A gruff laugh struggles past his lips. “The things I said to you, Grip.”
He shakes his head, self-derision twisting his expression.
“I thought I knew. I . . . assumed, I guess, assumed things about you, Bristol. You, too, Grip. You were right. I was no better than the people we call bigots, and I’m sorry. No one could look at the two of you and think your love is based on anything but . . . each other.”
It’s quiet for a moment. In that slice of silent space, I add Iz to my blessings column. That someone so set against us, after seeing us and knowing us, had a change of heart—that’s a little bit of a miracle, and right now, I’ll take every miracle I can get.
“Apology accepted.” Grip takes a sip of his drink. “I just have one question.”
“Sure. Go for it.” A degree of wariness enters Iz’s eyes, like Grip might challenge him on his past beliefs and the way he insulted us before, even if he didn’t think of it that way.
“Well now that you believe a Black man could legit fall for a woman who isn’t Black,” Grip says, “you gonna break Callie off or what?”
Iz’s eyes stretch wide and then crinkle at the corners with his smile and the laugh that booms from his throat.
“Motherfucker!” He slams his drink down on the glass table. “Technically, Callie is a woman of color, and what I tell you about sticking your nose in my bedroom?”
“As little action as you get, brother,” Grip says, a crooked smile on his full lips, “ain’t nothing to see in there.”
I sip my water and laugh while they rib each other mercilessly for the next hour, until sleep takes me hostage, like it always seems to these days. I don’t even stir until Grip removes my dress and panties. Even walking through this difficult time, Grip manages to make me feel sexy, wanted. He loves my body pregnant, and hides my night- gowns. He is my brightest spot, my greatest blessing. Even now he leans on one elbow, hovering over me protectively, searching my face for sadness, for distress, for anything he can fix in a sea of things he cannot.
“Sorry I fell asleep.” I grab his wrist to look at the crappy watch I won for him years ago. “It’s late. What time does our flight—”
“I delayed it.” He brushes my unruly hair, which started the night in a neat twist, out of my face. “I want you to sleep in. You need rest.”
He disappears under the covers, and I feel his breath, his lips whispering to our daughter. I’ve never asked if he still whi
spers to her of hope, of possibility. I have no idea how he can when most days I can’t find enough hope for me, much less anyone else.
And then it happens.
A kick. From inside my belly, a jolt, a sign of life.
Grip and I gasp together, a set of startled breaths and broken hearts finding a moment of joy to share. He pulls the comforter back to show the rising curve of my stomach, clearly seen even in the dim light.
“Did you feel that?” His voice is hushed with awe dipped in sorrow.
“Yeah.” I swallow the tears I’m tired of shedding. I don’t want them falling on this moment. I want this one thing we have that couples always want to be free of the shadow of what’s to come.
“It’s incredible.” Grip’s smile, wide and beautiful like a stretch of morning sky, takes my breath. “You’re incredible.”
He bends his head, ghosting his lips over my nose, my eyes, my lips.
“Thank you, Bristol.” His voice comes rougher with emotion. “Thank me for what?” I caress the warm skin of his neck, the sleek slope of his shoulders, the strength of his arms.
“For carrying our child. I know men say that all the time to their wives, but this . . .” He swallows, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “God, if it’s too much for you, Bris, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“No.” I shake my head, overcome that he feels guilty, responsible for where we are, between this rock and impossible place. “Grip, no. I wanted this. I mean, of course, not this, not this way, but presented with our choices, this is what I choose. It’s right for us. Baby, please don’t . . .”
When words fail me, I lift my head to kiss him, opening up just enough to sample his love, to savor his concern. I want him to know we’re in this together of my volition. He returns the kiss with a begging passion that flares into the solace we find only in each other—not the storm we’re walking through, but the one we make with our love. It’s an extravagant intimacy reserved for this bed and these bodies, and like I have many nights before, I fall asleep in his arms with the taste of him on my lips. It’s enough.
In the eye of the storm, it’s a blessing.
Chapter 38
Grip
“SURPRISE!”