He nods but gently pushes me away before standing and heading toward our bedroom.
“We need more than that,” he says. “I’ll wait.”
“No. Tell me.” I’m nipping at his heels, and grab his elbow, turning him back to face me. “Baby, what is it?”
“It’s what I said.” He reaches up and spears his fingers into the hair brushing my shoulders. “I miss you.”
“But I’m right—”
“Don’t say you’re right here,” he interrupts sharply. “You know that isn’t what I mean, Bris.”
“Sex?” I ask, a frown knitting my brows. “Is this because we went a week without having sex?”
“That’s just a symptom.” He caresses my cheekbone with his thumb. “This is not what I signed up for, babe, and I’m not gonna tolerate it.”
“Not tolerating what?”
“Half measures. Glimpses of you. Snatches of time. Weekly fucks. That is not who we are, and I won’t settle for it.”
“It’s a season,” I say gently. “Everyone has kids and a job and commitments that pull them in different directions for certain seasons.”
“We don’t have to. I love our kids. I’d give my left nut and my whole life for them. You know that, but they aren’t the reason I married you.”
“But, Grip—”
“And I love my career. Love performing and doing all the things I get to do, the things you help make happen for me, but I don’t want those things more than I want you.”
“I get that, but—”
“If we aren’t first, nothing else feels right, and I want to adjust things before they ever feel wrong.”
“Agreed.” I finally get a word in. “After the tour—”
“No, before the tour,” he cuts in softly. “On the tour.”
I tip my head back to study the implacable lines of his face.
“What do you mean on the tour?” I ask. “I was thinking I would work from New York while you’re away. So what do you mean on the tour?”
His beautifully sculpted mouth tightens and turns down at the corners.
“I want you and the kids to come on tour with me.”
My eyes widen and a frown pulls my eyebrows low.
“Babe, there’s so much going on. I can’t possibly drop everything to trot off after you around the world.”
“I’m not asking you to drop everything,” he says, his voice taut with irritation. “And I sure as hell would never ask you to trot, but you have to admit we’ve been seeing less of each other.”
“I’ve got shit to do, Grip.”
“So do I, Bris, but none of it is more important than this.” He presses my hand to his heart, which thuds the rhythm of his love and devotion against my palm. “More important than us.”
“Of course not.” I step closer, resting my forehead against his chin. “Of course not, but we have responsibilities. We can’t just—”
His thumb lifts my chin so we’re staring at each other.
“We can do whatever the fuck we want to do,” he says decisively.
He dips his head and seals his lips over mine, invading my mouth with powerful strokes of his tongue until my knees go weak and my bones melt. By the time he’s done, only his wide hands holding my hips and my fingers clinging to his shoulders keep me standing.
He bends to leave kisses on my neck. I tilt my head back so he can lick me, bite me, whatever he sees fit to do. His lips brush my ear with feather-soft words.
“I pulled out of the campus tour,” he whispers, sending a shockwave over me.
I jerk back, peering up into his face. He and Dr. Hammond, his former professor, have continued the Contagious campus tours, raising awareness and money for community jail funds and legal representation for the wrongly accused. It’s vital work that I know gives Grip a sense of purpose like nothing else does.
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s important. You have to do it.”
“It is important,” he agrees. “And I will do it. Later.”
“This is just a season, Grip.”
“Exactly. For this season, I can’t do the tours. Not and grind in the studio for this record and prepare for this tour and be the father I need to be.” His dark eyes caress my face. “Be the husband I need to be, which of everything, is my most important role. We only get this life together, Bris, and I don’t accept that there’s a season where you and I aren’t as close as we can possibly be. There can be a season where I’m less active in the issues that I care about. There can be a season where I don’t record as much or where I don’t tour. But there will not be a season where we miss each other.”
A dark chuckle vibrates from his chest to mine before he adds, “Or only have sex once a week.”
I swallow, emotion scalding my throat. There are so many things I’d have to adjust to take our family on tour with Grip. So many responsibilities I’d have to delegate. So many opportunities I might miss.
“Just think about it.” Grip drops a kiss onto my lips and swats my butt lightly. “Don’t be late. Go get Kai that movie.”
I’d forgotten all about the meeting.
“Okay, yeah.” I step back, slanting a glance up at him. “Tell me we’re okay, Grip. I can’t—”
I look down at the floor and shake my head, unable to wrap my mind or heart around us being on the outs.
“We’re okay,” he reassures me. “Hey, look at me.”
When I do, I see the open honesty in his face.
“We’re okay, but I’m gonna make sure we stay that way. I don’t want to drift, Bris. This business breaks marriages. You know that. I’m protecting us. I’ve pulled out of the campus tour. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
I nod, stepping away to grab my purse and my iPad from the bedside table where I left them.
“Frieda’s here for the kids,” I toss over my shoulder.
“Oh, I’ll send her home.”
“Send her home?” I stop and turn. “I thought you had a meeting this morning?”
“I told them I’d call in.” He shrugs and offers a rueful grin. “I’ve been gone too much.”
I nod, wondering if maybe I’ve been gone too much, too.
* * *
“Your bother’s gonna kill you.” Kai laughs when we reach our cars in the parking lot. “He loves me too much, and we have sex a lot, so I’m safe. But you? You, he’s gonna kill.”
I chuckle, clicking my car unlocked and propping my hip against the hood.
“Hey, you just scored a role in one of the biggest movies of the year,” I say. “Rhyson will be proud and happy for you.”
Fingers crossed.
“He will be.” Kai nods, her dark hair blowing across her face. “You got them down to partial nudity, which is more of a concession than I expected.”
“Well, the director really wants you for this role.” A cynical grin tweaks my lips. “And he doesn’t want to alienate one of the most powerful men in this town, your husband.”
Kai smiles and rolls her eyes.
“Well, Rhyson will be happy for me,” she says. “That’s part of loving someone, right? Wanting to see their dreams realized. I want everything for him, and he wants everything for me, as long as there is no full-frontal involved.”
It occurs to me that Rhyson and Kai are two high-powered entertainers making their family and their careers work. Maybe she has some insight.
“Kai, can I ask your advice on something?”
She looks at me curiously. I’m not really one to seek advice from people. I’m usually barking orders and telling everyone else what they should do. Know-it-all is a prominent strand in my DNA.
“Sure,” she says, an eager note in her voice. “What’s up?”
“You had a hit album and were doing Broadway shows, and Rhyson had so much going on with his career. Did you ever feel like you were . . . I don’t know. Missing each other?”
Her eyes narrow at the corners, but her lips twitch.
“Yeah. I thought I had it
all under control. The baby was taken care of. I never missed a rehearsal. Knew my lines cold. Executed all my numbers flawlessly.” A husky laugh shakes her shoulders. “But, apparently, I didn’t have Rhyson under control. We had, what we in the South like to call, a come to Jesus meeting.”
“Yeah, I think Grip and I just had one of those this morning,” I say wryly. “He wants us, the kids and me, to go on tour with him.”
“Wow.” Surprise widens her dark eyes. “That would be hard for you, huh?”
“Very.” I sigh and run my hand through my hair. “I was going to focus on the New York office while he was on tour. I knew we were missing each other, but I just thought it was a season. I just don’t want to let anyone down, especially not Grip.”
“You’re helping run one of the fastest-growing record labels in the country and managing some of the biggest stars on the scene,” Kai says gently. “You have a two-year-old and an infant who’s still breastfeeding and not quite sleeping through the night. Cut yourself some slack.”
After I had Nina, I had so much to do at Prodigy that I threw myself into work. Then I got pregnant with Martin and ran myself ragged preparing for maternity leave. I cut leave short to get back and make up for lost time.
“Yeah, you’re right.” I smile weakly. “I just thought everything was running smoothly. For Grip to feel that we’re drifting . . .”
I link my fingers in front of me and shake my head helplessly.
“Bris, we’re married to brilliant men. They’re possessive, intense, demanding. They want everything.”
“Yeah, I’m aware.”
Kai’s smile is wistful.
“But they give everything, too,” she says. “There isn’t anything Rhyson wouldn’t do for me. Nothing he wouldn’t give up for me. Loving him, living with him, is like standing in a storm sometimes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Our guys are rare. I hit the lottery when I met your brother, and I don’t mean because of his money. I wouldn’t trade him for all the movie roles in Hollywood. I’m a lucky woman.”
Her phone rings from her purse, and she reaches for it, but holds our stare.
“And so are you,” she finishes, glancing at the screen. “Speak of the devil.”
“Rhyson?” I ask with a smile, because he’s probably waiting at home with a ruler to measure how much skin they’re allowed to show in this movie.
“You guessed it.” She puts the phone to her ear and grins. “Hey, you.”
“I’m gonna go,” I whisper, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
She nods and waves.
“Yeah, we insisted on the no nipple clause you wanted,” she says, rolling her eyes at me.
Demanding. Intense. Possessive.
That’s Grip, but Kai’s right. I wouldn’t have him any other way. I have big decisions ahead of me. I can’t lose him, but I can’t lose myself either. I don’t want to resent him down the road because I feel like I missed out on something. I do have two young children. I am running a booming record label.
And I can’t remember the last time I gave Grip a blow job.
That’s kind of my thing. I’m really good at it.
But I also can’t remember the last time we watched television together or discussed politics or something he’s written. I’m driving home and combing my thoughts for those missed moments when the phone rings.
“Mrs. O’Malley,” I say, using the car’s phone connection so I can remain focused on the road. “How are you?”
It’s been months since I spoke with the woman who sold us our place in New York, but I’m always glad to hear from her.
“I’m not . . .” Her voice breaks. “Bristol, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to get into the apartment.”
I frown and get off on the exit that takes me home.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “You sound upset.”
“There’s a letter,” she says, tears soaking the words. “From Patrick.”
My heart stumbles in my chest at the name of her husband who lost a prolonged battle with Alzheimer’s a few months ago.
“Where?” I ask, feeling her urgency reach me across the phone and across the country. “What letter?”
“The home he lived in at the end, the staff found some of his things that had been left in another room. Before he . . .”
She breaks off again and her small sob tears at my heart.
“Go on, Mrs. O’Malley, please.”
“At the end, he lost speech and wasn’t even connected to this world, but he must have had a flash of memory before he died,” she continues with difficulty. “He wrote a note telling me there was one letter I never found. We used to leave letters for each other all over the house, and there’s one I never found.”
“We’ve done significant renovations, Mrs. O’Malley.” I rack my brain for anything we could have unwittingly discarded. “I haven’t seen anything. I’m not sure if it would still be there.”
“Is the tree still in the greenhouse?” she asks, hope pinned to every word. “On the roof?”
“Yes! We haven’t touched the tree.”
“Good,” she breathes. “When I was working on a difficult design, I would go out there to plant flowers. Dig around until things made sense. There was a bed of roses at the base of that tree.”
“There still is,” I assure her.
“He buried it there,” she says tearfully. “It may only say don’t forget the wine for dinner. I don’t care. Any word from him, anything. I’ll take anyth—”
Her words are lost in tears. I allow her space, not knowing where to begin comforting her. I’ve only had a few years married to Grip and I would be inconsolable if he died. She and Patrick were married fifty years.
“I’ll call and let building security know you’re coming,” I say after a few moments. “They have all our codes on file and can get you in.”
“Thank you, Bristol,” she whispers. “Give Grip and the kids my love.”
Grip and the kids.
“I sure will,” I promise with a tearful smile.
* * *
I hear the garage door open and close, followed by the chime of the security system when someone enters the house.
Bristol’s home.
I glance at my watch, noting how late it is. She’s been gone all day. Other than a text telling me she had something come up, I haven’t heard a thing from her. After our conversation this morning, that doesn’t bode well.
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 hu
ngry 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 Bris 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.