Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,164

to me. “I guess you supposed to be a big deal now, huh?”

Grip bends a longsuffering look on his cousin and keeps eating without responding.

“Anybody can sell records,” Jade continues. “But is it quality? I mean, is it real hip-hop?”

Grip tightens his lips, but there’s otherwise no sign that what Jade says bothers him. I’m beginning to understand the dynamic between the cousins better now. Knowing about the incident with Jade and the police officer when they were kids, and Jade missing her chance to apply to the School of the Arts, I wonder if she’s jealous. And maybe Grip knows it, but his guilt eats away at him, so he let’s her get away with things no one else would.

“Grip’s shit is legit, Jade,” Amir says. “You still haven’t heard the album?”

“I’m sure I heard everything he has to say before,” Jade says. “No one’s original anymore.”

“Grip is.”

It’s out of my mouth before I think better of it. I really wish I’d thought better of it, because everyone, including Grip, turns a collective stare on me.

“I just meant, um . . .” I bite my lip while I collect my thoughts. “Grip’s writing is excellent. His lyrics are incredible. As a matter of fact, the reviewer from Rolling Stone called the album innovative and revelatory. It’s still the number one album in the country, and actually not just anyone can sell records in this market. In a climate where sales are down everywhere, Grip’s are up. And that’s because his work is stellar and resonates with a wide audience.”

Grip’s mouth tips at the corner, and I know he’s laughing at me the way he and Rhyson always do when they say I love everything Grip writes. I do. And I probably sound like an infomercial, but it’s all the truth.

“It’s good, Jade.” Ms. James addresses Grip’s cousin, but her eyes rest on me, a little softer. “And you know I’m old school. I don’t cut no slack, even for my own son. If it was weak, I’d tell you.”

“And at this party I missed,” Jade says. “Did you perform with Qwest, your girlfriend?”

She throws it out as a challenge, a dare to Grip to explain our situation.

“Qwest and I did perform,” he says simply. “But she isn’t my girlfriend anymore.”

A bubble of silence swells, and Ms. James pops it with her next words.

“What do you mean?” She looks like Grip just kicked her puppy. “But she was just—”

Her eyes meet mine, and she cuts herself off, leveling her mouth into a flat line and pouring another glass of tea for herself.

“Ma, I told you not to get attached like that,” Grip says softly with his eyes on his plate. “It just didn’t work out.”

He looks at me, taking my hand under the table and linking our fingers on his knee.

“I’m with Bristol now.”

Shit. Fuckity shit.

Looking for something to do, I pour more gravy over my mashed potatoes, drowning the poor side dish. I’m so flustered my hand shakes and I spill the thick, hot liquid in my lap.

“Oh!” I scoot back from the table, fanning the scalding spot on my thighs.

“Are you okay?” Grip grabs a napkin from the table and starts mopping at my lap.

Embarrassment and discomfort constrict my throat until I can’t swallow or breathe. I manage to stand under the weight of everyone’s scrutiny and choke out a few words.

“Where’s your bathroom?” I gesture to the spot on my dress. “I’d like to clean up a little.”

Really I just want to get out of this room where it feels like I’m being bludgeoned with their stares.

“Right through there.” Ms. James points down the hall, her voice flat, her eyes sad.

“Thank you,” I whisper, moving in the direction she indicated.

“Can I help?” Grip follows me into the hall. “Do you need—”

“No, just go back.” I don’t turn around because I don’t want him to see the tears in my eyes. The stupid tears of rejection. I knew she wouldn’t like me. Why was I not prepared for this feeling? “Please. I’m fine.”

I know he’s still there. His concern wraps around me from behind. I feel his solid warmth at my back and his breath in my ear.

“Baby, it’s okay,” he whispers.

I take a step forward, putting distance between my back and his tenderness, which will only break me down more.

“Grip, just . . . I’m fine.”

I don’t wait for anything else before I step gratefully into the small bathroom. As soon as I’m behind the door, hot