Still (Grip Book 2)(38)

I pour us both a glass of Bordeaux and take my place beside her. There  are many kinds of quiet. The kind we shared the last block of our walk  home needs nothing added. Then there's silence like the one we're  sitting in now, one that's primed for confession.

"That white pussy," I say, barely loud enough for her to hear. I don't want her to.

"What?" She turns her head, still tipped back on the couch, to watch me. "What'd you say?"

"That white pussy," I repeat. "That's what Clem Ford whispered to me. He  said the thing we have in common is that we both love that white pussy,  and that fifty years ago I would already be dead for fucking you."

I suppress the anger that immediately ignites in me again at the words  he said, at the way he looked at Bristol before he said them. I'm such  an idiot. I knew he was setting a trap for me, but he used the only lure  I would never leave in his snare. As much as I told myself not to  respond, my hand had a mind of its own as it wrapped around his fleshy  throat, and in the moment, it felt like my hand had the right idea.

"Oh, my God." Bristol gulps, indignation stealing her breath. "I can't even . . . That's awful."

"Yup." I sip the Bordeaux, waiting for the expensive liquid to settle  me, not feeling the effects yet. This situation may require weed.

"As much as I want to kick his ass myself," Bristol says, anger  straining her features, "you know he was just provoking you, trying to  get a rise out of you. You can't let him."

She turns her body to face me, but leaves her cheek against the cushion.

"And I'm just concerned. I didn't mean to lecture you." She holds my  eyes with hers, takes my hand, and weaves our fingers together. "You  know I would never presume to tell you anything about being black in  America."

"That was a stupid thing for me to say," I interrupt. "I was angry and frustrated. I'm sorry."

"Maybe I was being . . . I don't know, presumptuous." She fixes her eyes  on our fingers twisted together. "I just wanted us to both see what he  was doing and not fall for it next time."

Bristol grimaces delicately.

"And I'm afraid there will be a next time. There's something about you  that offends him. Actually, I think it's everything about you. When  there are guys like you running around, how is he supposed to sell his  false superiority bullshit? Men who are smarter than he is, rich like he  is, more accomplished. Famous. Well respected. He wants to think you're  an aberration, but he's scared there's more where you came from."

Her assessment is spot-on. Now I have to wade into what is sure to be one of the toughest conversations we've ever had.

"When I first started at the performing arts school," I say, studying  our hands caressing, mine darker and rougher than hers, "I'd never  really had a white friend. Your brother was the first."

She watches me, not making a sound, so still I wonder if she's breathing.

"There were pretty much no white people in my neighborhood," I continue.  "Not at my school, not in the stores where we shopped. The only white  people I ever saw on a consistent basis, who were in my life, were cops,  and I'd been conditioned to fear them.

I take a gulp of wine.

"That's how separate we felt. I'd go as far as to say sometimes we felt  forgotten." I pause to laugh. "When I showed up at my new high school,  I'd never seen an episode of Friends, and who the hell cared about that  show? The kids' jokes weren't funny, but I was the only one not  laughing, and when I tried to be funny, they didn't get it. None of it  made sense to me. It was foreign, like a parallel universe where up was  down."

I glance up to find her eyes fixed on me in complete concentration.

"If Rhyson and I hadn't become close, I probably would have quit. He'd  never seen Friends, either. He knew less than I did in a lot of ways  because he'd been on the road busting ass like a grown man, playing  piano since he was eleven years old."

I shrug, trying to remember why I thought I should tell her this.         

     



 

"I just . . . Tonight, you asked if it was a black thing and you  wouldn't understand." I sigh, unsure how to approach this, but needing  to say it all without a filter, the way our other conversations have  always been. We've never done eggshells, and tonight sure as hell isn't  the time to start. "Is that how you feel when you're at my mom's or . . .  wherever with me? With my friends?"

"Sometimes." Her voice is soft, but her eyes remain undaunted. "Like  everybody understands something I don't. Like at any given moment, I'll  make a fool of myself and not even know it. It's a very vulnerable  feeling-that you don't even know what you don't know. I think that's why  I let Jade's words get to me. You know me, I'm not the girl who gives a  fuck, but around Jade, in situations like that, I find myself trying so  hard-not trying to be black, just . . . trying, because I want to  understand."

"I'm sorry if I make you feel excluded sometimes. I don't mean to." I  tilt my head to peer into her eyes. "Some things are specific to my  cultural experience, and I don't know if you'll ever fully grasp them  all. Real talk, I don't care if you don't. Ethnicity is just one part of  who I am, a very important part, yeah, but just one, just like it's  only one part of who you are. There are things about your job, your  past, your experiences that I won't completely get, either, but I want  to know about them because they make you who you are."

"You're right." She looks at me, the open love and need in her eyes  burning a path to my heart. "There will be things I can empathize with,  but won't ever know firsthand. Please don't ever feel there's anything  you can't say or that we can't share. I want a love with no walls. This  world uses whatever it can-race, politics, religion-to divide us. We can  have differences, but promise me they won't be walls that divide us."

"I can promise you that." I capture her hand because I can't not touch her when the air throbs with our honesty.

"We're doing something hard, Grip," she says, her expression earnest.  "In a culture, in a climate that would push people like us apart, we  choose to be together. We fight to be together."

"Yeah." It's all I can manage because the passion on her face, resonating from her body, steals my words, quickens my heartbeat.

"And I will have uncomfortable conversations with you. I'll confess  embarrassing things so you understand me. Whatever it takes. Listening  to Dr. Hammond tonight helped me understand that even if I find bias in  myself, if I'm ignorant in some way, it doesn't mean I don't love you.  It means I don't know."

She reaches up, her hands trembling around my face, her eyes deep and dark and frank.

"And I want to know. I need to know because I love you. You're my end  game, Grip. Any hurdle we face, we'll overcome it together. Nothing will  stop us."

There's no other way to respond to that except to touch her; to  physically express how her words have exploded inside of me. I lean to  drop a kiss on her lips, meaning for it to be quick, but she's so sweet,  so addictive, I can't let go . . . can't pull back . . . can't stop. My  fingers drift into her hair and my thumb presses on her chin, opening  her up to go deeper, seeking the passion that gave me those words. She  shudders when I lick the roof of her mouth.

"Grip, God," she whispers into me. "It's always so good."

My lips dust over her jaw and behind her ear, the delicious scent of her  hair making me dizzy, making me want her more. She tips her head back  to give me access to the smooth skin of her neck.

"Oh my God!"

If she's saying that now, wait till I get this sweater off.

"Grip." She taps my shoulder. "Hey, stop for a second. Look up. I think you're finally catching Mother Nature in the act."

I drag my attention from the curve of her neck to glance up through the  greenhouse glass tiles. Huge snowflakes drop from the sky, a starless  black hole that stretches beyond my imagination. At thirty years old,  I'm seeing my first snowfall. I doubt it will even stick or that there  will be much accumulation, but the point is seeing it happen, seeing  what feels like a miracle in progress. Most people have experienced  this, felt this wonder when they were just kids. Having it this late in  my life makes it sweeter, makes me appreciate the miracle of nature that  it is.

And I know exactly how I should mark my miracle.         

     



 

"Close your eyes, Bris."

She swings a look around to me that asks what I'm up to.

"What do you-"

"Would you just do what I ask for once without all the-"

"I will kick you in the balls if you say without the sass." Bristol  crosses her arms over her chest. "I'm not a fourteen-year-old girl and  you are not my father. I don't need paternalism from you, Grip."