and his patience has started to fray. He’s not like Grip, a practiced professional used to all the attention and demands. He’s a brilliant man who wrote a book he never expected to do what it’s done. If the frown he’s wearing is any indication, having “fans” and signing autographs isn’t exactly his forte.
“Who should I sign it to?” he asks brusquely without looking up from the book I handed him.
“Make it to Bristol.” At my name, he looks up sharply, his eyes speculating if it’s a coincidence or if I am who he thinks I am. “Yes, I’m Grip’s Bristol.”
A slow smile works its way onto the handsome face marked with lines of weariness.
“You certainly are.” He extends his hand. “A pleasure finally meeting you.”
“Is it?” I accept his hand, making my tone just cool enough for him to know I’m aware of the words he’s spoken against our relationship.
“He talks about you all the time.”
“I heard he left out one important detail.” I pause meaningfully. “At least important to you.”
He has the decency to look uncomfortable for a second, but it passes quickly, and in no time the same self-assured, self-contained man who dismantled Clem Ford’s flawed arguments tonight stares back at me, awaiting my next move.
“Could you sign by my favorite quote instead of in the front of the book?” I ask. “I folded down the page and highlighted the passage.”
He turns to the page, and I know he’s being confronted with his own words, words I’ve nearly memorized.
Too many of our American systems are built on bias. The irony is that these biases are often inextricably, if unconsciously, connected to our own sense of superiority. The very biases that make those in power feel stronger, better, actually weaken them. Our biases are our blind spots, and we need others to guide us in the darkness of our own ignorance.
He contemplates the passage for a moment before signing and handing the book back to me.
“It’s not personal,” he says with what looks like genuine regret in his eyes.
“When you’re the person, it feels personal.” I lean closer, speaking for his ears only. “What you wrote in that book about bias, I believe it. Do you?”
“Touché,” he says with a tired smile. “You don’t pull punches, do you?”
“No, I don’t, especially when it comes to Grip. Even though he knows where you stand on us, he still respects and admires you. So do I. I believe you can help each other and help a whole lot of people.”
I let those words sink in before going on.
“For that reason, I encouraged him to continue his work with you.” I firm my lips and narrow my eyes. “But hurt him again, and you’ll have to deal with me.”
For a moment, shock overtakes his expression, and I wonder if I went too far. Then something cracks. His eyes light up, and laughter—completely at odds with the sobriety he’s demonstrated all night— spills from his mouth. It goes on for several seconds, and I’m determined not to join him, but my lips twitch, which only sets off another round of laughter. After a few more seconds of me awkwardly watching him laugh at me, he settles into a relaxed grin.
“Message received, ‘Grip’s Bristol.’ Have a good evening,” he says, dismissing me with a nod and still smiling. “Next in line.”
I step aside with my signed copy pressed to my chest. Grip still has quite a few fans he’s making his way through, and he catches my eye and mouths, “Sorry.” I cross my eyes at him, drawing a wide grin before he turns his attention back to the selfies and autographs. I do what I’ve become accustomed to doing trailing behind superstars— my best imitation of a wallflower, posted up and waiting.
“Excuse me, have we met before?”
I glance up and can feel surprise and disgust warring on my face when I see the man in front of me. I school my features, unwilling to give Clem Ford the satisfaction of knowing my thoughts.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Ford.”
“Well you obviously know me.” He smiles like an amicable snake.
“I’m here tonight, so of course I know who you are.” I turn my attention to my phone, refusing to engage with him. “But no, we haven’t met.”
“Your mother is Angela Gray, right?”
Despite my inward double take, I look at him with no sign of surprise.“Yes. You know her?”
“The Hamptons.” He snaps his fingers as if now he has it. “Last summer in the Hamptons.