Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,342

do you have the . . . grief,” I say, the word getting snagged in my throat. “But all the hormonal changes that come with having a baby, too. When Dr. Wagner heard you weren’t eating and were sleeping all day—”

“And she ‘heard’ this during your secret conversation about me behind my back, right?” Bristol stands and faces me, arms folded under her breasts.

“I’m not going to watch you get worse. Don’t ask me not to help, Bris.”

“You can’t fix this. Pills won’t fix this.”

“Neither will not eating or lying in bed all day with the curtains closed.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but those are the words I meant to say, ones I’m not taking back. I notice for the first time that she’s wearing my Dave Chappelle T-shirt, HABITUAL LINE STEPPER. I can’t help but think about that night, years ago, when she wore it while we ate on the roof, before we made love. My eyes wander over the long legs and tangled hair. Even grimy, bitchy, depressed, and despondent, she’s the only woman I want.

“Is that why you want to fix me, Grip?” she asks, scorn curling her lip as she watches me watch her. “You wanna fuck? Is that what this is about? Popping some pills in me so I’ll be in the mood to suck your dick again?”

“Dammit, Bris!” The words combust in my mouth, and I roll off the bed to face her, a king-size sea of rumpled, unwashed sheets separating us, a chasm of shared pain somehow keeping us apart. “How could you . . . why would you say that to me? You know it’s not true. Are you trying to push me away?”

“If that’s what it takes for you to stop poking and prodding and trying to medicate me out of this, then yeah, I’ll push you away.”

She drops her head forward, the mass of dark waves obscuring her face and rioting past slumped shoulders.

“You can’t fix this,” she moans, twisting her head from side to side and cradling her waist with folded arms. “None of that will bring her back. You can’t bring her back.”

I can’t stay away from her. I never could, and her pain, her tears draw me, the same way her vitality and her beauty always have. There is nothing about her that repels me, even when she tries her best to push me away. I step close, cautiously slipping my arms around her, resting my hands at the small of her back. She’s stiff, resistant to any comfort I offer, but after a few moments of stroking her back, she goes limp against my chest, almost pliant. This is the closest we’ve been since Zoe died, and I don’t want to shatter it by bringing up the meds, or the support group or the grief counseling—all things Dr. Wagner says will help us—but I can’t let this go on. It’s not good for either of us.

The ringing phone in my pocket intrudes on the words I need to say. Bristol stiffens and pulls away, the guard dropping back into place over her expression. She retrieves it from my pocket, studies the screen, and hands it to me.

“You should take it,” she says hastily, grabbing the excuse to get out of this conversation. “It’s Charm. Your book is due soon.”

“It can wait. We need to finish this.”

“Let’s make a deal.” She forces a smile that she probably thinks fools me. “You answer the phone, I’ll go shower. How’s that?”

Does she honestly think she can fool me? Hold me off? Shut me out? No way in hell I waited eight years for her only to settle for some imitation of intimacy, some facsimile of the woman I know she should be.

“I’ll take her call,” I say, pressing accept. “But you better be in the shower when I’m done.”

Her smile looks awkward, like her mouth forgot how to do it, but she takes a few steps toward the bathroom. I feel a momentary sense of accomplishment. She’s out of bed, headed toward the shower, but I know the real problems won’t wash away. The anguish Bristol’s waking up with every day is subterranean, deep below the surface. It’s infected the very core of who she is. I can say that for sure because mine goes just as deep.

Chapter 43

Bristol

THE DARKNESS IS HEAVY. It’s tangible, like a weighted blanket trapping me beneath my stale sheets. It’s a living darkness, thick with blood, wet with tears. Deep,