way you can’t make stop or make better is the most helpless feeling in the world. You watch for any distress signal, strain to catch each sign of progress or hint of joy, with your breath held. With bated hope.

“Love you, Daddy.”

We’re gonna be okay.

It’s a refrain playing on repeat in my head as I drive back to San Diego. I loved talking with Simone on the way up, hearing about how well things are going at school and with dance. Giving her space to tell me how the meds make her feel better. Allowing her to tell me about the days when they don’t. Every word she shared, even those that were hard to hear, reassured me, because she’s sharing it. She’s not hiding it or keeping it to herself. She’s so much like me in a lot of ways, naturally burying her emotions and hoarding her thoughts.

But as much as I enjoyed our talk driving up to Laguna Beach, I revel in the silence on my drive home. It’s hard to describe to someone who doesn’t need it how refreshing being alone can be—not lonely at all, but alone. On this scenic stretch of highway, I have the breathtaking view of the ocean all to myself. The moon glimmers off dark blue water as I negotiate the twists of the Pacific Coast Highway. I put on my favorite song: “It Never Entered My Mind.” The opening strains of piano blend seamlessly, flawlessly with Davis’s trumpet. He sandpapered every note until it was smooth, dulcet tonal perfection.

Even as I relish my solitude, Lotus won’t leave me alone.

“What’s your favorite song to listen to when you want to unwind?”

“‘It Never Entered My Mind.’”

“Well, let it enter your mind.”