“And they will not get to her,” I warn. “Keep showing your ass when she comes around, and you won’t be around. I’m not tolerating the toxic.”
An unexpected smile quirks her mouth. She reaches into the pocket of her baggy jeans for lip balm and slides the stick over her lips.
“Alliteration,” she murmurs.
“What?” I exhale a frustrated breath. “Are you hearing me?”
“Yeah, ‘tolerating the toxic’—it’s alliteration.” Her smile reminisces. “You came home one day from school. We were in like the sixth grade or something. You learned alliteration that day and couldn’t stop talking about it, giving me examples, making me come up with some. You were the smartest boy I knew.”
She shakes her head, something close to pride creeping into her eyes.
“You still are. Even on that panel, you stood out. You’re the best of us, Grip, and I wanted you . . .”
Her rueful sigh says it: she wanted what she thinks is best for me, namely, for me to choose a black woman. I hook an elbow around her neck, pulling her into me.
“You know what?” I touch our heads together. “Even though I dated all over the place, every ethnicity, I think somewhere in the back of my mind I thought I would settle down with someone just like Ma. Maybe I assumed that meant she’d be black. I never gave it much thought, but that’s not what it meant. Bris is strong and deter- mined and loyal and as ride or die as they come, just like Ma. I didn’t see this coming, but she is exactly what I need.”
I kiss Jade’s forehead and stand, looking down at her. “I’m not giving her up, J,” I tell her. “Not even for you.”
She doesn’t reply, but fixes her eyes on the floor, offering no more words. I don’t wait for her to say anything, just head out the door. My words should be the last because they’re the only ones that count.
Chapter 17
Grip
“THIS IS REMARKABLE, IZ.” I study the proposal in front of me, so excited my foot is bouncing and I can practically feel my blood zooming through my veins. I saw an early draft, and talked Bris to death about it on the plane back to New York, but the final version is even better.
“I want in,” I say decisively.
“What do you mean?” Iz glances up from the stack of papers he’s grading in his office. “Want in on what?”
“I want to invest in this program,” I say. “The community bail fund program.”
Surprise widens his eyes behind his glasses, and he tosses his red pen onto the chaos of his desk.
“Man, I wanted your opinion, not your money.”
“Well you got both. Where are your beta cities?” I ask. “You say you’ll launch it in five major cities—which ones are you considering?”
“LA is definitely on the list.” His deep chuckle fills the small office. “If that’s your next question.”
“Now I really want in.” I take a deep breath. “But I want a seat at the table, not just somewhere to throw my money.”
“What does that mean exactly?” Iz takes off his glasses and polishes them on the hem of his Morehouse College T-shirt.
“With your organization, is there any room on the board of directors for a ridiculously rich budding philanthropist who needs to learn the ropes?” The question comes easily, but I’m holding my breath. I want this—as much as I wanted my first record deal, as much as I wanted studio time so badly I swept the floors for it. The only thing I’ve ever wanted more than this was Bristol. I got her, and I’m getting this, too.
“For a man with your resources,” he says, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers at his chest. “That could be arranged.”
“For real?” I don’t want to sound eager, but the chance to pour my energy into something that will have immediate impact on the community where I grew up? Hell yeah, I’m eager.
“For real.” Iz nods. “And when I say your resources, I’m not just talking about your money, Grip. You’re a smart guy—principled, articulate. You have a level of influence, a platform no amount of money could buy.”
Iz’s words affirm me in a way I don’t think I ever have been, in a way I don’t think I knew I needed. It feels different than the things my mother told me growing up. He may not be old enough to be my father, and I may not have known him very long, but there’s no one else I respect more. That was one of the few things Angie Black and I did agree on.
“By the way,” I say, turning the subject partially to avoid the emotions his encouragement elicited. “Not sure if you caught that panel I was on last week, but Angie Black was singing your praises.”
He picks his pen back up to resume grading papers, his forehead crinkling into a frown.