Grip Trilogy Box Set

“You okay?” he asks, head bent attentively.

“Yeah.” I nod and lean over to drop a kiss on his jaw. He palms my head and brings me close enough to whisper in my ear.

“Are you bored?”

The question almost hurts my feelings. I know he’s just being considerate because this isn’t necessarily the world where I spend most of my time, but I want him to know I’m on the edge of my seat along with everyone else.

“I love it.” I press my hand along his face. “Professor Hammond is brilliant. I’m glad I came.”

Pleasure widens his smile and crinkles his eyes at the corners. “I’m glad you came, too.”

He sits back and tunes in again. They’re almost done with the Q&A; I missed the last question, but I listen closely to the professor’s response.

“Don’t feel bad for not knowing,” he tells the young student still standing at the mic set up in the aisle for questions. “Feel bad for not doing once you know. The things you’ve heard here tonight, now that you know about them, what will you do about them? Ignorance is a naturally occurring state. It’s not what you feel guilty about, it’s what you do something about. We are born not knowing, and our experiences feed us information. You limit your knowledge and understanding of not only your place in this world, but the place and plight of others by doing what you’ve always done and knowing only what you’ve always known. Position yourself socially and intellectually to know more, to understand beyond the scope of your experiences. That is how we evolve as individuals and as a society.”

I want to stand up and yell, Mic drop! after just about everything he says, and this especially appeals to me. Jade was right: there are a lot of things I don’t know and don’t get about Grip’s upbringing, his past.

I definitely don’t get bologna sandwiches.

But I won’t feel bad for not knowing. I’ll do what the professor said. I’ll keep positioning myself intellectually and socially to know more. It’s no different than what Grip had to do, than what millions of people do to understand what is unfamiliar to them but essential to learn.

When the moderator thanks everyone for coming, the crowd breaks and splits, Ford’s followers clamoring to speak to him and a line forming in front of the table where the professor is posted to sign books.

And they aren’t the only ones people are eager to talk to.

“Yo, Grip, could I get a picture?” asks a young guy with dreadlocks.

That one request sets off a chain reaction of people realizing Grip isn’t just another student, but a superstar. Within seconds he has a line of his own and is signing copies of the program we received when we walked in, taking selfies and listening to teary-eyed girls tell him how much his music has touched them. Like a good little celebrity and with much more patience than I would have, he navigates it all with a pen in one hand and my hand in the other.

“Hey.” I tug on his hand to get his attention. “I’ll be right back.”

His smile slips and he turns to me. “Where are you going?”

I affect a cockney accent. “Can’t a lowly servant girl go to the restroom while you hold court, m’lord?”

He tilts his head and scrunches his face up. “I don’t even know what you’re doing right now.”

I laugh and pull my hand free.

“Never mind. I’ll be back,” I tell him, walking backward. “Deal with your . . . public.”

I’m still chuckling at the look of frustration on his face as I walk beyond his reach. Bigots make him nervous, and apparently, there are a lot of undercover ones here tonight. They hide behind their hedge funds now, behind profit sheets instead of white sheets, but the heart is the same.

I take my place in line behind a few other people clutching copies of Virus. I pull mine out of my bag and wait my turn. I can tell the professor has signed quite a few of these tonight, and his patience has started to fray. He’s not like Grip, a practiced professional used to all the attention and demands. He’s a brilliant man who wrote a book he never expected to do what it’s done. If the frown he’s wearing is any indication, having “fans” and signing autographs isn’t exactly his forte.

“Who should I sign it to?” he asks brusquely without looking up from the book I handed him.

“Make it to Bristol.” At my name, he looks up sharply, his eyes speculating if it’s a coincidence or if I am who he thinks I am. “Yes, I’m Grip’s Bristol.”

A slow smile works its way onto the handsome face marked with lines of weariness.

“You certainly are.” He extends his hand. “A pleasure finally meeting you.”

“Is it?” I accept his hand, making my tone just cool enough for him to know I’m aware of the words he’s spoken against our relationship.

“He talks about you all the time.”

“I heard he left out one important detail.” I pause meaningfully. “At least important to you.”