“Bristol, stop playing. You know it’s on purpose, right?”
“Oh, sure, it is, Grip.” I roll my eyes. “Nice try.”
“Are you serious?” He looks at me like I’m from outer space. “You know that’s how Tupac referred to himself on his posthumous album, right? That he misspelled it on purpose?”
I clear my throat and scratch at an imaginary itch on the back of my neck.
“Um … yes?”
His warm laughter at my expense washes over me, and it’s worth being the butt of the joke, because I get to see his face animated. He’s even more handsome when he laughs.
“You’re funny.” He laughs again, more softly this time. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Why not?” I frown. “Did Rhyson make me sound like I wasn’t any fun?”
“He hasn’t said much at all, actually.”
I figured I wasn’t paramount in his mind, but it hurts to hear how little Rhyson has told his friends about me. Even when I resented my parents lavishing all their attention and love on my brother, I was proud of him. I told anyone who would listen about how talented he was. How he traveled all over the world. I wanted everyone to know. Again, my heart is a scale out of balance, with my end taking all the weight.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Grip says after a moment of my silence. “I can tell you and Rhyson have a lot to work out.”
“If he ever comes home, I’m sure we will.” I search for something to shift the attention again. “So, you’re a Tupac fan?”
“That would be an understatement. Fanatic is more like it.”
“Even I know the Biggie–Tupac debate,” I say with a slight smile. “I guess I don’t have to ask where you fall.”
“Oh, Pac, all day, every day.” Grip’s passion for the subject lights his eyes. “I mean, I give Biggie his props, but Pac was a poet, and truly had something to say. He was unflinchingly honest in his commentary on social justice and the state of his community. He was brilliant.”
“You don’t talk like most rappers I know.” I smile because I hear how bad it sounds, but I somehow feel like I can say it to him even ineloquently.
“And we’ve already established that you know so many rappers.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the cut of his muscles flexing with the movement. “Some of your best friends are rappers. You’re so down.”
His dark eyes glint with humor.
“Don’t make fun of me.” I fake pout.
“But it’s so much fun.” He fake pouts back. “I meant it as a compliment.”
“Yes, but by comparison it would be an insult to other rappers, right?” He’s half-teasing, half-challenging.
“I don’t enjoy this logic thing you’re doing. It’s making me seem narrow-minded.”
“If the mind fits,” he comes back with a smirk.
“I should be irritated with you for calling me out.” I try to keep my face stern.
“And I should be disgusted by your preconceived notions.” He glances up from under his long lashes, his mouth relaxed, not quite smiling. “But I’m not.”
“And why is that?” I ask softly, my breath held hostage by the look in his eyes under hooded lids. I want to look away. I should, but he should first, and he doesn’t. So we’re both trapped in a moment, unsure of how to do the thing we should do. When I feel like my nerves will snap from the heated tension, he clears his throat.
“Um, I thought you might be getting hungry again.” He stands without answering my question, running both hands over the closely cut wave of his hair. “Wanna order something? Pizza? Thai?”
“Anybody do good empanadas around here?”
“You kidding me?” He pulls out his phone and smiles. “This is LA. If there’s anything we have, it’s good Mexican.”
We order and are eating in Grady’s kitchen within the hour. I sip the beer he grabbed from Grady’s refrigerator.