by Kennedy Ryan
“Why don’t you take your heart attack on white bread and go back to your place?”
Bristol gives the sandwich a cautious glance.
“What is that?”
“You never had bologna, Bris?” I ask.
“No.” She offers an investigative sniff.
This I have to see.
“You probably wouldn’t like it,” I say casually. “It’s what we grew up on. We had to eat it in the hood—you know, us being poor and all, struggling to make ends meet. Right, Amir?”
He catches on immediately and jumps in.
“Oh, yeah,” he agrees. “Some nights this was all our moms could afford, but I understand, Bristol, if you don’t want to try—”
“Give it to me. I’ll try it,” she interrupts, stepping over to Amir and the sandwich in question. “I bet it’s . . . well . . . I’m sure it’s . . .”
Her voice dies when she comes face-to-face with the processed meat. Looking brave, she bites into it. She goes a little green for a second, like she might be sick, then she chews it quickly, determined not to ever let us know. Meanwhile, Amir has a coughing fit to disguise his laugh. I’ve had lots of practice keeping a straight face when messing with Bristol.
“You like it?” I ask.
“Mmmhmmmmm.” She swallows her gag reflex. “I can see why . . . see why you guys loved it. It’s . . . so . . . so . . .”
“Good?” I supply.
“Yeah, it’s good.” She hands it to Amir like it’s burning her fingers. “I don’t want to take it all from you, Amir.”
“Oh, no, Bristol.” He pushes it back toward her. “You can have—”
“No, really.” She shoves it back to him, looking like she needs a barf bag. “Please take it.”
“I’m gonna head out then.” Amir bites the sandwich, closing his eyes in ghetto rapture. “Hmmmmm. Thanks for leaving me some, Bris.”
“Of course.” She laughs nervously, like she’s afraid she’ll have to down some more. “You keep it. You eat it . . . all of it.”
As soon as we hear the door close behind him, Bristol rounds on me.
“Oh, my God. Why did you let me eat that shit?”
My laugh bounces off the walls.
“That’s what you get for trying to hang with them hood boys. It’s definitely a meal we learned to love out of necessity.”
“Next time a warning would be nice.” She stretches up to grab a mug in the cabinet, smiling at me over her shoulder. “You ready for tonight? Are you gonna behave?”
“A rapper, a white supremacist, and a narrow-minded professor walk into a bar.” I cross my arms over my chest and shrug. “What could go wrong?”
“It’s my first time meeting Dr. Hammond.” She pours this morning’s coffee into a mug and pops it in the microwave. “I’m a little nervous.”
“Don’t be.” I scowl at the thought of introducing Bristol to Iz knowing how he feels about our relationship.
“You just leave the professor to me.” She reaches for the—holy shit.
The sugar.
I race over and slam my hand on the canister.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Um . . . making a quick cup of coffee?” She slides a perplexed look from my face to the canister. “It’s been a long day, and I just need a hit of caffeine to get through tonight.”
“It’ll just make you jittery.” I sound jittery as hell. I feel like the ring might glow through the canister and give itself away.
“I got up way too early. Someone woke up before my alarm and demanded sex.” She cocks a chiding brow. “Twice.”
“What can I say?” I lift and drop my shoulders. “A man’s got needs.”
“So does a woman. I need my coffee, and I take sugar. Move.”
“You can’t have this sugar because . . .” I twist my brain around until I stumble on a logical explanation. “Roaches.”
Judging by the horror on Bristol’s face, you’d think I said Nazis.
“Did you say roaches?” Her voice drops several decibels to deathly quiet.
“Yeah, I, uh . . . saw a roach in the sugar.”
“Here?” I’m pretty sure her face blanches. “In Tribeca?”
“They get around, Bris.”
“I better dump it.” She goes for the canister, but I slide it out of her reach.
“I’ll throw it out.”
She pulls her phone from her pocket.
“I’ll just call property management. They need to—”
“Let me do that, babe.” I pluck her phone from her fingers and slide it back into her pocket. “You go get dressed. We need to leave soon.”
“But you’ll call?” She gives the sugar canister one last anxious glance. “I may not be able to sleep tonight thinking about that roach.”
“I have creative ways of putting you to sleep.” I lean down, lips on her, hand locked onto the canister. I pull away and turn her toward the stairs. “Go get even more beautiful for me and we’ll go. We don’t want to be late for the showdown.”
I swat her ass, smiling when she jumps a little and laughs back over her shoulder before taking off up the stairs.
Relief slowly pushes a breath out and slumps my shoulders. With one last furtive glance to make sure she’s not coming, I lift the lid and dig around in the sugar to retrieve the ring. The purity of it captures then reflects the overhead lights, a spectrum radiating from the yellow diamond.
“No roaches.” I slip the ring back into my pocket. “But I did find a canary.”
20
Bristol
“Why do you keep smiling?” I ask Grip as we walk toward the bookstore for the debate.
“You’re wearing my necklace.” He squeezes my hand and slants me a smile, his eyes locked on the gold bar dangling between my breasts.
“Your necklace?” I touch the chain around my neck, tracing its inscription. “I distinctly remember buying this myself.”
“But I inspired it,” he says smugly.
The Neruda line carries such significance in our relationship, declaring, my heart broke loose on the wind. I can’t wear it without thinking of our first kiss, without remembering him slipping under my armor, his own vulnerability tempting me to share things with him I’d never shared before.
“I love it when you wear it.” He studies the sidewalk as we walk briskly toward the bookstore. “You look beautiful tonight, by the way.”
“Well I knew I needed to dress warmly since you were making me walk.” I laugh at his good-natured grimace.
A white sweater fits my torso closely, and cropped, wide-legged pants of the same color swing loosely from waist to mid-calf. My camel-colored leather boots and cashmere coat finish off the outfit.
“These boots are already killing me,” I complain, sneaking a glance at his face.
“I don’t want to hear it.” He laughs and tucks my arm into his. “It’s a gorgeous night for a walk, and you know it.”
He’s right. The chill in the air underscores the holiday cheer lent by Christmas decorations on every corner and in the store windows.
“It’s our first Christmas as a couple,” I say.
“Yup. Too bad we’ll be back in LA. Maybe I’d get my snowfall on Christmas morning if we stayed here in New York.”
“Do you want to stay?” I hope he doesn’t. I miss my palm trees and my goddaughter, my brother and Kai. I think I even miss my parents. It must be time to go home.
“Nah.” Grip pulls his leather jacket a little tighter around him. “I’m ready to go back. I’d rather have our friends and family than snow.”
“Maybe you’ll get it tonight. They’re calling for it.”
“I’m not gonna count on it.” He stops in front of a bookstore with a line of people stretching from the door. “We made it, and look, your feet didn’t give out.”
“Very funny.” I lean into his shoulder. “I’m really looking forward to hearing Dr. Hammond.”
Grip’s smile drops, and he glan
ces into the store.
“Yeah, well, Clem Ford may be an ignorant ass bastard, but he’s also smart and tough. Hopefully Iz can hold his own.”
He more than holds his own. I’m astounded by the sharpness of Dr. Hammond’s mind. His thoughts are agile, contorting and twisting to cut Ford off and anticipate his arguments before he makes them. I was impressed when I read his book that impacted Grip, but hearing him in person, I understand why we moved to New York, why this man’s ideas swept through Grip like a hurricane.
Dr. Hammond is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. There is a restrained power to him, to the force of his intellect. Physically, he’s more like a football player than a professor. Six five or so, he’s not so much wearing the dark blue suit as leashed by it. I can already tell he’d rather be comfortable than fashionable. Picture a younger Idris Elba, and you’ve got Dr. Hammond. His charisma is time-released, fed to you in slow, sneaky doses, slipped to you with a smile that seems like it’s costing him something. His reserved demeanor, which should make him seem aloof, instead pulls you closer. It draws you in and sits you down to listen. I glance around the bookstore, crowded with his students and readers clutching copies of his book. His deep voice pitches low, and you’re not sure if you’re on the edge of your seat because you’re straining to hear or because what he’s saying is turning the things you thought you knew upside down, but either way, he has you on edge.
In contrast, everything repulsive in this world convenes in Clem Ford. I want to scrub my ears after sitting through an hour of his thinly veiled racist rhetoric. He has a brand of charisma, too, a dark pull, an undertow for bottom feeders.
He has his own supporters here, young students who follow him to the edge of blatant bigotry. As a businessman, he is convincing and astute. Unfortunately, his business is prisons. I never considered that many corporations use prison labor at a fractional cost, and having a large incarcerated population is good for business.
And bad for prisoners.
Ford and Professor Hammond personally dislike one another; it’s apparent from their opening statements and the first questions they take from the audience, standing on opposite shores with an impassable body of water between them. Ford’s ideas are fiscally sound, but morally bankrupt. The professor picks apart each argument methodically, persuading the audience with a formidable grasp of history and philosophy, and a compelling vision for the future.
Grip still isn’t happy about Professor Hammond’s perspective on our relationship, but I read grudging respect in his eyes, a reluctant pride in how well Iz—as he told everyone to call him—represents the issues they’re both committed to. I squeeze his hand, and he turns to look at me.
“You okay?” he asks, head bent attentively.
“Yeah.” I nod and lean over to drop a kiss on his jaw. He palms my head and brings me close enough to whisper in my ear.
“Are you bored?”
The question almost hurts my feelings. I know he’s just being considerate because this isn’t necessarily the world where I spend most of my time, but I want him to know I’m on the edge of my seat along with everyone else.
“I love it.” I press my hand along his face. “Professor Hammond is brilliant. I’m glad I came.”
Pleasure widens his smile and crinkles his eyes at the corners.
“I’m glad you came, too.”
He sits back and tunes in again. They’re almost done with the Q&A; I missed the last question, but I listen closely to the professor’s response.
“Don’t feel bad for not knowing,” he tells the young student still standing at the mic set up in the aisle for questions. “Feel bad for not doing once you know. The things you’ve heard here tonight, now that you know about them, what will you do about them? Ignorance is a naturally occurring state. It’s not what you feel guilty about, it’s what you do something about. We are born not knowing, and our experiences feed us information. You limit your knowledge and understanding of not only your place in this world, but the place and plight of others by doing what you’ve always done and knowing only what you’ve always known. Position yourself socially and intellectually to know more, to understand beyond the scope of your experiences. That is how we evolve as individuals and as a society.”
I want to stand up and yell, Mic drop! after just about everything he says, and this especially appeals to me. Jade was right: there are a lot of things I don’t know and don’t get about Grip’s upbringing, his past.
I definitely don’t get bologna sandwiches.
But I won’t feel bad for not knowing. I’ll do what the professor said. I’ll keep positioning myself intellectually and socially to know more. It’s no different than what Grip had to do, than what millions of people do to understand what is unfamiliar to them but essential to learn.
When the moderator thanks everyone for coming, the crowd breaks and splits, Ford’s followers clamoring to speak to him and a line forming in front of the table where the professor is posted to sign books.
And they aren’t the only ones people are eager to talk to.
“Yo, Grip, could I get a picture?” asks a young guy with dreadlocks.
That one request sets off a chain reaction of people realizing Grip isn’t just another student, but a superstar. Within seconds he has a line of his own and is signing copies of the program we received when we walked in, taking selfies and listening to teary-eyed girls tell him how much his music has touched them. Like a good little celebrity and with much more patience than I would have, he navigates it all with a pen in one hand and my hand in the other.
“Hey.” I tug on his hand to get his attention. “I’ll be right back.”
His smile slips and he turns to me.
“Where are you going?”
I affect a cockney accent. “Can’t a lowly servant girl go to the restroom while you hold court, m’lord?”
He tilts his head and scrunches his face up.
“I don’t even know what you’re doing right now.”
I laugh and pull my hand free.
“Never mind. I’ll be back,” I tell him, walking backward. “Deal with your . . . public.”
I’m still chuckling at the look of frustration on his face as I walk beyond his reach. Bigots make him nervous, and apparently, there are a lot of undercover ones here tonight. They hide behind their hedge funds now, behind profit sheets instead of white sheets, but the heart is the same.
I take my place in line behind a few other people clutching copies of Virus. I pull mine out of my bag and wait my turn. I can tell the professor has signed quite a few of these tonight, and his patience has started to fray. He’s not like Grip, a practiced professional used to all the attention and demands. He’s a brilliant man who wrote a book he never expected to do what it’s done. If the frown he’s wearing is any indication, having “fans” and signing autographs isn’t exactly his forte.
“Who should I sign it to?” he asks brusquely without looking up from the book I handed him.
“Make it to Bristol.” At my name, he looks up sharply, his eyes speculating if it’s a coincidence or if I am who he thinks I am. “Yes, I’m Grip’s Bristol.”
A slow smile works its way onto the handsome face marked with lines of weariness.
“You certainly are.” He extends his hand. “A pleasure finally meeting you.”
“Is it?” I accept his hand, making my tone just cool enough for him to know I’m aware of the words he’s spoken against our relationship.
“He talks about you all the time.”
“I heard he left out one important detail.” I pause meaningfully. “At least important to you.”
He has the decency to look uncomfortable for a second, but it passes quickly, and in no time the same self-assured, self-contained man who dismantled Clem Ford’s flawed arguments tonight stares back at me, awaiting my next move.
“Could you sign by my favorite quote instead of in the front of the book?” I ask. “I folded down the page and highlighted
the passage.”
He turns to the page, and I know he’s being confronted with his own words, words I’ve nearly memorized.
Too many of our American systems are built on bias. The irony is that these biases are often inextricably, if unconsciously, connected to our own sense of superiority. The very biases that make those in power feel stronger, better, actually weaken them. Our biases are our blind spots, and we need others to guide us in the darkness of our own ignorance.
He contemplates the passage for a moment before signing and handing the book back to me.
“It’s not personal,” he says with what looks like genuine regret in his eyes.
“When you’re the person, it feels personal.” I lean closer, speaking for his ears only. “What you wrote in that book about bias, I believe it. Do you?”
“Touché,” he says with a tired smile. “You don’t pull punches, do you?”
“No, I don’t, especially when it comes to Grip. Even though he knows where you stand on us, he still respects and admires you. So do I. I believe you can help each other and help a whole lot of people.”
I let those words sink in before going on.
“For that reason, I encouraged him to continue his work with you.” I firm my lips and narrow my eyes. “But hurt him again, and you’ll have to deal with me.”
For a moment, shock overtakes his expression, and I wonder if I went too far. Then something cracks. His eyes light up, and laughter—completely at odds with the sobriety he’s demonstrated all night—spills from his mouth. It goes on for several seconds, and I’m determined not to join him, but my lips twitch, which only sets off another round of laughter. After a few more seconds of me awkwardly watching him laugh at me, he settles into a relaxed grin.
“Message received, ‘Grip’s Bristol.’ Have a good evening,” he says, dismissing me with a nod and still smiling. “Next in line.”
I step aside with my signed copy pressed to my chest. Grip still has quite a few fans he’s making his way through, and he catches my eye and mouths, “Sorry.” I cross my eyes at him, drawing a wide grin before he turns his attention back to the selfies and autographs. I do what I’ve become accustomed to doing trailing behind superstars—my best imitation of a wallflower, posted up and waiting.
