Still (Grip Book 2)(37)

"I did not choke him. I firmly held him against the wall. The limp dick  bastard could have gotten loose at any point if he'd tried hard enough."

"And why do you think he didn't try?" I demand. "Why do you think he  held back his security? Why'd he grin like a maniac the whole time? You  played right into his hands."

"Fuck this." He tries to start walking, but I grab his elbow.

"No, listen to me. You're there for a debate on people of color and mass  incarceration and you do something like that? You know what you're up  against. You have everything he thinks you don't deserve. He wants to  discredit you, and you opened the door to let him. You have to be wiser  than that."

"Wiser?" Anger forces a plume of breath out to freeze in the air. "So  now you're telling me how to be a black man in America? Like I haven't  negotiated this shit my whole life?"

"Oh, is that how it's gonna be?" Hurt crowds my heart in my chest until  it's just a small thing barely beating. "I don't get to tell you things  like this? Why? Is it a black thing and I wouldn't understand?"

"This isn't going to a good place." He runs both hands over his head and down his face. "Let's get home."

"No, I want to know." I tuck my hands, like blocks of ice, into the  pockets of my cashmere coat. "Are there things that are off limits with  us? When we have kids, if they look more black than white, will it be  ‘our' community and ‘our' causes and ‘our' struggle, and Mommy just gets  to watch? Is that what you envision for me? Another family where I  don't quite fit?"

Tears blur his face in front of me.

"Because I've done that." I swallow the painful lump searing my throat.  "If that's how it's going to be, tell me now. I want to be prepared if  you don't want what I thought you did-something that doesn't have  barriers or boundaries. I would never be disrespectful, you know that,  but don't . . ."

I look down at the cracks in the sidewalk, wondering if somewhere inside I'm cracking, too.

"Just don't leave me out," I whisper. "Don't make me feel like there are  parts of your life I can't touch, because I don't have anything you  can't be a part of."

He's quiet . . . not just a quiet that is an absence of words, but a  quiet that gives him space to think. He's turning it over in his mind,  the things I've said, and I've known him long enough to leave him with  his thoughts for a while. He'll come back to it when he's ready.

"Look." I take his hand, loosening the tension of the last few moments.  "I would never assume I know what it's like, but I know rich, entitled  assholes. I grew up with them, and that one is after you. You gave him  ground he should never have."

I shake my head, bewildered by the idea that he would allow himself to be in that position.

"Why did you get so angry? What did he say to you?"

A wall of ice falls over his face and his lips pull tight at the question, at the memory.

"Let's go."

He starts walking again without waiting for me. I stay right where I am  in the middle of the sidewalk, and he's several feet ahead before he  realizes I'm not trotting after him like some Cocker fucking Spaniel.  When he glances over his shoulder and I'm where he left me, his  shoulders stiffen and swell with a breath I'm sure he draws to keep  himself calm. Good luck. That shit rarely works for me.

He heads back with swift strides, his eyes a dark maelstrom, nostrils  flared, and all I can think about is the amazing make-up sex we'll have  after this fight.

"What?" Hands locked at his hips, the leather jacket fitted to the  ridges of his chest, his expression a study of irritation. I just want  to shake him up like an Etch A Sketch and jar that look off his face.

"My feet hurt."

"Your feet . . ." He shakes his head as if to clear it. "What are you talking about?"

"You said we'd be fine walking home, but my boots have four-inch heels, and my feet hurt."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have worn four-inch heels."

"And maybe you should have called for a car like I suggested."         

     



 

"For four blocks?" He rolls his eyes, but the brackets around his mouth  disappear. His shoulders, all rigid muscles moments before, drop just a  little. "We're New Yorkers now-we're not taking a car for four blocks."

"I've been a New Yorker all my life, and I never had a problem taking a car four blocks wearing four-inch heels."

He cups my neck, his thumb caressing my cheek, his eyes filled with a familiar exasperation and affection reserved for me.

"How many fights do you want to have at one time, baby?" he asks.

"That depends." I smile and nod to his shoulders. "Are you giving me a ride?"

"A . . . a ride?"

"Piggyback."

His truncated laugh rides on a puff of frigid air.

"You're joking."

"Is that a no?" I keep my face neutral. "There's only a block and a half left."

"Exactly." He throws his hands up. "You can walk a block and a half."

I look at him. He looks at me. I'd rather our wills clash over something  this trivial than what we were wrangling about moments ago. Those  things had weight and depth, not suited for sidewalk conversation. Those  things should wait until we get home.

"Hop on," he finally says grudgingly, but with the tiniest flicker of amusement buried in his eyes.

There aren't many people out as we get closer to our place, and the ones  walking past don't look too closely. They've seen odder things than  some guy carrying his girlfriend piggyback.

"You're choking me," Grip says, but it's a lie. Just to tell him I know it is, I tighten my arms around his neck.

"Ow." He laughs. "As if it isn't already hard enough carrying you."

"Are you calling me fat?" I inject indignation into my voice. "Keep it up and you'll find yourself on the couch."

"First of all, there are three bedrooms," Grip says. "Second of all, if I  slept on the couch, you'd be on top of me when I woke up."

I smack his head.

"What?" His shoulders shake under my arms as he laughs. "You love couch  sex. I mean, you love all sex, but especially couch sex."

"Oh now I'm a nympho?"

"Only for me." He pulls my hand from where it's hooked loosely at his  throat up to his lips for a quick kiss. "And that's totally acceptable."

For the last block, we don't speak much, there's less need to. We feel  the things we need to know instead of say them. With my chest pressed to  his back, forgiveness, love, understanding, and tenderness transfer  noiselessly between the layers of our clothes, an emotional osmosis  through blood and bone, through hurt and fear. I don't know how I  realized this was what we needed, but I did. It's hard to touch when  you're fighting. The anger is like a force field, keeping your bodies as  far apart as your opinions. I knew if we could feel each other, my  breath syncing with his, my heartbeat seeking the rhythm of his, my nose  buried in his neck, his hands hooked under my legs-if we could get back  here, touching, we could right ourselves.

And we have.

Even on the elevator, he doesn't put me down, like we're afraid to break  the truce our hearts negotiated through these points of contact. At our  door, he slowly lowers me to the floor, turning to press into me with  his arms on either side of my head.

"How about a good night kiss?" he asks, like this is a date and we're  parting ways instead of living under the same roof and sleeping in the  same bed on the other side of that door.

A wordless nod is the only signal I give, and the only one he needs. His  breath warms my lips after the cold walk home. The sweetness, the  rightness of it squeezes around my heart. His mouth is familiar, the  shape and texture, the soft fullness I've memorized with mine, and yet  every time, every kiss is a revelation, a mystery trapped between his  lips, hidden under his tongue for me to discover. I will kiss him a  million times in our life together and never tire of it. My lips will  always cling, curious and searching. His touch is an endless thrill. I  don't know if we'll have five years or fifty like the O'Malleys, but I  will never get used to this wild yearning, will never get enough of this  deep contentment.

I can only hope we end every fight with a kiss.





21





Grip





"Wine?" I ask once we're inside.

"God, yes." Bristol sits on the arm of the couch and gingerly takes off  her boots like her feet might come off with them. I owe those boots new  soles, a spit shine-something to express my gratitude. If it weren't for  them, Bristol and I might still be snapping and snarling at each other  on a New York sidewalk.         

     



 

That's not to say we don't have to finish our conversation. We do, but with calmer heads and hearts back in alignment.

"Meet me in the greenhouse," I say, heading for the kitchen to grab a  bottle of whatever is already chilled. When I get out there, she's  curled up on one of the thick-cushioned outdoor couches. Her legs are  folded under her, and her head is tipped back as she stares up at the  stars through the tinted glass.