“Shit.” I run a hand over my hair. It hasn’t been this long since I was growing it out for dreadlocks years ago. It’s as wild and tousled as I feel inside. I haven’t bothered cutting it and I see even less reason to while we’re vacationing in Hawaii.
Bristol might challenge the word “vacation” since I’ve shut myself away so much working on this next album. This villa in Kailua belongs to a friend. It butts up to the Pacific Ocean and boasts a strip of pristine beach, perfect for us to relax and for the kids to play. It’s also outfitted with a state-of-the-art basement studio, making it ideal for the work I need to get done if I want to stay on schedule for my upcoming release.
Speaking of which . . .I pick up the writing pad again, its blank page looming as a reminder of how little I’ve gotten done. I’ve finished one song and, objectively . . .it ain’t shit. It felt like I had to carve every word out of my skin and write it in blood. Lately nothing’s been easy creatively. I miss the urgent roll of ink over an open page, watching my words spill onto the paper in a harried, barely legible scrawl as my fingers chase my thoughts. Struggling to keep up.
A peal of laughter interrupts the semi-trance I’ve fallen into, staring at the blank sheet of intimidation taunting me. I look to the wall of windows and an involuntary smile tugs up the corners of my mouth at the sight down by the shore. Nina is chasing Martin to the edge of the ocean, and every time the water splashes up on his little legs, he squeals and runs back, his face animated with some mix of terror and delight. He can’t make up his mind how he feels about the ocean. It’s vast and scary, majestic and alluring.
“The whole world’s like that, lil’ man.” I sigh, tossing the pad and pen onto the table beside me. “You’ll get used to it.”
A deeper laugh harmonizes with my children’s high-pitched humor, and Bristol walks into view. Her dark, burnished hair is scooped up into a messy bun and she’s all long, sun-kissed legs and rounded baby-belly in her black bikini. It will never get old, how my heart thumps a little harder when I see her, like it’s pounding on a door, demanding to get out.
To get to her.
It seems like that was my heart’s mission from the day we met. Get as close as possible to Bristol, to barrel through flesh and bone, reservations and inhibitions, secrets and drama. As so often is the case, Neruda’s words rise in my mind. On the surface, the similarities between me and the Nobel Prize-winning poet may not be apparent, but I see them. I feel them in his calls for justice and his musings on fate and life and death. But it’s his words on love that rouse my thoughts when I consider Bristol.
Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
“Preach, bruh,” I mumble, standing, walking barefoot and bare-chested over to the windows and sliding door.
Bristol and I wasted too many years and made too many mistakes before we came together. We both had a lot of growing up to do, but seeing her with our children chasing the waves, seeing her pregnant again, this good life was worth the toll of patience. She was worth the wait.
I press my palm to the cool glass and let years of memories wash over me, a tide of blessings and banes, tears and triumphs. Being with my family always provides perspective. The page may be stubbornly blank, but my heart, my life is full. I’ll get it done. I always do. I can adjust the deadline if needed, but what doesn’t move, what remains fixed and immutable, is the axis of my existence. It’s those three people down there frolicking in ocean spray like they don’t have a care in the world. Seeing that, at least for the moment, lifts my burdens, too.
“Thought you s’posed to be working, cuz.”
I turn at the words, already grinning before I spot Jade standing in the studio doorway. Her hair is shorter than mine now, with just a froth of blonde-tipped waves on top, contrasting with the rich brown of her skin. It suits her. Most of the time she tries to act so hard, but there’s something warm, even tender underneath all that toughness the world forced her to acquire. It’s in her wide smile and the affection suffusing the dark eyes that meet mine. I’ve seen more of it since she fell in love for what I suspect is the first time. It’s not just the hair that suits her. Love does.
“Where’s Kenya?” I ask.
Jade rolls her eyes, but chuckles, a sound wrapped in contentment. “Upstairs battling it out with Aunt Mittie, Shondra, and Amir.”
“Spades? Still?”
“What else? Your mama is the most competitive person I’ve ever met. Shondra and Amir didn’t know what they were getting into when they beat her last night. She won’t rest till she evens that score.”
“Sounds like a hostage situation. You should rescue Kenya.”
“Rescue her? Hell, she’s having a ball. She’s as competitive as your mama. When she ain’t balling, she’s looking for somebody’s ass to kick in something. You should see her and Kenan on the court together. Both of ‘em ballers. Neither of ‘em ever cries uncle.”
“Yeah, Kenan is just as bad,” I agree. “You guys seem to be getting serious. I mean, vacationing with the fam. You never brought anyone around like this.”
“She’s different, yeah. I like her.” Jade sketches a quick shrug with tighter shoulders, and I know her well enough not to press. She’s softer with Kenya, but there’s still a shell she slides back into if she feels like shit is getting too real. I can see Kenya slowly cracking it.
“What you working on?” Jade asks, classic change of subject.
“What work? I got one song and it sucks.”
“Your stuff never sucks. Lemme hear.”
Reluctantly, I cross over to the soundboard on the other side of the room, cueing up the solitary track I have to show for weeks of ruminating. Jade is quiet while the song plays, her features smooth and impassive, her brows knit as she listens. At the last notes, I flop onto the couch and brace myself.
“So, what’d you think?” I try to keep my voice careless.
“It’s not . . .” Jade sits beside me and twists her lips from one side to the other like she’s swishing the words around before she delivers them. “It’s not exactly whack.”
A dry laugh rattles in my throat and I drop my head back to rest on the couch. “Wow. I’ll be sure to pass that on to publicity. New music from Grip. It’s not exactly whack.”
She drops her head back, too, staring up at the ceiling with me.