“One more question.”
“Ma.” Irritation huffs a breath from my chest.
“What?”
“So are you using Qwest to get over her?”
“Not exactly.”
“I raised you better than that.” Ma points a slim finger in my face. “Don’t you play with that girl’s feelings. You be honest with her.”
“I have been honest with Qwest, Ma.” I try not to feel like an asshole. “We were on the same page before Black Twitter blew up with #GripzQueen and #BlackLove hashtags and all that shit. In just a few days it’s like . . . more. It feels like more than what she and I talked about it being.”
“Shhh.” Ma plasters a smile on her face. “Bristol’s coming.”
I turn my head to find Bristol’s eyes flitting between my mother and me, questioning and wondering.
“Hey,” she says when they stand in front of us. “Welcome home.”
We stare at each other for a few electric seconds, caught in the memory of the last time we saw each other. Of the last hurtful words I hurled at her. The crude things I said. I feel bad for that, but I’m also still so damn frustrated with her. And yes, hurt. Hurt that she chose that Parker asshole over me when I know what we could have, what we could be.
The silence swells, Bristol slides her eyes away from my stare, uncomfortable waiting for me to respond.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks. Good to be back.” I shift my attention to the reporter. “Hey. I’m Grip.”
“Sorry. I should introduce you.” Bristol grimaces and then smiles. “Grip, this is Meryl Smith. She’ll be shadowing us . . . you . . . the next couple of weeks for the Legit story.”
“Such a pleasure to meet you.” Meryl pumps my hand enthusiastically. “I’m a huge fan. I’ve loved your music since that first underground mixtape.”
I study Meryl with her pale skin, mousy brown hair, owlish glasses, and marvel again at the globalization of hip-hop. My music reaches the kids sitting in this gym, living in th
e hood, and somehow finds suburban girls like this one, who probably listened while studying for her finals at Ivy League colleges. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Thanks.” I smile at Meryl and squeeze her hand. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Before we go further, Shondra and Amir return.
“Bristol, hey, girl.” Amir pulls her into his side, his smile affectionate. Like he said, he was there the day I met her. She’s known him as long as she’s known me. “Been missing you.”
“I’ve been around.” She gives him a squeeze and leans her head on his shoulder. “You’re the one who ran off to New York.”
“Not me.” Amir tilts his head in my direction. “Just following the boss.”
My gaze wrestles with Bristol’s until I break the awkward, heated moment.
“Bristol, this is Shondra,” I say. “She teaches here and coordinated everything. Shon, this is Bristol, my manager.”
I turn to find my mother has Bristol under her microscope. This should be fun.
“Bristol, this,” I say, pulling my mother close, “is my mom.”
“Your mother?” Bristol’s eyes widen and swing to my mother. “But you look so young.”
“You know what they say.” Ma shrugs. “Black don’t crack.”
“They actually say that?” Bristol asks.
Shondra and Amir laugh right away. If you get Bristol, you like her. Amir’s always liked her. Shondra must get her, too. Even irritated with her, I have to smile a little. Ma isn’t prepared to laugh, but her lips twitch.