Grip Trilogy Box Set

A man in conversation with two others leans against an Impala, not as well kept or tricked out as Grip’s, but a six four all the same. A blue handkerchief encircles one thickly muscled, ink-marked arm. Nothing’s amiss in his actions, but maybe there’s violence in the eyes tracking us. Something about him seems lost, desperate, dangerous. Or is that just my perception of him? Am I as bad as Officer Dunne? Fear and ignorance driving my assumptions? I’m discombobulated in this zip code, on this block, and the only things familiar to me are the opulence of this car and the man driving it.

I love him. Grip’s fingers wrap around mine, and he darts concerned glances my way when he thinks I’m not looking. His beautiful words. His outrageous humor. The way he looks at me and makes me feel. Ms. James may not like me, but her son loves me. Obstinately, unwaveringly loves me. I’ll hold onto that like an anchor.

“We’re here.”

Grip kills the engine in front of a small house in a row of houses that look almost identical, differentiated only by color and the front porch decorations. Ms. James’ house is blue. A tributary of cracks run through the short span of concrete leading to the entrance. Three chairs squeeze onto the tiny porch, a vibrantly colored pillow in each one. I envision Ms. James and her friends seated there, inspecting the neighborhood and keeping watch. The wooden door stands open, leaving only the black-barred screen between me and Grip’s childhood home.

“Stay right there.” Grip gets out and stands just outside. “I have to open the door for you. We have an audience.”

“An audience?” I peer through the tinted windshield.

It’s a sci-fi movie out there, with all the inhabitants frozen in some time warp, and apparently this expensive Range Rover is the spaceship from outer space. And when I step out, I am the alien.

“Um, I feel like everyone’s staring,” I side-whisper as we approach the house.

“Yeah.” He gives me a cocky grin. “I’m a pretty big deal.” “Oh, God.” I have to laugh. “Your conceit knows no bounds.”

“Well, and it isn’t every day they see a car like that.” He turns to me on the front porch. “Oh, and you’re the only white chick for miles.”

Great.

“Anything I should know?” I ask.

“Nah, Ma’s easy.” Grip shrugs. “Oh, just remember it’s sweet potato pie, not pumpkin.”

That matters?

“Okay. Got it. Sweet potato.”

“And the greens, they’re collards, not kale.”

“I’ve never had collard greens. You think I’ll like them?”

“If you don’t,” Grip says, eyes stretched for emphasis. “Pretend you do. And eat. This ain’t the day to diet, baby. Ma doesn’t trust people who don’t eat.”

“Why is every tip you’re giving me about food?”

“Food’s her love language. Everything you need to know about my mother is on her table.”

My palms are sweaty. Why does this feel so important? I glance at Grip’s strong profile, and I can’t help but think of all it took for him to emerge from this neighborhood as the man he is today. The talent. The strength. The intelligence. The perseverance. The kindness.

He wouldn’t be the man I love without the woman on the other side of this door, and against the odds, knowing she wants him with a woman who “looks like her,” I want her to want him to be with me. I want her to like me.

“Collard greens. Sweet potato pie,” I rehearse under my breath.

“Hey.” Grip grasps my chin, his touch gentle and his eyes intent on my face. “Scratch all that. I fell for you. Not the edited, censored version of you. That’s who I want my mom to see today. I want her to meet the real Bristol.”

The tightness in my shoulders eases, and the breath I was holding whooshes over my lips.

“Thank you.” I lean a few inches toward him, poised for a quick kiss.

He puts his hand between our lips, the look he gives me completely serious. “But for real, though, eat those greens.”

He opens the door and pulls me in behind him by the hand. “Ma!” He steps into the immaculate and modest living room.

“I’m home.”

There’s energy in the steps shuffling up the hallway. The closer they come, the tighter my nerves. I wiggle my fingers free of Grip’s, ignoring his chastening look.