Grip Trilogy Box Set

I pull the cover over Nina’s narrow shoulders before turning out the “big light” as she calls it. I poke my head into the nursery to make sure Martin is still asleep. He’ll be up for a feeding in a few hours.

A few hours. With my wife, who I hope didn’t bring any work home. I canceled tonight’s studio session so we could have some time together. It was an easy call for me, just like pulling out of the campus tours. I’m willing to sacrifice as much as I’m asking Bristol to. I don’t want to come off as the guy who expects his wife to set aside her ambitions to follow me. It isn’t that. It’s just not the right time for us to be apart. And if we can arrange it so she and the kids can come with me . . .

Of course, we can. I have lots of money and so does Bris. Prodigy is her brother’s label. If there was ever a recipe for flexibility, we’ve got it. It’s a matter of priority. I know what my priorities are. Will ours align?

When I enter the kitchen, she’s transferring food from take-out containers to plates. She looks up with a wary smile when I enter.

“Hey,” she says softly, pulling silverware from the drawer. “Did you get my text that I was picking up dinner?”

“Yeah, sorry I forgot to reply. I was giving Nina her bath.”

She sets the plates onto the marble countertop and perches on one of the bistro stools, nodding to the seat beside her.

“Sit? Eat?” she asks and pulls out a bottle of wine, pouring herself a glass. “Wine?”

I don’t answer but I take the other stool and pick up a fork. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I have my first bite.

“Hmmm.” I chew the succulent chicken and the fresh vegetables. “That new place up the street?”

“Yup.” She takes a sip of wine and says, almost defensively. “Just a little wine won’t hurt. It’s been a long day. I have some milk I pumped if Martin wakes up.”

“It’s fine, Bris.” I take a sip of my wine and shrug. “I trust you to have it all worked out.”

Her smile comes after a few seconds of silence, and then she resumes eating. I don’t know what this silence is about. After spending all day with Martin and Nina, I’m so bone tired I don’t have much to say. I don’t know how Bri

s does so much for them and still manages to be a boss at work. Every time I step into her shoes, even if it’s only for a little while, I gain respect for how amazing she is.

“Mrs. O’Malley called today,” she says when we’re done with our food.

“Yeah?” I bend an inquiring look on her. “What’s up?”

We make our way to the living room while she tells me about this letter Patrick buried in the garden. Possibly the last thing he ever wrote to his wife before he lost his grasp on reality and time.

“God, Grip, if you could have heard her,” Bristol says, sinking into the overstuffed cushions of the sectional and tipping her head back to stare up at the ceiling. “She was crying, and she sounded so . . . lost. So lonely.”

“Well, it hasn’t even been a year since he passed.” I settle beside her, deciding to ignore any awkwardness and squeezing in as close as I can. “They were together fifty years. I can’t imagine.”

I’ll never forget Mrs. O’Malley calling to tell me her husband had died. She sounded lost and lonely that day, too. I guess it takes time. I glance at my beautiful wife, eyes closed and long lashes fanning over the shadows under her eyes that bother me so much. I wouldn’t ever recover if I lost Bristol. Not really. I could probably pick myself up and go on. But “going on” is not the same as what I have now, which is living. Absorbing every experience with her at my side. Understanding that everything is sweeter, richer, brighter when she’s with me. Even so, maybe I pushed her too far when I asked to bring the family on tour.

“We’ll come,” she says softly, eyes still closed.

“Huh?” My head swings around to study her delicate profile and stubborn jaw. “Come where?”

She turns her head and meets my eyes. Her hand covers the few inches separating us and tangles our fingers.

“On tour,” she says, biting her lip and smiling. “The kids and I will come on tour with you.”

“Seriously?” I bark a surprised laugh. “What . . . for real?”

“Yes, for real.” She scoots a little closer and drops her head to my shoulder. “That’s where I was all day. Sarah and I had an emergency meeting to see how we can make it work. What we need to do and shift and adjust.”

“Can you?” I rub my cheek into the silkiness of her hair. “Make it work, I mean?”

“I think we can.” She nods and angles her head so our eyes meet. “We will because we have to.”

“Have to?” I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees and look back at her still pressed into the cushions. “Babe, if I pressured you—”

“Of course, you pressured me,” she says with a laugh. “You pressured me for years to be with you. You pressured me to move to New York when you went to NYU. You pressure me every time you think you know what’s right for us.”