“You need to be thinking less about me and more about you. About what I said.” Grip hooks an elbow around her neck and kisses her forehead. “Come to the studio next week. Lay some tracks.”
Jade stiffens under his arm, observing him with narrowed eyes. Grip also told me their relationship wasn’t as close after that day at the playground.
“Hmmm. We’ll see.” She pulls away and walks over to grab an Oakland Raiders cap from the countertop. “I’m out. Some of us still gotta actually work to make them ends meet.”
Grip is one of the hardest working artists I know. He’s what they call a studio rat. He’s behind the board and in the booth every chance he gets. Not to mention the appearances, writing for other artists, photo shoots. Indignation rises up in me on his behalf. Before I can mount my defense, he’s diffused it with a grin aimed at his cousin.
“Whatever, J.” He tweaks her nose, his affection for her obvious and, from my perspective, inexplicable. “Just come to the studio. Maybe it’ll keep you out of trouble.”
“I am trouble,” she bounces back with a sassy grin. “I’ll think about it.” She looks to me, raising her eyebrows like she’s waiting for me to say something.
“Nice meeting you,” I offer in her expectant silence. Even in the face of rude bullshit, the manners instilled in me are flawless. She ignores my comment and brushes past me and out the door.
“I’m gonna walk J out.” Grip takes my wrist gently between his fingers. “Could you wait a second? I have questions about the email you sent last night.”
I see right through this ploy. He knows that without a good reason to stay, I’d be right behind him and on that elevator. Except I’ve been in hell all week. Working myself to the bone for longer than I can remember. There’s tightness across my shoulders, noosed around my neck, trapped in the fists balled at my side. I just want to unfurl, and as much as he makes me tense, there’s no one else I can relax with the way I can with Grip. So, against the better judgment I’ve exercised for years, I stay.
When he comes back, the two takeout bags he’s holding release tantalizing scents into the air. I’m settled onto the huge comfortable sectional taking up so much of the living room. I could fall asleep right here if I weren’t so hungry. Starvation has eroded my sense of self-preservation, and as much as I dreaded coming here to see him, I dread going home to my empty cottage even more.
“Ran into the delivery guy.” He raises the bags and gives me a measured look, like he knows I could bolt at any moment. “You hungry?”
“I could eat,” I understate while the lining of my stomach feasts on itself.
“Empanadas?” He smiles because he knows they’re my weakness. One of my many weaknesses.
“Baked or fried?” I ask, as if I’m particular.
“Which do you want it to be?” he parries.
“Fried.”
“Then they’re fried.” He hooks the bag handles over one wrist and grabs plates from the cabinet with his free hand. “Come on.”
In utter laziness, I watch him cross the large space to a door in the far corner.
“Make yourself useful and grab me a beer from the fridge and whatever you want to drink.” He looks over his shoulder at me expectantly. “I can’t carry you and the food up to the roof, Bristol.”
“The roof?” I groan my exhaustion and settle deeper into the cushions.
“Oh, sorry.” He pauses, concern sketching a frown on his face. “Is it too high?”
I have a selective fear of heights. Put me in a little bucket in the air on a ride that could plunge me to my death, I’m chop suey. But sitting safely on the roof, I should be fine. I do not, however, need him reminding me of our night on that Ferris wheel. Not tonight when I’m already feeling weak.
“No, the roof isn’t too high,” I answer. “It’s too far away. I’m tired.”
“Well, food’s going up and so will you if you want some,” he says, disappearing through the door.
Sigh.
I grab a beer for him and a bottle of Pinot Gris for me. If I were alone, I wouldn’t bother with the glass I pull from the rack. It has been a straight-from-the-bottle day . . . week . . . month. But I’ll save that for the privacy of my own home. And it’ll probably be vodka, my self-numb-er of choice.
Damn these shoes. I’ve got a thing for heels. Even wearing the romper, I’m still sporting three-inch Jimmy Choos. By the time I make my way up the winding stairs to the roof, I want to toss the shoes off the building despite how much they cost.
The second I step through the door to the roof, I forget about my shoes, my empty stomach. I even forget the empanadas for a moment. We’re just high enough to see the city’s skyline in the distance, set ablaze by the horizon’s last hurrah before sunset. There’s no fear, and the view takes my breath. For just a second, the sheer scope of the sky makes all the problems that followed me home from the office seem small in comparison.
“This is gorgeous,” I whisper, taking the last few steps to the
center of the roof.