“It was a’ight,” Grip concedes. “Honestly, I just know you have something better in you than that.”
“Well, damn, Grip,” Skeet mumbles. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”
“Oh, okay. Well, that shit was whack,” Grip says.
“Um, I was being sarcastic,” Skeet says. “But since we being honest. . .”
“We’ve known each other too long to be anything but honest. It just felt kind of tired.” Grip sits and gestures for Skeet to join us. “Who’d you work with?”
“You know that guy Paul?” Skeet sits and steals one of Grip’s fries. “They call him Low.”
“That dude?” Grip sips his beer and grimaces. “Figures.”
“Well, you ain’t been around,” Skeet says defensively. “I didn’t know if you was still down or whatever.”
“Am I still down?” Irritation pinches Grip’s face into a frown. “I’m the same dude I’ve always been. I’m working with anybody who can pay, so don’t use that as an excuse.”
“Right, right, but you know how some of these niggas go off and get all new on you.”
My eyes stretch before I have time to disguise my surprise when he uses the N-word so freely in front of me. I squirm in my seat, sip my water, and try to look invisible. That is one of the worst words in the English language, and I would never use it. I’ve never said it, and I never will. It’s hard for me to understand how people of color use it even casually.
“Well, I ain’t new.” Grip pulls out his phone. “Let’s get some dates down to hit the studio. See if we can write some stuff for your next one.”
While they set up studio time, I happily consider the dessert menu. I was totally serious. It feels like I haven’t eaten in days, and I have room for more.
“Sorry about that,” Grips says once Skeet is gone. “But the struggle is real. Don’t work, don’t eat, so I work whenever the opportunity presents itself.”
“Do you really think his album is weak, or did you just say that to drum up business for yourself?”
“Oh, no. The shit’s weak as hell.” Grip’s deep laugh rolls over me and coaxes a smile to my lips. “I don’t lie, especially about music. It’s the most important thing in my life. It’s my gift, so to me it’s almost sacred.”
“Now I understand how you and Rhyson became so close,” I say wryly. “Music always came first with him. Or at least it used to be. I don’t pretend to know him anymore. Not that we’ve ever been that close.”
It’s quiet for a moment while I pretend to read the dessert menu.
“You love your brother,” Grips says softly, drawing my eyes up to his face. “I know guys like us aren’t easy to put up with. We lose ourselves in our music. We neglect everything else in our lives, but don’t give up on him. Cut him some slack. He’s working his ass off.”
“I guess I’m not doing a good job of hiding how hard this is, huh?” I manage a smile.
“Well, I’m also really perceptive.”
“Not to mention incredibly modest,” I reply.
Laughter comes easily to us again, and something about the way he’s considering me across the table makes me think it surprises him as much as it surprises me.
“I am perceptive, though.” Grip takes one of the last bites of his burger. “Like your face when Skeet—”
“Dropped the N-word in front of me like it was nothing?” I cut in, knowing exactly where he’s going. “Yeah, like what’s up with that? I don’t understand anyone being okay with that word.”
Grip looks at me for a moment before shuttering his eyes, shrugging, and picking up one of his last fries.
“Probably because to him it is nothing. I mean, if he says it. If we say it.”
“But I couldn’t say it, right?” I clarify unnecessarily.
He holds a French fry suspended mid-way to his mouth. “Do you want to say it?” He considers me carefully.
“God, no.” My gasp is worthy of a Victorian novel. “Of course not.”