by Kate Stewart
“I don’t want to know.” She drops her hand from my chest and turns like she’s leaving, but I grab her arm and turn her back to face me.
“I thought something happened on the roof the other night,” I grit out. “I thought after all these years, it was happening. You were starting to realize we could do this. We could be an us. So, I turned Qwest down. I wanted to be able to look you in your face today and tell you that I didn’t sleep with her. That I would never fuck anyone else ever again if you wanted to be with me.”
The tears standing in her eyes must be for our friendship I’m going to ruin, for the hurtful words I keep making myself say. There was a time I’d fool myself that they were for something else, but that time is gone. I swallow a hot knot of hurt and pointless humiliation.
“But you don’t want to be with me.” I drop her arm and open the door. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna get back to fucking who the hell ever I damn well please.”
Chapter Twelve
Bristol
OUTWARDLY, MY MOTHER and I couldn’t be more different. My cheekbones, wide mouth, dark hair—all my father. In contrast, my mother’s hair is flame-bright, unrelieved red without a hint of gray, thanks to the bottle. She’s like a cultivated pearl, breeding in every curve and class in every line. In the eyes, though, you find the resemblance. The silver-gray eyes I see in the mirror every morning, stare back at me from my mother’s face this beautiful morning over brunch.
“I’ll have eggs Benedict.” Mother glances from the brunch menu for Afloat, the restaurant located on a yacht in Marina del Rey, to the server’s conciliatory expression.
We’ve never eaten here before, and I was surprised when she suggested it. We typically eat at the home she and my father purchased when they relocated here from New York last year after his heart attack. From time to time, we’ll eat in town, but never here. It’s a nice change. I need the fresh air. My world has become claustrophobic since the Spotted piece outing my night with Parker.
“And a Bloody Mary,” Mother adds, closing the menu and handing it to the server.
Of course. Because it wouldn’t be . . . a day . . . without my mother drinking. I’ve only seen her actually drunk once in my life. I learned more about my father, about my mother, and about myself that day than I wanted to know. I wish I could un-learn it, but I can’t.
The server clears his throat, shifting his eyes from my mother to me.
“And you, ma’am?”
“I’ll have poached eggs and smoked salmon,” I tell him.
“And to drink?” The young man’s eyes discretely tease me, bordering on flirtatious. “Bloody Mary for you, too?”
“No, this coffee is great, and I’ll add orange juice, please.”
I’ve avoided vodka, all alcohol really, since last week’s Vegas debacle. If I thought getting drunk would make me forget the look on Grip’s face when he realized I slept with Parker, I’d drink myself stupid. But nothing will make me forget that. I still feel his heart pounding into my hand. His words and the hurt in his eyes have haunted me since he left.
“There was another piece about you and Parker in the New York Post this morning.” Mother’s pleased eyes meet mine across the table as the server walks away with our orders. “You looked good.”
“Those same shots from Vegas?” I sip my coffee. “I looked drunk.”
“No, these were new ones.” She laughs lightly. “Actually old photos, old memories. Someone dug up the pictures from your debutante ball.”
A groan vibrates in my chest and throat.
“Great. That’s all I need. More fodder for this ridiculous narrative they’re spinning. We’ve gone from slutty night in Vegas to epic fairy tale. I wish they’d find some other couple to obsess over.”
“Well, they did feature a piece on Rhyson’s friend Marlon.”
I go still for a moment at the mention of Grip’s name. The speculation about Parker and me has only been matched by rumors of a budding romance between Grip and Qwest.
“They can report on that all day long as far as I’m concerned.” I resume sipping, hoping my face is unreadable, though my blankest expressions have never hidden much from my mother. “That’s good for business. That rumor sells records.”
“Hmmm, yes. That’s right. You’re managing Marlon now, right?”
“Right.”
It didn’t take long for social media to latch on to the relationship it seems Grip and Qwest are pursuing full throttle. He’s been in New York for the last two days, and pictures of them exploring the city have popped up everywhere. The latest of them leaving one of Grip’s favorite strip clubs, Pirouette, surfaced last night.
Of course there’s already a hash tag shipping the two high-powered performers. #GripzQueen has been trending since yesterday, connecting their hip-hop love affair with “Queen,” the single still sitting at number one on the charts. With Grip’s album dropping so soon, it couldn’t be more perfect if I’d planned it. In a way, I did plan it. Will is ecstatic, as I should be. But the pictures I’ve seen of them holding hands in Central Park, kissing on the Brooklyn Bridge, and leaving Qwest’s Manhattan apartment building for a morning run—they all turn my stomach. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat my eggs when they come.
I feel even sicker when I think of my last conversation with Grip. I may have done irreparable damage to our friendship. At least we still have his career. We still have work. I keep comforting myself with that, though it feels hollow. I knew it might come to this, but I had no idea it would hurt this much. His crude words keep playing over and over in my head. Even if Grip and his “queen” weren’t trending, I’d still be unable to get him out of my mind.
“It’s nice he’s found someone of his own . . .” My mother trails off as she searches for some politically correct word. “Type. You know. Another . . . entertainer.”
“Yes, they make a great couple,” I agree neutrally.
“And much more appropriate than the crush he’s had on you all these years.” Mother says it matter-of-factly, as if we’ve discussed this many times in the past. We have not.
“What do you mean?” I pleat my brows in a facsimile of dismay. “What crush?”
“Oh, Bristol. It’s me.” Mother tilts her head, her eyes sharp and brittle. “I’ve seen him several times over the last few years with you and Rhyson. It was patently obvious he had feelings for you.”
“He doesn’t,” I reply softly, fixing my eyes on the boats floating around us.
“And of course that you have feelings for him, too.” Mother smiles her thanks at the server who sets her Bloody Mary on the table. “But you’ve always hidden those feelings well, thank goodness.”
I sit quietly, biding my time until the server places a glass of juice in front of me with promises to bring our food in a few moments. I save my response until he has stepped away.
“I have it under control, Mother.”
There’s no need to deny it. That would be useless and foolish. Even as careful as I’ve been, at some point, I slipped, and she saw something that told her things I’ve never said. Pretending she has missed the mark would be futile.
“You’d better.” Mother watches my face, her bright eyes as hard as diamonds. “Because Parker would not take kindly to you tossing him over for some . . .”
“Careful,” I warn, clenching my jaw.
“Musician,” she says, her tone defensive. “I was going to say musician.”
“Rhyson is a musician. What’s wrong with musicians? And it’s none of Parker’s business who I have feelings for. Despite all your plotting and best efforts, I’m not marrying Parker. I don’t love him.”
“Even better.” A bitter smile twists the thin, painted red line of her lips. “If you don’t love him, Parker’s mistresses shouldn’t bother you.”
“Parker’s mistresses won’t bother me because I’m not marrying him.”
“Then what are you doing?” Mother narrows her eyes at the corners and her lips
pinch in the center. “Parker isn’t the boy you grew up with, Bristol. Do not toy with him.”
“I’m not toying with him. I was very clear that I didn’t want a relationship. He refuses to listen, and this media maelstrom hasn’t helped. He’s in India on business.” I roll my eyes and take another sip of orange juice. “Very conveniently, he’s been so tied up he hasn’t returned my calls. Someone from his team confirmed the rumors about us. They wouldn’t have done that without his consent. He’s the one toying with me, manipulating me through the media. Not the other way around.”
“Of course he told them to confirm.” Mother takes a draw of her Bloody Mary. “Hmmm. That’s good. He probably tipped them off for the pictures in the first place. Men like him leave very little to chance, and he’s probably tired of waiting for you to marry him.”
The thought had occurred to me. For someone to be trailing us at every stage of the evening capturing those photos seems farfetched. The photos of him leaving my house the next morning and kissing me at Chelle’s definitely required a “tip” or inside track. I wouldn’t put it past him.
“Be very careful, Bristol. This thing with Marlon and his new girlfriend is the best thing that could happen,” Mother says. “If Parker suspects you have feelings for Marlon, that you might choose Marlon over him, he’ll find a way to crush him. Do you know that?”
“Yes, Mother. I know that. It won’t be a problem.” I meet her eyes with a sigh. “Like I said, I have it under control.”
“Oh, yes. The same way you had your brother’s career under control?” Mother’s eyes flash silver fire at me across the table. “And yet, instead of him playing with the Pops, as he should be, he’s starting some record label thing.”
“That was a misunderstanding,” I flash right back at her. “You chose to believe I was moving to LA to manipulate my brother for you, to get him back under your management, when actually, I moved here to help him pursue his dream. Not yours.”
We both fall silent as the server places our plates on the table.
“And that record label thing is my job,” I add when the server leaves. “One I’m very good at, by the way.”
“Well I guess you made do since you had no real talent to speak of.” Mother takes a bite of her eggs Benedict. “Lemonade from lemons, they say.”
The words I would fire back at her die on my lips. I can shake down crooked vendors and go toe to toe with the toughest people in one of the toughest industries, but my mother . . .
She always makes me feel inadequate. As if I failed her somehow being born less talented than my twin brother. Music connected the three of them, and I could never push my way into their circle. I was left out. Disconnected. That’s what surprised me with Grip. How connected we felt, and the closeness that wasn’t dependent on blood or even common interest. It came from how clearly we saw and accepted each other almost right away.
It’s rare and real and you just keep spitting on it.
“Did I tell you we’re managing Petra now?” Mother interrupts Grip’s voice reverberating in my head. There’s no trace of the hateful barb she just tossed at me left on her lips. Only a smile.
“No.” I look out to the harbor again. “How nice for you.”
“I still think it’s a shame she and Rhyson never resolved their issues,” Mother says, taking a delicate sip of her liquor.
“Issues?” I snort inelegantly. “She cheated on him, Mother, with one of his classmates.”
“It was high school, for God’s sake.” Mother sighs her exasperation. “People make mistakes when they’re young. Two piano prodigies. So young and in love. God, the classical world ate up their dueling piano tour. So much potential.”
I’m pretty sure Rhyson dodged a bullet with that one and has no regrets.
“Well, all is not lost.” I try to keep my smile from become smug. “Rhyson has Kai now, and their first baby is on the way. I think Rhyson is fine with how things worked out.”
She didn’t exactly approve of Kai for Rhyson, but he hasn’t considered our mother’s opinion in a very long time.
“Kai’s due soon.” I study my mother’s unreadable expression. “Have you guys talked about that in your sessions?”
My parents and brother are in family counseling, still trying to mend what was broken when Rhyson left.
“We’ve missed the last few sessions,” Mother admits, a hint of genuine sadness in her eyes. “Not that Rhyson would talk to me about my own grandchild.”
“He’ll come around.”
Maybe? One day?
Rhyson has made a great deal of progress with our father but remains at odds with our mother.
“Why does your father get a pass and I don’t?”
That’s a complicated answer that Rhyson will have to give her because I can’t.
“You’ll have to ask him that.” I shrug. “Maybe bring it up in your next session.”
“By the way, Dr. Ramirez suggested we bring you in,” Mother says casually.
I nearly drop my fork. They were supposed to bring me in “soon.” That was over a year ago, and I still haven’t been to one session. I’ve been waiting so long for this, to be heard. To have my say about how all the decisions they made affected me years ago. How I’m still affected by the civil war that splintered our family.
“When?” I keep my voice free of eagerness.
“Hopefully in the next week or so. Rhyson’s been busy with that record label.” Mother says it with such distaste I almost laugh. “And your father and I have taken on several new clients in addition to Petra.”
“Just keep me posted. I’ll adjust my schedule however I need—”
A hand on my shoulder cuts the sentence short. I look up to find my mother’s best friend since college standing over me, her blue eyes and blonde hair a beautiful, older echo of her son’s.
“Mrs. Parker.” I cover her hand on my shoulder with mine, forcing a smile to my lips. “So good to see you.”
“So formal?” The gentle rebuke in her eyes coaxes my lips into a genuine smile.
“Sorry, Aunt Betsy.” I kiss the cheek she offers before she takes a seat at our table.
“Betsy, hello, darling.” Mother sips her third Bloody Mary. “When did you arrive in LA?”
“I left you a message that I was flying in from New York last night.” She smiles at our server. “Mimosa, dear. Thank you.”
They don’t fool me. Like mother like son. I have a feeling Aunt Betsy and my mother have done some orchestrating of their own to make sure even with Parker in India, speculation about us remains high. I cast a quick glance around the floating restaurant, my eyes peeled for cameras and paparazzi.
Not giving a hint that I sniffed them out, I scoot aside to make more room for Aunt Betsy between my mother and me.
“Nothing to eat?” I ask.
“Trying to maintain my girlish figure.” Aunt Betsy winks. “Do what we have to do to keep our men, don’t we?”
If by “keep” she means watch helplessly as her husband screws half of the Upper East side, then I guess she’s doing everything she can. She and my mother didn’t exactly hit the lottery in the fidelity department. At least my father is discreet. I would never have known about his indiscretions had I not come home early that day.
It doesn’t take long for the conversation to circle around to what she and my mother have been planning since they compared ultrasounds almost thirty years ago: my “pending” nuptials to Parker.
“We need to have you up to the house in the Hamptons, Bris.” Aunt Betsy caresses the diamond at her neck. “Maybe next weekend?”
“I’m really busy right now.” I smile politely instead of telling her that I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever marry her son. She’ll soon see. “One of the artists I manage is about to drop his first album.”
“Oh, well isn’t that nice?” She sips her Mimosa.
Between Mother’s Bloody Mary, Aunt Betsy’s mimosas, and the pictures stacking up of Grip and his “qu
een”, I could use a drink. I’m caving and ordering a vodka tonic. Life’s too short and too tough not to.
“Bristol, over here!” Someone yells from the hostess stand at the restaurant entrance.
Here we go. A camera flash makes me blink a few times. When I look back , the photographer is gone. Great. I could write the caption myself: “Bristol Gray, manager to the stars, brunches with future mother-in-law.”
I pretend not to see the smug looks of satisfaction the two conspirators exchange. On second thought, forget the drink. Vodka got me into this mess. More vodka won’t get me out.
Chapter Thirteen
Grip
EVEN THOUGH I was only here my freshman year before transferring to the School of the Arts, my old high school in Compton feels like home. As early as elementary school, Jade and I watched Greg and Chaz play football on Friday nights. Chaz was already dealing by then, already banging, but he was such a gifted athlete. Football was the last thing tethering him to school. Otherwise, he probably would have dropped out long before. Only blocks away from where Chaz died, the ink scripting his name into my arm seems to burn.
“Man, these kids are so crunk to see you today.” Amir, my “security guard” says from his spot on the wall of the gymnasium beside me.
Since Amir worked airport security for years, he was a natural choice when Bristol insisted I have some kind of protection. I don’t need security, but it means Amir and I get to hang all the time, and it puts him on my payroll instead of someone else’s.
“Yeah. I’m pretty stoked to be here.”
I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans, studying the kids assembled. Shondra, the teacher who coordinated this assembly, told them we could do autographs after and to give me some space. I’m using this time to mentally rehearse the things I want to tell them. Things I wish someone had told Chaz. Or at least things I wish he’d listened to.
Shondra crosses the gym floor, twisting her hips like she has since the eighth grade. Only now she wears a skirt and silk blouse around those thick thighs and round hips instead of the booty shorts and oversize earrings she sported growing up. Her natural hair fans out in a curly afro around her pretty face. I watch Amir watching Shondra. He always crushed hard on her.