by Kennedy Ryan
“And that’s you?”
“And that’s me.” I hesitate, swallowing cruel words for kinder ones. “Look, I’m trying to be gracious here, Qwest. Don’t make me be mean.”
Her harsh laugh scratches over my ears.
“Well the next time you feeling all gracious and shit,” she spits through a bitter smile, “and want to lend your man’s dick out, let me know, ’cause honey, I wasn’t done with it.”
She steps closer, her perfume invading my space as quickly as her slim body.
“You may be the only one who’s ever ‘been in his heart,’ but I wouldn’t have known it by the way he fucked me.”
The sharp reminder of their past intimacy slides under my ribs like a stiletto and makes me draw a stilted breath.
“Like I said, game recognize game,” she says. “The next time you want to throw Grip in my face, Bristol, be absolutely certain you can handle what I’ll throw back.”
Why am I even doing this? Why engage with her this way? I know I have nothing to worry about, but I keep letting this damn possessiveness get the best of me, and I’m tired of being jealous for no reason. With a weary sigh, I scoop the hair back from my face. The arrested expression on Qwest’s face confuses me until she reaches for my hand, holding my ring finger up to the light. Hurt floods her eyes as she studies the large square canary diamond Grip placed there.
“So it’s true,” she says quietly. “He’s marrying you.”
I don’t know what to say. I just stare back at her and wait for her to drop my hand. She forces a laugh.
“Well that was fast.”
“Fast? If you call ten years in the making fast, then yeah.”
She pulls a stream of braids over her shoulder and fingers the sleek strands. Her expression says she doesn’t give a damn, but I’m not convinced, and my heart hurts. I want to hate this woman. She slept with Grip. She led a social media shade campaign against me, but it’s the hurt I see just beneath the surface that keeps me from the dislike I want to give in to.
“I’m sorry, Qwest.” I know she wouldn’t want my pity. I respect her too much for that, and the barbs we just exchanged assure me she doesn’t need it. I can’t be sorry that Grip is mine, but I am sorry she ever thought he would be hers, sorry for my part in letting her believe that even for a few months.
“You said it—you’re the only one who’s ever been in his heart, who ever got past his bed.” Quest’s glassy eyes fix on my ring finger. “The rest of us he fucked, but doesn’t give a damn about.”
Without another word or glance, she turns on her heel and walks away.
24
Grip
Over the last few months, at times I’ve been able to forget I’m a celebrity. I’ve been dragging myself out of bed and going to class, sitting through lectures, turning in assignments like any other NYU student. Besides going into the studio and the occasional appearance, life has been more normal than it has the last few years. Sure, Angie Black put my life on blast and all the drama about me dating Bristol flared up again, but it’s been pretty tame, considering.
Tonight, though, I’m nominated for three Grammys, including song of the year and best new artist. I walked the red carpet with Bristol at my side, answering some questions, dodging others. She didn’t wear her ring, and we remained non-committal on our engagement, instead focusing on which designers we were wearing and which performances we wanted to see. Useless things like that seem so far removed from the issues I’ve focused on for the last few months with Iz, but in perspective, I know this is a big deal. This part of my life lends me more leverage in the others. The higher my celebrity stock goes, the more influence and resources I’ll have for the things that really matter. So, I smile and answer questions and shine as brightly as I can along with all the other stars. My mama always told me to remember that every time I step out of the house, I represent those who will never have the opportunity to step onto a stage this large.
“Are you nervous?” Bristol leans over to whisper once we’re in our seats and the show is underway.
I glance at her, and for a moment, forget how momentous tonight is. All I can see is how beautiful she looks. Her dark burnished hair is wild in that intentional way that probably takes a lot of time to make look that effortless. The dress she chose is bluish-green with vibrant splashes of color, and her feathery earrings reflect the brilliant palette of her dress.
“You’re my pretty bird tonight,” I say instead of answering her question directly. I touch the hair rioting around her face. “Maybe a peacock.”
“Thanks, I think.” She rolls her eyes, but quirks the fullness of her lips into an irrepressible smile. “But don’t change the subject. Your first category is up next. Are you nervous?”
Grinding all these years, a Grammy seemed like the culmination, like winning one would be the ultimate happiness, and I won’t lie, winning would be pretty dope. But, the hardware that makes me happiest isn’t the Grammy, it’s the one Bristol left back in our hotel room. I lift her hand to my lips for a quick kiss. I was more nervous walking around with that ring in my pocket for a week than I am waiting for my first Grammy.
“Nervous?” I repeat. “Li’l bit.”
She studies me for an extra second before smiling and turning her attention back to the stage as the nominees for best rap performance are announced.
Some girl from a reality show I’ve never watched does the honors, her face animated when she opens the card.
“And the winner is,” she says, pausing to stretch out the audience’s bated breath. “‘Queen,’ Grip and Qwest.”
This moment is pretty surreal, with the applause louder than I thought it would be, the lights brighter, more cameras capturing everything from perfect angles. It feels like a dream I had as a kid that I just don’t wake up from. The only thing real in all of this is Bristol’s hand gripping mine and the tears swimming in her eyes. I lean over to kiss her cheek, and she whispers, “I’m proud of you.”
A part of me wishes I didn’t have to go onstage or make a speech. I wish I could just stay here and bask in the fact that the woman who knows me better than anyone else and has seen this journey almost from the beginning is proud of me. I squeeze her leg and lean down to kiss behind her ear, where the smell of her perfume and the scent unique to her body are strongest.
“Go.” She laughs, giving me a little push. “And don’t forget to thank your mother.”
Like I could.
Qwest makes it to the stage before I do, and I nod for her to take the mic first. With her long braids twisted into a knot at the base of her neck and an evening dress sheathing all that famous ass, she looks classy and composed, powerful and regal. I’m happy for her—it’s her first Grammy, too.
“Wow.” She turns a bright smile on the audience, and I’m glad she gets this moment for herself. “Obviously, I need to thank my team, my manager Will, Ezra Cohen with Sound Management, my family for holding me down, all the fans, and everyone who supported me along the way.”
She glances back at me, her smile wavering for just a second as the feelings I suspect she still has for me congregate in her eyes. She blinks, and that vulnerability disappears, covered with the high shine of celebrity again.
“Most of all, thank you, Grip,” she says after a moment. “For putting up with my crazy ass and trusting me with such an incredible song.”
I offer her a quick wink and a grin before she turns back to the crowd.
“It’s an honor getting to inspire young girls to respect themselves, to carry themselves like the queens they’re meant to be. If a little brown girl from Bed-Stuy can stand up here, you can stand anywhere you want!”
The applause dies down before I step to the mic. I’m determined to keep this short and simple. I still have to perform “Bruise,” and the sooner I get backstage, the sooner I can start mentally preparing for that, but I don’t want to cheat this moment because I’ll never get it back.
“This is amazing.” I loo
k out at the crowd, peers and fans and industry professionals, taking it all in. “There’s a lot of people to thank. I’ll try not to screw this up. Um, where’s Rhyson?”
I shield my eyes from the bright lights and search the first few rows where I remember he and Kai were supposed to be seated.
“I absolutely wouldn’t be standing here without you.” There are a thousand memories in the glance we exchange. With all the jubilation going on around him, his eyes remain sober. He knows what this has cost me, knows how hard I’ve been grinding, how hard we’ve been grinding since high school. He knows, probably more than anyone, what it means. “You and the Prodigy team always have my back, and I couldn’t ask for a better friend. Love you, dude, like a brother. To all the fans who humble me daily, this doesn’t happen without your support. Thank you so much.”
I stare down at the trophy before continuing.
“A lot of people speculate about who I wrote this song for, what I’m talking about.” I pause to chuckle. “My mom will tell you unequivocally that she is #GripzQueen.”
The audience laughs, and I know my mom is somewhere in the Staples Center loving this.
“A lot of people think I wrote it for Qwest.” I glance at her beside me. “Writing a song like this and not having a strong woman help me perform it, give voice to it, would have been a travesty. You are an amazing representative for powerful women everywhere, Q.”
She nods and smiles, but I can tell this moment is affecting her in ways she didn’t anticipate. I hope the emotion in her eyes has more to do with the gravity of the achievement than with me and our past relationship.
“Some think it’s for black women or women in general.” I shrug, a subtle smile playing on my lips. “You’re all right. It’s for my mom, who taught me what love is, what strength looks like, how to not just survive difficult circumstances, but to thrive in them. It’s for women like Qwest, who dream big and work hard. It’s for my aunties in the neighborhood who took it upon themselves to straighten me out if my mom, working two jobs, wasn’t around when I was acting the fool. It’s for all of you girls who aren’t sure you’re worthy of respect when we, especially in hip-hop, sometimes don’t give you your due. It’s fitting that my first Grammy would be for ‘Queen’ since I wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for all the incredible women who kept pushing me forward.”
I find Bristol sitting where I left her, pride and love shining in the eyes that never leave my face. I can already see the Coming to America GIFs that will be everywhere if I call her my queen, so I force myself to stop short of that. She would be fine if I didn’t say a word about her. Hell, she’d probably prefer it after all the media shit-storms we’ve been through, but there’s no way this moment even happens without her.
“It’s for you, Bris,” I say softly, even though my words are amplified throughout Staples and in millions of homes. “You’re the best thing in my life. None of this would mean anything without you.”
Our eyes hold in an extraordinary recognition I could only share with her, of the sacrifices we’ve made and the risks we’ve taken together, all while falling in love. I want to call her my girl, my fiancée, my wife in front of the whole world, but we’ve agreed we don’t want our engagement to be a lightning rod or some sideshow, a hot potato people toss around to gain more followers, get more likes and retweets. So, I don’t tell these people anything that’s none of their business. I just hold up the gold statue and don’t give Black Twitter or Angie Black or any of my critics more to work with than necessary.
“Thank you.”
I don’t return to my seat because I still have to perform. Once I’m backstage, that tunnel vision that comes with such a huge performance consumes me completely, not just because it’s so significant for my career, but because of the nature of the song, which has been significant for my cause. I’ve performed “Bruise” in larger venues, but this is the Grammys. It doesn’t get any bigger than this, and I want to be a megaphone for this moment. It’s a perfect convergence of my gifts and my passions, and I don’t want to blow it.
From the first note, I know it’s a special performance, a demarcation in my journey as an artist. The lights and imagery, a moody wash of black and blue, coordinate with typography of the song’s most powerful lyrics onscreen. As many times as I’ve performed this song, the words have never felt as meaningful as they do tonight, with the names of slain black men and fallen police officers scrolling behind me.
We all bruise,
It’s that black and blue
A dream deferred,
Nightmare come true
In another man’s shoes,
Walk a mile or two
Might learn a couple things
I’m no different than you!
As I’m performing, the faces of the men on that wall behind me flash through my mind on a reel, their lives cut short. I remember the day each of them died—how I heard, what I was doing, how it felt to know things this fucked up could still happen in our country. The same coalition of anger and pain and hope that led me to write the song compels me to perform it like the next life depends on it. Like this song might save somebody, even though it came too late for these men. Like my art has no limits and love has no walls.
As hard as I try, I can’t keep my voice from wobbling, can’t keep the hurt and the outrage from reverberating through each lyric. Despite my best efforts, tears—fucking tears streak down my face, defying any show of strength. My tears are for the mothers and the sisters and fathers and wives and daughters and sons watching this show tonight with an empty seat at their table, watching me perform this song with a hole in their hearts. I shed tears for the tragedy of bias and the futility of revenge. None of it bears any fruit, and it could feel hopeless, except when I look out, I see the same emotion that’s commanding me has command of the audience, compelling them to their feet and streaking their faces with tears, too. White, black, brown, all of them—a mosaic of the emotions warring inside of me. Though I could be cynical, though I could doubt that it means anything, that they mean it, in this moment, even with the hurt and the anger and the frustration, I make room in my heart for faith that one day, no matter how long it takes, we’ll get it right.
25
Bristol
“Two out of three ain’t bad.” I meet Grip’s eyes in the bathroom mirror. “You’re officially a Grammy winner now.”
“And losing best new artist to Kai is no loss at all.” He grins at me, brushing his teeth as we get ready for bed. “Least we kept it in the family.”
“Yeah, Kai had a huge night. Three trophies.” I yawn while removing the makeup from my face with a wipe. “I think Rhyson was on a higher cloud than she was.”
“He’s proud of her, and he should be.” Grip leans against the marble counter in my bathroom. “Grammys, movies, endorsements . . .”
“And Broadway,” I insert, running a brush through my unruly hair. “Just give me a little time.”
“Yeah. Kai’s on that world domination trip. She’s on the come up big time.”
“You are, too.” I lean into him, pressing my chest to his. “Song of the year’s nothing to sneeze at.”
Grip palms my head and lays a kiss in the hair at my temple without acknowledging my compliment.
“And best rap song.” I lower my lashes to study our feet, almost touching. “With Qwest.”
He tips my chin up, searching my eyes.
“Did it bother you to see us up there together?”
“It bothers me to see you with anyone who isn’t me.” A tired, self-deprecating laugh rumbles over my lips. “But I was okay.”
I hesitate, biting my lip before going on.
“She still has feelings for you, ya know.”
Grip runs his tongue over his teeth, a thoughtful frown disrupting the strong line of his eyebrows.
“Yeah, I know.”
I tip up on my toes and kiss his chin, slipping a hand to the back of his neck. He rubs my back and we ap
preciate the closeness of each other’s bodies for a minute, the silence swelling with a tenderness, an intimacy I can’t imagine sharing with anyone else.
“Your performance tonight . . .” My words evaporate because I can’t find the right ones to express how moved I was when he performed “Bruise.” It wasn’t just me, either—he ushered the entire crowd to another plane during that performance, and I still feel like I’m coming off a high. “I’ve seen you be amazing, but this was something else. It was on another level, from a different place.”
“It felt . . . I don’t know.” He shakes his head and shrugs, a helplessness limiting what he can say about it even now. “It was a once-in-a-lifetime moment. I couldn’t hold it together. Thinking about those guys who died and the cops who were ambushed, I just lost it.”
I don’t respond for a moment because I can’t. The same emotion that overcame me during his performance steals my words again. Seeing those names scrolling behind him, seeing the tears rolling down Grip’s cheeks, looking around and seeing that I was surrounded by wet faces and broken hearts, there was a oneness in that crowd I’ve never experienced before. What if we achieved that kind of unity without music? Without a stage? In our communities and in the streets? How would that feel?
“That was sweet, dedicating the Grammy for song of the year to your cousin Greg,” I say, clearing my throat and shifting to something I can actually articulate. “He’s a good cop.”
“And to Chaz.” Voice subdued, eyes somber, Grip wears the sadness that always accompanies thoughts of Jade’s fallen brother.
“Yeah, and to Chaz,” I slur the words as exhaustion takes its toll. The last few days have been nonstop.
Grip links our fingers, allowing our hands to dangle between us. He caresses over my hip and down my thigh before cupping my ass possessively, warming me through the silk of my nightgown. His bare torso and long, muscled legs in just briefs stir my passion, but I’m too exhausted to do anything about it.
