by Kennedy Ryan
“Bristol would never use that word. If anything, she can’t believe we use it to each other. If it were up to her, it would be eradicated and no one could ever use it again.”
“Never say never. Do you expect her to truly understand the struggle of a black man in America?”
“That’s a fair question,” I reply, glad Bristol and I already discussed this. “I don’t know that I do expect her to understand everything about the struggle. I know she’ll always sympathize, but maybe there will be things she doesn’t completely get.”
“And you can live with that?” Doubt settles on his face.
“You know better than anyone how hard it can be for us.” I shake my head. “I have to ask myself when I come home, do I want someone who completely understands the struggle? Or someone who completely understands me? Someone I can’t wait to come home to, someone who makes me laugh on the hardest days of my life? Every single decision isn’t filtered through my race. Love isn’t.”
Iz doesn’t look away from me the whole time I’m talking, and I feel like maybe some of what I say lands. He finally clears his throat and shrugs.
“I would just always wonder if I could ever really know a white woman, if she could ever really know me.” He shakes his head. “Enough to trust her with my life? With my children?”
“And did your wife really know you? I bet she didn’t think you would cheat on her, but you did, and from what I can tell, you’re both black.”
A heavy silence follows my words, and as we sit in it, Iz slowly raises his eyes.
“I didn’t cheat on her.” He twists the grim line of his mouth around the words. “She cheated on me.”
Damn. Now I feel like a real asshole.
“I’m sorry about that. I assumed . . .” I leave not-well-enough alone and press on. “I do know I don’t ever have to worry about that and neither does Bristol. It’s nothing to do with our race. I would never do that to her, and I know she would never do that to me. Have you never been captivated by someone so much that the rest of your life without them seems . . . empty? Not even your ex?”
For a moment, Iz’s eyes stray to the door Callie recently walked through, and then he clears his throat.
“No, it wasn’t like that with us.” His tone remains even, but his lips twitch. “But it sounds a lot like being pussy-whipped.”
Hearing that word takes me back to the debate with Clem Ford. I shift in my seat a little.
“I, um, I didn’t get to thank you for helping Bris talk me down the other night.”
“You mean when you almost ripped Clem Ford’s throat out?” Iz asks with a mockery of calm. “Sure. Any time. At least I know you have your own money and won’t need our bail fund. What the hell were you thinking?”
“He disrespected Bristol.” Anger surges through my veins again at the memory.
“Well I hope she’s worth going to prison for because you ever pull some shit like that again, that’s exactly where you’ll end up. You’re lucky he didn’t press charges.”
“Oh, he has no desire to see me in jail yet.” My bark of a laugh is certain and cynical. “He’s just getting started with me and wouldn’t want to end the game this soon.”
I grab my saddlebag and motorcycle helmet, determined not to be late for my appointment with Bristol and Charm to finally figure out this book deal.
“Bristol helped me realize that I represent everything he thinks should be impossible. Based on his metrics, I shouldn’t exist, much less get to choose someone from his race to spend my life with.” I stand and level a disgusted look at him. “I guess that’s at least one thing you two agree on.”
“Who the hell do you think you are comparing me to that backwards cretin?” Iz demands, indignation pinching his strong features.
“I got a front row seat to your brand of selective progressivism,” I fire back. “And at the end of the day, you both judge people you don’t know anything about by the color of their skin.”
“If I’m such a bigot,” Iz snaps, anger darkening his eyes and hardening his jaw, “then why the hell are you still working with me?”
“Because the woman I love is wiser than both of us,” I throw back at him. “She cares enough about people who don’t even look like her to set aside the gross offense of your discrimination because she believes we can help them more working together than apart.”
A silence falls after my bellowed words, a silence teeming with the complexity of our admiration for each other, with our resentment, our shared convictions, our differences. I watch the anger melt from his face in phases, loosening feature by feature until all that’s left is a milder expression and uncertainty.
“She used my own words on me, you know,” he says, a wry grin tipping the edge of his stern mouth.
“What?” I shift my bag on my shoulder, needing to go but wanting to hear what he has to say. I keep hoping he’ll say something to demonstrate his perspective is changing.
“Your girl, Bristol. She had me sign her copy of Virus in a section on inherent bias.”
We share a grin because sometimes all you can do is laugh at the things Bristol does.
“She introduced herself as ‘Grip’s Bristol,’” he says, his grin deepening to a full-on smile.
Damn right she’s Grip’s Bristol.
“Oh yeah?”
“And she said if I hurt you again, I’d have to deal with her.” His smile dies off, and he looks down at the mess of papers littering his desk. “I didn’t mean to hurt—”
“You didn’t hurt me.”
It’s a lie. He did hurt me, but I haven’t given any man the satisfaction of truly hurting me since my dad walked away without looking back. I won’t let Iz know he held that place in my life until he said those things about Bristol.
“You’re just a smart guy with great ideas,” I continue, stiffening the words around any emotion left over. “I thought you were something that you’re not. My bad, not yours.”
If I didn’t know Iz better, didn’t know he doesn’t give a damn about anyone’s opinion, I’d think that’s guilt in his eyes. Whatever it is, he blinks and it’s gone.
“Yeah, well, okay. Good.” He takes his glasses off to polish them on the edge of his Howard University sweatshirt. “Well I’m still glad you’ll continue with my organization now that the semester is over. I’m ready to get out of the classroom and back to the real grind.”
“Of course. The cause is bigger than you and me.”
“Right.” He twists his lips around, frowns, and releases a sigh. “Look, tomorrow’s the exam, and I assume you’re leaving the city after.”
“Yeah, though we’re actually keeping our place here for another six-month lease. Bris has some Broadway stuff popping off for one of her clients, and we love the city, love our place. We’ll be back and forth.”
“You still want that spot on the board of directors?” he asks as if he doesn’t care, but somehow I know he does.
“Yeah, sure.” I shrug like I don’t care, but I want on that board like nobody’s business. “If you think it could work.”
“My assistant will send you details about our next meeting and papers you need to sign.” He hesitates before going on. “I know it’s . . . well, I’m sorry I was a . . . uh, disappointment to you, Grip.”
I study the regret marking his face and his words. I don’t say anything that would counter because he did disappoint me, and I refuse to make it easier for him.
“But I’m . . . well I’m honored that you moved here to study with me,” he mutters. “Shocked actually. It’s been really cool getting to know you this semester, and I look forward to, uh . . . well . . . what I’m trying to say is . . . fuck it.”
He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls something out, something badly wrapped in plain paper.
“Merry Christmas.” He practically spits the goodwill at me and extends the gift.
I just stare at it, and after a full five seconds, I accept it.
“I did
n’t get you anything,” I mumble, tugging on the tatty ribbon.
“It’s not much, believe me. Uh, you can open it later.” He sits at his desk and pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’m getting ready for finals, if you could just close the door behind you.”
Iz is a PhD, and he must hold at least a master’s in dismissing people. I nod, suppressing the grin that tries to break past my restraint.
“A’ight,” I say casually over my shoulder. “Merry Christmas.”
I walk down the hall away from his office and down the stairs. In the stairwell, I drop my saddlebag and sit on the step, turning the gift over in my hands for a few moments before pulling the ribbon.
It’s a book.
Iz would give me a book.
I trace the aged leather, the letters pressed into the weathered cover.
Montage of a Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes.
I flip open the front cover, and my blood stands still in my veins when I note the date—1951—and the famous poet’s autograph.
A signed first edition.
I turn to the spot slotted by an index card, a crisp contrast to the worn, fragile pages. The poem is “Harlem,” and the familiar refrain asking what happens to a dream deferred stings tears in my eyes.
I can’t ever read this poem without remembering the day my cousin died in the front yard. There are some moments in life that will always haunt us, no matter how many joys follow, and that day is one of those. I’ll never forget reciting this poem in my bedroom closet to keep Jade calm while one of her brothers shot the other.
Iz couldn’t know its personal significance to me, but as I read the card, I understand why he chose it.
Grip,
Our brothers live so long with dreams deferred, they forget how to imagine another life. For many of them, all they know is frustration, then rage, and for too many, the violence of finally exploding. You symbolize hope, and I know you take that responsibility seriously. I hope you know I believe that, and that nothing I’ve said led you to think otherwise. Bristol’s right—our biases are our weaknesses. Few are as patient as she is to give people time to become wiser. Thank her for me, for giving me time and for encouraging you to work with me. Together, I think we will restore the dreams of many.
Merry Christmas,
Iz
23
Bristol
This isn’t my first Grammys, but it’s the first time two of my clients have been nominated for multiple awards. Rhyson has won several in the past, of course, but tonight, Grip and Kai are up, and I think Rhyson and I are more nervous than they are.
“I’m still not sure about that lighting.” Rhyson watches a video of Kai’s rehearsal from earlier today on his phone. “Can we talk to the LD one more time?”
“Leave the lighting director alone,” Kai says from the corner where she and her stylist are consulting about her dress for the red carpet. “Rhys, you’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” he asks absently, eyes still fixed on the video.
“The thing where you try to control the whole universe and act like a crazy person?” She stretches her eyes wide like he should know. “That thing.”
He looks up, one dark brow cocked, and stops the video, setting the phone down on the table.
“It’s your performance, Pep.” He shrugs. “If you feel comfortable with uneven lighting for the biggest performance of your life, who am I to disagree?”
“Rhyson!” I roll my eyes at my brother. “Don’t do that. The lighting was fine.”
“Fine?” His disgust is palpable. “Fine, not perfect. She should have perfect, Bris, and you know it.”
Kai and I exchange a look that says we hate it when he’s right.
“Okay.” I grab my phone and bag from the dressing room table. “I’ll go talk to the lighting director.”
“It’s the blue wash,” Rhyson says with a satisfied smile. “The setting at the beginning of the second verse.”
“Right. Blue wash, got it. I’ll see you guys back at the hotel.”
I pause at the door.
“And Sarah will be with you for the red carpet tonight.”
“Oh, great.” Kai gives me a wide smile. “What are you wearing for your first public appearance as an engaged woman?”
“Ugh.” The sigh drags past my lips. “Don’t remind me. As if I don’t have enough to do without having to think about getting red-carpet ready.”
“It’s a big night for Grip,” Rhyson says. “I’m sure if it comes down to whether he needs his manager or his fiancée more, it would be his fiancée.”
“You mean the fiancée who’s running off to check the blue wash before the second verse?” I give him a well-meaning smirk.
Rhyson doesn’t allow himself much guilt, but I’m pretty sure that’s what flits across his face. He grabs his phone and stands.
“I’ll talk to the LD,” he says.
“No, you won’t.” I wave him back to his seat. “It’s a huge night for Grip and Kai—for Prodigy. Our little label is up for a grand total of six nominations. I can do my job and be fabulous for the red carpet.”
“You sure?” he asks, uncertainty mingling with the guilt in his expression.
“You doubt me?” I volley back with more confidence than I actually feel.
“Okay, if you say so. See you later, sis.”
I’m wrapping up my conversation with the lighting director backstage—who, at the very least, deserves a fruit basket once this is all over—when I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“No, that worked,” Qwest says. “They hit it on that last run-through. Just make sure we strike that spot onstage, or I won’t hit the mark for camera two.”
I stand perfectly still in the corner where the lighting director and I talked, hoping she’ll walk on by and I’ll go undetected.
“Bristol?”
There goes hope.
“Qwest, hey.” I step forward, a smile pasted on my lips that feels like it’s made of plastic. “Good to see you.”
“Hmmm.” Qwest waves her choreographer on her way. Her eyes roam over me as they usually do, like she sees several things lacking before reaching my face. “I guess I should have known you’d be here.”
As friendly greetings go, it’s not one.
“Well, congratulations on your nomination.” I give her another stiff smile and start to walk off.
“Did you lobby for Grip and me not to perform ‘Queen’?”
Her question startles me enough to turn around and face her again. Her one Grammy nomination is for collaborating with Grip on “Queen,” for best rap performance.
“No. I-I don’t remember it even coming up. The producers of the show were very clear that they wanted Grip to perform ‘Bruise.’” I meet her eyes with nothing to hide. “It’s up for song of the year, and it’s pretty standard to ask the artists nominated for that award to perform, well, the song they’re nominated for.”
Qwest looks unconvinced for a moment before resignation clears her pretty face.
“It’s fine.” She shrugs. “I’m performing one of my other songs anyway.”
“Good.” I hesitate before speaking again. “I would never meddle that way, Qwest—in Grip’s career, I mean.”
“Awwww,” she says sarcastically. “I guess that’s one of the many reasons he loves you—that and your pretty hair and golden tan.”
I don’t reply, but instead let her stew in her own petty silence. I don’t have the time or patience for this shit today.
“I’m sorry, too, about all the drama with Angie Black.” Qwest watches me closely. I know she wants a reaction I’m determined not to give her. “And that picture on Instagram. I can imagine how I’d feel if I saw my boyfriend’s ex with her hands all over him.”
“Then why did you have your hands all over him?”
So much for not giving her a reaction.
“There she is.” Her smile is immediate and knowing. “I figured your claws would come out
soon enough.”
“I don’t want my claws out, Qwest. I wish you well. I know you don’t believe that, but I do.”
“Oh, spare me.” The mask falls away, and Qwest’s ire is on full display. “You wish me well because you got nothing to worry about. I’m not a threat to you, and you know it.”
“You think I don’t feel threatened by you?” My scoffing laugh bounces between us. “Many of Grip’s family, friends, and fans would dance in the streets if he dumped me for you. Do you know how many people have told him that being with me discredits the work he does for the black community? And that you ‘make sense’ and I don’t? That if he wanted to have a real impact, he would choose you?”
“But none of that is Grip,” Qwest says. “You and I both know how he feels about you, that he doesn’t give a damn what any of them thinks. All I hear in everything you’ve said is that he’s willing to tell everyone to fuck off for you, and that’s gotta make you feel as secure as hell.”
She’s right. When it comes down to it, as tired as I am of all the outside voices and influences, I don’t doubt Grip’s love for me. I’ve had moments where I let the negativity get to me, but at the center is a rock-solid faith in our love.
“Besides,” Qwest continues, a touch of malice in the look she gives me, “you saw something you wanted that wasn’t yours, and you went for it. I probably would’ve done the same thing. Game recognize game.”
I see what she’s doing—provoking me—but the thought of her claiming Grip when he was never really hers festers under my skin.
“You’re mistaken,” I say before I can talk myself out of it.
“Oh?” Qwest furrows her brow as if she’s clueless about what I mean. “How am I mistaken?”
“He was never yours.” I force myself to look into eyes that hold more knowledge of Grip than they should.
“He was mine when he was in my bed.”
“He’s been in lots of beds, but there’s only been one woman in his heart.”
