“You’re right.” She looks at me, the open love and need in her eyes burning a path to my heart. “There will be things I can empathize with, but won’t ever know firsthand. Please don’t ever feel there’s anything you can’t say or that we can’t share. I want a love with no walls. This world uses whatever it can—race, politics, religion—to divide us. We can have differences, but promise me they won’t be walls that divide us.”
“I can promise you that.” I capture her hand because I can’t not touch her when the air throbs with our honesty.
“We’re doing something hard, Grip,” she says, her expression earnest. “In a culture, in a climate that would push people like us apart, we choose to be together. We fight to be together.”
“Yeah.” It’s all I can manage because the passion on her face, resonating from her body, steals my words, quickens my heartbeat.
“And I will have uncomfortable conversations with you. I’ll confess embarrassing things so you understand me. Whatever it takes. Listening to Dr. Hammond tonight helped me understand that even if I find bias in myself, if I’m ignorant in some way, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It means I don’t know.”
She reaches up, her hands trembling around my face, her eyes deep and dark and frank.
“And I want to know. I need to know because I love you. You’re my end game, Grip. Any hurdle we face, we’ll overcome it together. Nothing will stop us.”
There’s no other way to respond to that except to touch her; to physically express how her words have exploded inside of me. I lean to drop a kiss on her lips, meaning for it to be quick, but she’s so sweet, so addictive, I can’t let go . . . can’t pull back . . . can’t stop. My fingers drift into her hair and my thumb presses on her chin, opening her up to go deeper, seeking the passion that gave me those words. She shudders when I lick the roof of her mouth.
“Grip, God,” she whispers into me. “It’s always so good.”
My lips dust over her jaw and behind her ear, the delicious scent of her hair making me dizzy, making me want her more. She tips her head back to give me access to the smooth skin of her neck.
“Oh my God!”
If she’s saying that now, wait till I get this sweater off.
“Grip.” She taps my shoulder. “Hey, stop for a second. Look up. I think you’re finally catching Mother Nature in the act.”
I drag my attention from the curve of her neck to glance up through the greenhouse glass tiles. Huge snowflakes drop from the sky, a starless black hole that stretches beyond my imagination. At thirty years old, I’m seeing my first snowfall. I doubt it will even stick or that there will be much accumulation, but the point is seeing it happen, seeing what feels like a miracle in progress. Most people have experienced this, felt this wonder when they were just kids. Having it this late in my life makes it sweeter, makes me appreciate the miracle of nature that it is.
And I know exactly how I should mark my miracle. “Close your eyes, Bris.”
She swings a look around to me that asks what I’m up to. “What do you—”
“Would you just do what I ask for once without all the—”
“I will kick you in the balls if you say without the sass.” Bristol crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not a fourteen-year-old girl and you are not my father. I don’t need paternalism from you, Grip.”
“Okay, can you further the feminist cause later and just close your damn eyes?”
“I will.” Bristol grins widely. “But only because it’s your first snowfall.”
“Why you gotta make everything hard?”
“If that’s a hint that you want to have make-up sex,” she says, finally obediently closing her eyes. “I won’t give you sass on that.”
I slide off the couch and onto the floor in front of her, reach into the interior pocket of my jacket.
“All right.” Standing on my knees, I face her, wedged between her legs. “You can open your eyes.”
She does, and they immediately widen beyond what I think is humanly possible.
“How about engagement sex?” I hold the delicate platinum band between my thumb and index finger. “I’ve heard it’s even better than make-up sex.”
Her jaw drops a few more centimeters with every second that passes. Bristol, who always has something to say, is struck dumb, and I’m about to tease her about it when fat tears slip over her cheeks.
Holy shit. I can’t do Bristol tears under any circumstances, even joyous occasions.
“Babe, don’t cry.” I swipe a thumb over her cheekbone and cup her chin. “You’re gonna give me a complex.”
“How can I not . . . you just . . .”