Those around the table cheer and clap. I even hear a few Thank you, Jesus-es. I haven’t visited the church where Grip grew up and that his mom still faithfully attends, but I am fully anticipating a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
“But the thing I’m most excited about this year, the absolute highlight”—Grip’s grin is like a horizon, bright and wide—“is our baby. Bristol’s pregnant.”
The room erupts with good wishes, high-fives, pats on the back, even some tears. Their goodwill, their love for Grip—and by extension, for me—crashes over me like a wave, and for just that moment of impact, I can’t breathe. My throat constricts around happy tears, around joy. I coveted this growing up. I didn’t have a tribe, a unit of people surrounding me, cheering me on every step, but Grip did. Though I had a rough start with some, fraught with mistrust and confusion, and yeah, in some cases, prejudice, they’ve embraced me. Their warmth is as sure and as solid as arms around me.
I didn’t grow up dreaming of stardom, of making my mark on the world the way Grip and Rhyson and Kai and Luke and Jimmi did. All my friends ate a constant diet of ambition, and even today, I still feed that appetite. Those weren’t my dreams though. No, I dreamt of a home, of people who loved me whether we had a little or a lot, who were there. For a girl who grew up in big houses with empty rooms, this was my dream. Grip has tried to buy his mother a huge house, but she refuses to leave this one. I wondered why, but now I know. She is planted at the center of a garden with roots that go so deep, she wouldn’t think of pulling them up, of leaving this neighborhood, this nucleus of people. Maybe this was her dream, too, and I find that seeing it come true for me through those who love Grip makes me a blubbering mess. I don’t know if it’s hope or hormones or a little of both, but it’s too much. As soon as I’ve been congratulated, squeezed, and teased by so many I lose count, I slip off into the kitchen.
I’m facing the sink when the door swings open behind me. A soft touch on my shoulder has me swinging around with a bright smile pinned to my face.
“You okay, Bristol?” Ms. James asks, her wise eyes searching me.
“Of course.” I return the gentle pressure when she squeezes my hand. “I just . . . I’m . . .”
To my mortification, I lose it. Sobs shake my body as a release of emotion I thought I had under control spills messily over my face, down my neck, and all over my mother-in-law. Her arms go around me, her hand moving in reassuring slides over my back, the maternal monosyllables I never heard as a child breaking me into little pieces. When Grip enters the kitchen, his mother is still putting me back together.
“What’s wrong?” The smile on his face vanishes little by little until it’s gone altogether. Concern radiates from him, worry in his eyes when he sees me in his mother’s arms.
“Nothing wrong, baby.” Ms. James pulls away enough to swipe my tears, the kind smile in her eyes matched by the one on her face. “This is an emotional time for us mamas.”
“Hormones?” Grip glances between us bravely, like he needs to gird his loins if it’s hormones.
Ms. James and I look at each other, roll our eyes, and promptly laugh at him.
“What?” Grip tries to look indignant, but his lips are twitching. “I can handle hormones.”
“Crisis averted.” I sniff and wipe away the last traces of wetness from my cheeks. “Hormones are in check.”
Relief and love mix in the look he divides between his mother and me.
“Okay, if you say so.” With one last lingering glance to make sure I’m okay, he shifts his attention to his mother. “Ma, Ms. Green’s son is here. He says you wanted to take her a plate or something.”
“Yes!” Her face lights up, but then falls. “Marlon, she ain’t doing good. She’s on oxygen and been in and out of the hospital.”
“Man, sorry to hear that.” Grip’s brows bunch. “Does she need anything? Help with medical bills or something?”
She looks thoughtful for a moment before grabbing his chin.
“My sweet boy,” she says. “What would do her wonders is to see your face. She asks about you all the time. She used to keep you when I got called in to work. It’s just up the street, won’t take long.”
“Sure. I’ll come.” Grip checks my face, looking for signs of distress. “You wanna roll with us or—”
&nbs
p; “No.” I lean up to kiss his cheek, making sure my eyes are clear so he feels good about leaving me. “You go on. I’m gonna sneak a piece of sweet potato pie and just rest a little.”
“If you need to lie down, just go in my old room.” Grip brushes the hair from my face and looks at his mom. “She sleeps all the time.”
“A situation I need to change,” I say with a laugh. “I can’t get all my work done sleeping like normal people do.”
“Normal people do not sleep as much as you been sleeping,” Grip says, his grin teasing me.
He drops to his knees in front of me and whispers to my stomach, laying a quick kiss on the barely perceptible roundness that is the only visible sign of my pregnancy. He does this all the time, and though I’ve asked him more than once what he’s saying, he always tells me it’s between him and his baby.
He stands, looping an arm around his mother, who barely reaches his shoulder.
“Ready, Ma?”
She nods briskly, balancing two plates covered with aluminum foil.