by Kennedy Ryan
A first for me.
My head flops against his shoulder, and I can barely keep my eyes open. There was all this press after the show, and then we must have hit every after-party Hollywood had to offer.
“Come to bed,” he whispers in my ear, ghosting kisses down my neck. “To sleep. You’re obviously too tired for anything else.”
I almost trip over my feet, stumbling behind him as he leads me to the bed. I climb in, grateful when he pulls the comforter up over my shoulders.
“Do you miss your loft?” I ask with the last of my consciousness. My eyes droop drowsily and I consider him in the light of the lamp on his side of our bed.
“Not really.” He lies on his side, tucking his pillow in the crook of his neck and shoulder. “We don’t need the place in New York and two places here in LA. The guys from Kilimanjaro subleasing the loft makes sense. Besides, I got spoiled living with you last semester, waking up with you every morning.”
He pushes my hair back and runs his thumb over my cheekbone.
“I can’t go back now.”
We share weary smiles and skim our lips in sleepy kisses until my eyelids drift closed.
“Bris.”
I start awake, barely.
“Wha . . . Huh?”
“I need to ask you something.”
“Is this something I need to actually remember tomorrow?” I murmur, eyes closed and the cool pillow soothing under my face.
“Yeah, you need to remember this.”
“Okay,” I mumble through a yawn. “Shoot.”
“When can we get married?”
My eyes pop open to find him watching me, his expression as alert as if it’s the top of the morning, not the end of an extremely exhausting, emotionally draining day.
“What?” My heart buffets my ribs, fighting against the tired body caging it. “When . . . why . . . what?”
“You heard me.” He chuckles, brushing a knuckle over my brow. “We said we’d set a date after the Grammys were behind us.”
“And you consider, oh, an hour ago ‘behind us’?” A tiny, tired smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
“Yeah, I do.” He moves forward until our heads are on the same pillow and our foreheads press together. “When will you marry me?”
It feels like rocks are tied around my arms, but I lift and link them behind his neck, scooting close enough that the heated hardness of his body absorbs mine.
“Depends,” I say, my voice weary and husky. “You want to do it tonight, or would you prefer tomorrow?”
My eyes may be barely open, but there’s no doubt in my mind they are certain, no doubt he reads complete willingness in them. If he said to me that we should drag our tired asses out of bed right now to go get married, I’d do it. He knows that; his pleased smile tells me so.
“It doesn’t have to be tonight or tomorrow.” He leaves one last kiss at the corner of my mouth. “But it will be very soon. Just making sure you’re down for very soon.”
He reaches over to turn off the lamp.
“Okay,” he says into the darkness. “Now you can go to sleep.”
With complete contentment and the promise of forever very soon, I do.
26
Grip
It’s our wedding day. Finally.
I say “finally,” but it’s only been a month since the Grammy’s. After that night, Bristol and I decided we would not even publicly confirm the engagement, but would move forward with our own plans, in our own way. Nobody’s business. We’ve invited only our innermost circle of family and friends. We didn’t hire a wedding planner or anything, just made some simple arrangements, and forced vendors and those involved to sign Bristol’s NDAs.
And now the day is here, and I’m a horny groom. Does this actually come as a surprise to anyone? Probably not, but this semi-erect state I find myself in on my wedding day was completely avoidable. Bristol—who can barely spell “tradition”—decided we shouldn’t see each other the night before the wedding, other than the rehearsal dinner. Add that to the fact that we’ve barely seen each other for the last two weeks being on different coasts and . . . horny groom. My balls are a dismal shade I like to call Bristol Blue.
I sip my coffee and take in the picturesque view of the Rocky Mountains through the hotel window. The snow-capped peaks and stretches of pristine snow are breathtaking. When Bristol suggested an Aspen wedding in honor of our snowy proposal, I wasn’t sure at first, but seeing the soaring splendor of the mountains, it seems fitting. Our journey has been uphill, and in some ways, it may always be. At times, our climb has felt as insurmountable as some of those mountains. The easiest thing about being with Bristol is being with Bristol, and she makes all the outside pressures and criticisms worth it. So, yes, being surrounded by a line of mountains suits us perfectly.
“Are you okay?” my mom asks from across the small table in the hotel suite.
Knowing Ma, I could say, No, I’m horny, and she wouldn’t bat an eyelash. She’d just tell me to eat my oatmeal and be patient because I’ll be smashing before the night is over.
“I hate oatmeal,” I say instead, flashing a quick smile.
“You always did.” She swaps my oatmeal for the pastry in front of her. “I wondered why you ordered it.”
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even notice.”
“You’re distracted.” Ma spears a square of French toast. “It is your wedding day. You nervous?”
“Nah.” I bite into the pastry’s flaky sweetness, chewing thoughtfully. “Just ready. This has been a long time coming.”
Ma smiles, rubbing away the condensation on her glass of orange juice.
“It’s obvious you love Bristol very much.” She takes a sip, peering at me over the rim of her glass. “It’s a shame Jade couldn’t make it.”
“Couldn’t?” I scoff. “Wouldn’t is more like it. I don’t care.”
“Oh, you care.” Ma reaches over to cover my fist where it’s clenched on the table. “You just care more about your happiness than you do about Jade’s opinion, as you should. But it’s okay that it hurts, her not being here. She’ll come around eventually.”
But she hasn’t yet, and it does hurt. The last time I saw Jade, I warned her that I’d choose Bristol over her, that I wouldn’t hesitate to cut her out of my life if I had to, but I didn’t actually think it would come to that. I didn’t actually think Jade would object enough to cut herself out my life, or cut me out of hers. Either way, we haven’t spoken since that day in the studio. I sent her an invitation, but she didn’t respond. I want to text her middle finger emojis and let her know I don’t give a fuck, except Ma’s right—I do. It hurts, but today isn’t for regrets or recriminations. It’s for me and Bristol.
“You’re okay with it, though, right Ma?” I cast a searching glance at the woman who has been the guiding force of my life. “With Bristol and me, I mean. Now you’re okay?”
My mom looks back at me with deep affection in the eyes roaming my face before she answers my question with one of her own.
“How many men want to have breakfast with their mother on the morning of their wedding?” She sits back in her seat and crosses her legs.
I shrug. I didn’t think about it. It just feels like I’m about to turn a corner, like the ground is about to shift beneath my feet, and my mother has always been with me for every transition, large or small. It’s always been her and me against the world. Me getting married . . . it feels a little like the end of an era and the beginning of something new. Starting this day with the woman who got me where I am . . . it felt right.
“I didn’t hold back my opinion when you told me you were in love with Bristol,” Ma says. “You’ve always known I didn’t want you bringing no white girls home.”
My heart sinks in my chest. I’m prepared to take these next steps without the support of my friends and family, but it’s bad enough not having Jade. Taking such a monumental step without Ma in my corner, especially when I thought we had c
ome so far, it would hurt.
“But then I met her,” Ma says. “And ‘them white girls’ became Bristol. That girl loves you, and you love yourself some Bristol.”
Her humor and the relief that she does seem supportive after all coax a chuckle from my throat.
“True that,” I say with a smile that lingers on my lips even after the laughter dies.
“Let me show you something.” Ma bends to her purse and pulls out a small bag discreetly etched with Chelle’s, Bristol’s favorite jewelry store. She passes the bag to me, urging me to open it with a nod of her head when I just stare at it blankly. “Go on. Look.”
I pull the delicate tissue from the bag, finding an ornate box inside. When I crack it open, there’s a broach tipped with a crown studded with diamonds. I’m pretty sure the broach’s stickpin is platinum, and this must have cost a small fortune.
“Read the card,” Ma says, watching my face carefully for a reaction.
I find the folded card hidden in the depths of the tissue.
Ms. James,
I know it’s unconventional for the bride to give her future mother-in-law a wedding gift, but I really wanted you to have this. As soon as I saw this crown, I knew it belonged to you, #GripzQueen. I want to thank you for so many things, for giving me a chance though I wasn’t what you originally envisioned for your son, for making me feel like part of your family, something my own parents weren’t always sure how to do. Most of all, thank you for raising such a magnificent man. He is the man of my dreams. When I thought of my husband, I didn’t dream in color, I dreamt in character. My own father’s left much to be desired, and I only knew I wanted something different from what I saw in my parents. I have that with Grip, and it’s because of the remarkable character you instilled in him. So, thank you, Grip’s original queen. I would like to be a daughter to you, but I will accept friendship. Whatever we are, we both love Grip – Marlon – more than anything else in this world, and we’ll always have that.
Thank you again,
Bristol
I figured I would cry at some point before this day was over, but I didn’t expect it to be before it has even really begun. I’m sure my mother loved this, was pleased by it, and that’s great, but I read between the lines of this letter and see all the things no one else knows about Bristol. I see all the ways she’s vulnerable and never lets on, all the things she ached for growing up but never received. I’m amazed by this girl’s capacity to love. She learned early on to reach out first, constantly asking for love from her parents, and even from Rhyson. She was, and many times still is, the one holding her family together, even when they don’t want to be. Even though my mother rejected her at first, she has been reaching out to her every chance she’s gotten. I grab my mother’s mimosa, knocking it back and washing away the emotion burning my throat. I’m not crying—not yet.
I kiss Ma’s cheek at the door, studiously ignoring the sheen of tears in her eyes. If I look too closely, I’ll see all the sacrifices she made, all the hardships she endured for me to have not just this day, but most of the other good things in my life. With promises to see her at the ceremony, I rush to the elevator, determined to see Bristol before everyone gathers at the small stacked stone chapel where we’ll exchange our vows. Fuck tradition. She won’t be in her wedding dress yet—is there a specific rule about seeing your bride naked before the ceremony?
No? Thought not.
I step into the elevator, stopping short when I come face to face with the last person on earth I expected to see in Aspen for my wedding . . . unless this is a weird coincidence and he’s here for something else.
“Iz.” I blink stupidly at him leaning against the wall in the corner. “What are you doing here?”
He shifts his feet, a quick frown jerking his brows together.
“Well, I . . . ” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. “I heard you were getting married.”
I level a knowing look on him.
“We went to a lot of trouble to make sure that no one ‘just hears’ we’re getting married, so I doubt that.”
“Maybe my invitation got lost in the mail,” Iz offers with a half-smile.
“They were digital.”
“Spam?”
“Nope.” I narrow my eyes at him. “I didn’t send you an invitation, and you know why.”
“I know you didn’t.” He glances at his boots with their light dusting of snow. “Bristol did.”
I’m completely silent while I process this information. I don’t know if I’m pleased, angry, confused, or something else altogether. While I’m figuring that out, Iz goes on.
“You’re right,” he says. “She is wiser than we are. I kept going back to that passage she highlighted and had me sign in my book. I must have read it a hundred times, seeing it through her eyes.”
“Is that so?” I lift a skeptical brow.
“Yeah, it is.” A slow smile pulls at his mouth, making him look younger, less the sober academic. “I haven’t changed my mind about why most black men who choose white women do it, but I’ve changed my mind about you and Bristol. I don’t believe a white woman can ever really understand the struggle of a black man in America, but I was married to a black woman who understood the struggle but never understood me.”
I’ll have to ask him for the full story one day. From what I’ve ascertained, there were transgressions on both sides, and definitely regret on his.
“Bristol may not understand the struggle,” he continues, “but she understands you. She loves you unconditionally—I’ve seen it—and in a world as hard as ours, unconditional love goes a long way.”
His smile melts like the snow topping the mountains that left me awestruck just minutes ago.
“I would say having Bristol makes you a very lucky man, Grip.”
The elevator dings, signaling that I’ve reached the top floor where I know Bristol’s room is.
“This is me.” I step out, but at the last minute, insert my arm to stop the doors from closing. “Hey. Thanks for coming, Iz. It, uh . . . well, thanks.”
He nods, and with one last look, I allow the doors to close. If I wanted to see her before, now the urgency to see her, to remind myself that in just a few hours, we’ll be husband and wife, burns through me. If I needed affirmation that I was doing the right thing—which I really didn’t—I’ve had it in this morning’s encounters with my mom and with Iz.
I rap my knuckles against the door a few times. When there’s no answer, I knock a little harder. Still no response. After three minutes, I’m pounding the door and saying Bristol’s name maybe a little louder than the situation warrants. The door is yanked open from inside, and my beautiful bride stands on the threshold glaring at me, her hair all around her head and her face free of makeup. A silk robe is tied at her narrow waist.
“You better have a really good reason for being here.” Though stern, her eyes and voice soften the longer we stare at each other.
I slip into the room before she can stop me.
“Grip, no.” She swats at my shoulders when I pull her into my arms. “You cannot be here. We cannot see each other.”
“Bullshit.” I bend to kiss her, my lips searching, seeking out her sweetness.
“You have to go,” she mutters against my lips, but her fingers cling to my arms.
“I miss you.” My whispered words catch fire in the air between us, and I feel her nipples bead against my chest. My fingers fumble at the tie at her waist, and I push at the shoulders of her robe.
“No!” She catches the silk lapels and pulls them tightly over her breasts, her eyes wide. “You have to go.”
“Babe, come on.” My hands slide down to her waist, the flare of her hips, the curve of her ass. “We got time. Don’t make me beg.”
“Beg?” She steps out of my arms, clenching the neck of the robe at her throat, showing me even less skin. “Yeah, right. When have you ever had to beg?”
“I used to have to beg,” I remind
her. “When you wouldn’t give your boy a shot.”
Her face softens, the tousled hair around her face and shoulders tempting me to shove my fingers into the shiny strands. A smile so sweet I want to taste it teases the corners of her lips.
“That was a long time ago, and don’t remind me what a fool I was all those years.”
We share a smile, and before she kicks me out, I take her hand and press it between my palms.
“I saw the gift you gave my mom,” I say, my voice low with gratitude. “And I ran into Iz on the elevator.”
“Two of your greatest influences.” She shrugs her slim shoulders under the brightly patterned silk. “It wouldn’t be the same without them. You wouldn’t be the same without them, and for that I’m grateful.”
She opens the door and shoves me into the hall. The door is closing in my face when I stick my foot in to stop it. I peer around the heavy wood, needing the last word.
“The next time I see you,” I say with a smile, “you’ll be Mrs. Marlon James.”
She pauses in closing the door long enough to lean forward and drop a quick kiss on my lips.
“I can’t wait,” she whispers. “I love you.”
The door slams in my face, but if those are her last words, I’ll let her have them just this once.
27
Bristol
I’m just beyond the entrance. I can see Grip. I can see in, but no one knows I’m here yet, and I take in the ethereal beauty of the small chapel. A mix of artificial snow and white roses, a juxtaposition of blooms and blizzard, sprinkles the aisle from the chapel door to the altar. Potted trees march along the wall, naked of leaves, branches adorned with snow, warmed with tiny lights. Lanterns suspended from the ceiling cast a glow over the old chapel, hallowed by years and a thousand services and ceremonies before this one, but to me, none more sacred.
I absorb all the details, happy to see the small group of people assembled, our closest friends and family. This isn’t a day for selfies or pictures that will be sold to magazines. It’s a day for us, for Grip, me, and the people who mean the most to us.
