“Probably.” Grip’s shoulders lift and fall, quick and careless. “Look, Jade gets on board with us, or she doesn’t. I don’t give a damn.”
He says that, but I know how happy it made him to restore their relationship, and the last thing I want is to be the reason it falls apart again. I’m still considering that when we pull up to the house where Grip grew up. The narrow street is lined with cars, trucks, bikes— everything from the infamous Impala to three-wheelers.
Some mix of nerves, dread, and anticipation climbs up to lodge in my throat where I can’t gather enough breath. This is ridiculous. I run a record label. I make stars for a living, literally pluck people from obscurity and do whatever it takes to propel them into planetary stardom, from no-name to household name in the manner of an album release—and yet a house full of strangers on this crowded Compton street fills me with trepidation.
But it’s not them. It’s him.
Grip opens my door, the color of his skin even richer against the pink polo shirt he’s wearing with army green cargo shorts. His eyes are set to simmer as he peers down at me in the passenger seat. He leans down and takes my lips between his softly, tenderly, like I’m the most precious thing in his world. His eyes say that, and he tells me all the time. He’s the reason for my trepidation. Relationships, friend- ships—especially longstanding ones, familial ones—mean the world to him.
Would he always put me first? I know he would.
Would it hurt him if he had to make those choices?
I know it would, and part of loving someone is doing everything in your power to make sure they don’t hurt.
There’s barely room to walk in the driveway with all the cars slotted into the tight space. Grip weaves his way between the vehicles, single-filing us in the narrow passages, his hand wrapped reassuringly around mine. The sounds flooding Ms. James’ stamp-size front porch—’90s Snoop
Dogg, raucous laugher, and dozens of voices clamoring to talk over each other—reach us before he opens the screen door.
There is what must be a code-breaking number of people squeezed into the front room, running over into the hall, and presumably spilling into the back yard. The smell of grilled meat wafts past my nose, joining a tangle of other sensations. The whir of a fan oscillating in the corner of the crowded living room. The rich palette of colors—skin tones ranging from gold to bronze to copper, nutmeg to hazelnut to walnut, but none that match my skin, barely sun-kissed, stark and pale among the rich range of pigmentation.
They greet Grip, enthusiasm and undeniable pride in their words and the affectionate embraces they offer him. When their eyes latch onto me, though, they hold questions, speculation. They don’t know me. They aren’t sure I can be trusted with the boy they watched grow up and do better than most ever imagined anyone from this neighborhood could. I swallow my discomfort, deter- mined to fit in, determined to shake off my sense of displacement and get to know the people Grip loves, the ones who obviously love him.
“Bristol, hey!”
I turn toward the familiar voice in the crowd, hoping there’s a familiar face to go with it. I’m grateful to see Shondra, Amir’s long- time crush and maybe now girlfriend.
“Shon, hi.” I reach for her like a lifeline, accepting the hug she folds me into.
“You got this girl,” she whispers, a genuine smile spread across her pretty face. “These folks ain’t nothing to be scared of.”
Shon bore witness to the carnage of confrontation between Jade, Ms. James, and me the first time I was here. She spoke up for us, for Grip and me, and I’ll never forget that.
“What are you whispering about, Shon?” Grip asks, pulling her into a tight hug. “No, don’t tell me. I probably don’t wanna know. Where’s your boy?”
“And what boy would that be?” Shon lifts her brows in challenge.
“Whoa.” Grip’s grin turns into a full-bodied laugh. “You got more than one? Does Amir know?”
“Gotta keep him on his toes,” she says with an audacious wink. “He’s out back playing bones and losing.”
“I’ve never seen Amir win at dominoes. I might whoop his ass in Spades later, too.” Grip laughs, but is distracted when a gorgeous girl, no higher than his breastbone, walks up and places her hand on his arm, an invitation stamped clearly on her heart-shaped face.
“Grip, hey baby,” she purrs, her wide eyes and the dark hair curling around her shoulders a seduction. “Welcome home.”
My discomfort and nervousness dissipate at the sight of this beautiful woman with her richly golden skin practically petting my boyfriend. I’m standing right here. He’s holding my hand. We’re obviously together. I suppress the possessive growl curling at the base of my throat; better to let Grip handle it instead of behaving unreasonably and alienating people any more than I have to.
“Sierra, hey.” Grip deliberately lifts her tiny hand from his arm. “It’s been a minute. I heard you opened that shop down off Central Avenue. Congratulations.”
“Same to you.” She tips her head back, the long hair winding down her spine and nearly touching her curvy backside. “You done good. Come a long way since we snuck behind the bleachers at football games.”
Her sultry laugh grates on my nerves, and my fingers tighten around Grip’s in a warning. If he doesn’t back this bitch up, I will.
“Uh . . . yeah. That was a long time ago.” Grip clears his throat and pulls me forward. “I don’t think you’ve met my girlfriend Bristol.”
Sierra’s subtly scornful glance starts at my wedge-heeled espadrilles, crawls over my legs in mint green mini shorts, gains momentum when she searches my face, and finally is downright rude by the time she reaches the artfully messy bun I gathered my hair into.
Fuck. Her.