I messed up.

As soon as I told Grip I was staying in LA for work instead of returning to New York, I knew it was the wrong thing to do. The voice in my head calling me a fool is so loud and insistent, I can barely focus on anything else. Sitting here on the set of Luke’s new reality show, I’m not really needed. I mean, it’s good for me to be here, sure. Luke appreciates it, but he doesn’t need me. Grip, however, does need me. Even across the country, I feel his need, the desperation to make things right. I need him, too. I feel it, too. It hounds me. After yesterday’s disaster, another public dragging, the only place I want to be is in his arms, reassured that we’re okay and, no matter how many stupid fights we have, will always be okay. Where am I instead? Here suffering indigestion from bad craft services food.

“That sound good, Bris?”

My unfocused gaze locks in on Luke, who watches me, both brows lifted in query.

“Uh, sure.” I shake my head to pull myself back in. “Wait, I didn’t actually hear what you said. What are they asking you to do?”

For the next few minutes, he details a segment the producers have set up showing him in the recording booth of the studio where we’re shooting.

“Yeah, that sounds great.” I glance at my phone, checking for missed calls or texts from Grip. Nothing. We don’t fight often, but when we do it’s a conflagration, burning everything to the ground, and right now I’m charred. Grip is usually the first to apologize. He’s a better person than I am, the bigger person, but not this time. I’m making the first move, and it’s on the next plane out of LA.

“I need to go to New York,” I say abruptly, cutting in on whatever Luke was telling me.

Luke’s startled expression morphs into understanding.

“Is this about that Angie Black thing yesterday?”

Oh, that’s right—Luke knows. Everyone knows, because my life is an open book—and not the fairy tale kind, more like a Stephen King novel.

Misery maybe?

“Yeah.” I gather my iPad and bag. “I was supposed to be there by now, but . . .”

I let him fill in the blank with my cowardice and avoidant behavior.

“You do realize most people don’t feel that way, right?” Luke asks with a kindness not typically found in this industry. “The things Angie said . . . I know there are some who agree, but most don’t. Look at all the support you guys got afterward.”

I was pleasantly surprised by all the flak Angie received, lots of it from black women wanting us to know they didn’t agree with Angie. It came from groups Grip has donated to, from cops he’s worked with who defended him. It was actually pretty amazing. There were, of course, those vocal in their support of Angie’s position, but it was heartening to see the support for us, too.

That still doesn’t fix the fact that I messed up.

“This is some high-profile shit, Bris,” Luke says. “But you can take it.”

“Taking it is easier said than done when ‘it’ is blasted all over every social media platform and your relationship is reduced to tacky hashtags by people who want to see it fail.”

To my absolute dismay, my voice shakes and I’m blinking back tears. I hate being reduced to this weak, teary girl. This time it’s not what they did to me. It’s how badly I’ve handled things.

“Hey.” Luke takes both my hands in his and dips his head to catch my eyes. “I was there the week you and Grip first met. I saw him love you for years, and I saw you try your best not to love him back. It’s never been more obvious to me that two people belong together. This is a bump in the road, and not even a bump of your own making. Somebody else’s biases shouldn’t be causing problems between you.”

Right now, Luke isn’t my client; he’s the friend I’ve known for more than a decade, since before the money and the fame, and he’s right. Urgency to make things right quickens my breath and smolders in my blood.

“You’re a wise man.” I pull my phone back out of my bag, my mind and fingers already racing ahead while I start searching for a flight. “I’ll have Sarah on set tomorrow, but I need to get to New York tonight.”

“Maybe.” Luke aims his megawatt smile over my shoulder. “Or maybe New York will come to you.”

Before I can fully process what he’s saying or turn to see what’s over my shoulder, a warm, familiar weight settles at my hip. That clean skin-deep scent I’ve come to associate with one person envelops me. I look up and over my shoulder to find Grip scanning my face with sober eyes.

“Hey.” That’s all he says, like he’s supposed to be here on the set of a reality TV show instead of in class, instead of in New York. His fingers tighten at the curve of my waist, though, belying the calm greeting. The tension rolls off his body and onto mine. I absorb it, feel it tightening the line of my mouth and clenching my hand around the strap of my bag.

“Dude.” Luke reaches for Grip’s free hand, doing that man clench handshake thing. “What’s up? Good to see you.”

“You too.” Grip’s mouth relaxes into a smile for our longtime friend. “You think you big time now, huh? Now you got your own show and all.”

Luke laughs, his bright blue eyes lighting up and crinkling at the corners.

“I’ve always been big time.” He offers an immodest shrug of his shoulders. “The rest of the world’s just catching up, thanks in large part to your girl here.”

“Yeah, she’s something else.” Grip’s smile dims a little, but he doesn’t look my way. “Well, congrats.”

Before any of us can say more, the director’s assistant interrupts, her harried expression and flyaway hair conveying the kind of day it’s been.

“Luke, Steven’s looking for you.” She sets her stress aside long enough to ping-pong admiring glances between Grip and Luke. I can’t blame her. Facing one another, they’re a study of beautiful contrasts, Grip’s darkness and raw sexuality a perfect foil for Luke’s blond hair and surfer-boy-next-door good looks.

“You said Steven needs me?” Luke prompts.

“Um, yeah.” She blinks the stars from her eyes and frowns. “He wants to talk through a few things for this next sequence.”

As much as I loathe the thought of leaving Grip even for a few minutes, I force myself to turn to him, prepared to ask him to wait for me, but again, it’s Luke to the rescue.

“Hey, I got this, Bris.” His kind eyes smile back at me. “I’m sure Grip didn’t come all this way to see me.”

My eyes lock with Grip’s, and I already see the reprimand behind his impassivity.

“Okay,” I say. “I won’t leave, though, until you’re done. Come find me. I want to make sure you feel good about everything.”

“That works,” Luke says, turning back to the production assistant. “Take me to your leader.”

He gestures for her to lead the way and they’re gone, leaving Grip and me alone.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” He scans the studio’s parking lot, which is doubling as our set. We’ve broken for lunch, and the crew swarms around the craft service table like ants at a picnic, hungry and industrious. There won’t be much time for food. Everyone’s focused on the meal, but not too focused to miss Grip. His star has risen stratospherically since his album dropped. They pretend not to be starstruck, but their surreptitious attention presses in on the privacy this conversation requires.

“Luke has a trailer of sorts.” I flick my chin toward it, across the parking lot that has been cleared for today’s shoot.

“That’ll do.” A thick fan of lashes hoods whatever is in his eyes. I hate not knowing what he’s thinking, other than that he’s not pleased with me.

I can’t blame him; I haven’t been pleased with me since that damn panel.

We’re halfway across the lot, and the silence is suffocating. The air hasn’t been this heavy between us since before we got together. I hate that I did this. He walks beside me, a gulf-sized space between us and his eyes set on the trailer like it’s a finish line. Once we’re inside, I walk farther into the room, setting my back against the wall and watching him across the few feet separating us. Grip leans against the small bar stocked with Luke’s favorite drinks and stares back at me. Everything is heightened in the small, tight space. Tension coils between us, pushing against the flimsy trailer walls. While a thousand ways to apologize fill my head and rest on my tongue, the silence tautens and lengthens.

“I was coming to New York tonight,” I finally say. As apologies go, it’s pretty lame, and not quite actually one.

“I heard you saying that when I walked up.”

Grip looks good. He always does, but after more than a week apart, my eyes are as hungry for him as my heart is and I can’t look at anything else in the room. He’s wearing dark jeans and a Kelly green T-shirt that says JOBS NOT JAIL on the front.

God, did I mention he looks good?

I just want to skip to the part where he’s soothing this ache at my core, where he’s banging me like he’s a bull and I’m his china shop. His still somber eyes tell me we’re not there yet, but the compulsive clenching between my thighs reiterates that I’m ready to be.

“I’m sorry I pulled rank on you.” His quiet apology when I was wrong on so many levels—when by all accounts, I should be apologizing first instead of just eye-fucking him—squelches my raging hormones.

“No, you were right.” The words fight to get out of my mouth. “Not confronting Angie was the right call.”

“I know that.” He lifts one dark brow. “It would only make things worse, but I should have talked that through with you until we agreed on it, not tried to use the advantage our working relationship gives me to manipulate you.”

He pauses, hesitation evident in his expression.

“I want to be your partner, Bris,” he says softly. “In everything. There’s no rank between us—ever.”

I drop my eyes to the hands clasped in front of me.

“Thank you for that. I’m sorry, too. I should have said it first. It seems like whenever we fight, you’re always the one . . .”

I swallow my pride and set aside every insecurity that’s assaulting me to give him the truth.

“I’m just glad you’re here.” My voice wobbles. Dammit. “I’m just . . . I’m sorry.”

I don’t look up, but I hear him taking the first steps, feel him drawing closer. I anticipate his touch, shaking with the need of it. And then it comes. The perfect simplicity of our fingers twined together, of him holding my hand. It paradoxically brings me peace and incites my senses. Even as my soul seems to exhale in relief, want and need form a blazing knot in my belly. He tilts my chin until I have to meet his serious stare, his loving eyes.

“Bris, this is all we have.” His words are so low, if someone else were in this tiny room with us, they wouldn’t hear. They are only for me. “Until this semester is over, our time is split, and this is all we have.”

I press our palms together.

“If you legit had to stay here in LA this weekend for work, I get that,” he continues. “You know I’m not that dude who wants you compromising your career for me, but if you were avoiding me because of our fight—”

“I was.” The admission leaves my lips before I can dissemble. His closeness, the intimacy of our fingers clinging, of our hearts beating through our chests and straining toward each other, demands my unequivocal honesty. I don’t look away, refusing to let embarrassment over my childish behavior deprive me of these beautiful dark eyes for even another second. I don’t miss the flash of disappointment at my words.

“I know that.” Grip’s mouth tightens, and I want to lick at the seam of his lips until they open for me, until he lets me back in. “That’s why you should have had your ass in New York this weekend.”

With him standing here in front of me, solid evidence of his love, I’m ashamed of myself, ashamed that I let doubt and insecurity rule me. I let them keep me here when I should have been there with him.

“You’re right,” I state simply.

“I hate it when we fight.” He drags a hand across his face. “I can’t focus. I can’t sleep. I can’t . . .” His words straggle into a growl of frustration and his brows snap together. “Nothing feels right when we aren’t right. You let that shit Angie Black brought up get to you when you know it means nothing, and that stupid post on Instagram . . . I get how someone else would think something was up with Qwest when they saw that, but for you to . . .”

The questions build up in the look he gives me until I’m sure the moment will explode.

“Why, Bris? There’s gotta be more to this than just the shots Angie fired. We’re used to that shit. What’s up for real?”

The reality of him, the steady pulse of this connection we share—with him standing in front of me, all the things that kept me on this coast seem ridiculous now.

“I . . . um . . . I was . . .” I squeeze my eyes closed for a second, feeling ridiculous now. “I was jealous.”

“Jealous? Of Qwest?” The heavy breath he expels breaches the air between us. The demand of his eyes is louder than the word, louder than her name in the quiet room. “Because of some awkward photo posted to Instagram? How could you possibly be jealous of anyone when you know I’ve looked my own mother in the face and told her I would choose you over anyone?”

Well, when you put it that way . . .

“I didn’t . . .” I falter because it’s true; he did that. As much as Ms. James has sacrificed for him and as much as he loves her, he told her that, for me. “Not Qwest specifically.”

“Baby, I’mma need you to get specific, because not one day since we got together have I ever given you reason to be jealous of any damn body, and yet you tried to play me—”

“I did not try to play you.”

“You tried to play me,” he persists, “like I was born yesterday morning and would accept some shit excuse for you staying here when you were supposed to be with me.”

He levels a hard look at me that somehow still manages to convey his love.

“Now tell me why.”

How do I put into words this awkward thing when nothing is ever awkward between us? But this is. This fear that crept insidiously into my head after my conversation with Jade and blossomed while I watched that panel—it’s awkward.

“I’m not jealous of Qwest specifically.” I’m embarrassed to even say this, but I have to. “When I watched that panel, I listened to Angie, and even to Qwest, to the other people onstage. I listened to you, and you were so passionate and knowledgeable and . . . I’m not—not about those things. What if some morning you wake up and my curiosity feels like ignorance? And you’ve lost patience with the things I don’t know that someone else would. What if one day you decide you want someone who’s . . .”

My voice peters out because to even say it feels wrong, but it’s what I’ve been wrestling with since my last conversation with Jade, even though I haven’t acknowledged it to myself.

“What if I decide I want someone who’s what?” Grip tips my chin up again to search my eyes. “Someone who’s black?”

I don’t nod, but he knows. What if he decides someday that the one thing he really wants, really needs is the one thing I can never be?

“Bris, I get it. The more active and vocal I am about these issues, the more some people want to focus on me being with someone who isn’t black, but listen.” He slides his hand to cup my neck, his thumb caressing my jaw. “I won’t ever want someone who isn’t you.”

I know that, or I knew it before I was on one coast and he was on the other and everyone had something to say about us and all the warning seeds Jade dropped in my ears started taking root.

“I’m sorry I freaked out.” I draw a deep breath. “I kept thinking about you guys working together on her album, having your music in common, and then both being activists . . . all I could hear were the things Qwest was saying, the things Angie was saying, the things Jade said, and I—”

“Jade?” Grip’s question slices into my explanation. He narrows his eyes, searching my face for answers I didn’t mean to ever give him. “What does Jade have to do with this?”

Shit.

“Um . . .” I offer a nervous laugh while I search for a way to put him off Jade’s scent. “Nothing. It doesn’t have anything to do with Jade. I just meant—”

“Bris, you know better than to lie to me. What did she say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. Tell me.”

I press my eyes closed against his questions.

“I don’t want to come between you and Jade now that you’ve cleared the air.”

“You won’t. Me and Jade, we’re good. We’ll be good. Just tell me what she said.”

He dips his head and searches my eyes for anything I might hold back.

“Tell me everything.”

I lick my lips, trapping the bottom one between my teeth before I start. Grip’s family isn’t like mine, fractured and dysfunctional. His family, especially his mother and Jade, mean everything to him. The last thing I want to do is cause more trouble than his relationship with me already has.

“When we were at your mom’s house—”

“Wait,” he cuts in. “You haven’t been to my mom’s since the going away party. This conversation was that long ago?”

“Yeah,” I say carefully. “Then.”

Grip crosses his arms over his chest and studies me closely, displeasure clear in the twist of his lips before he speaks.

“So, you’ve been thinking like this for a while and never talked to me about it?”

“It wasn’t like that, I promise. It was . . . just some of the things Jade said got to me, and when I watched the panel, it all came back.”

“What did she say?” He speaks the words smoothly, but there’s a dent between his eyebrows.

“Just that one day you’d get tired of me not understanding your blackness.”

“Understanding my . . . what?”

“You know, not knowing the movies or the songs or getting the jokes or knowing the things that are such a part of the community that means so much to you.”

“Hmmm. What else?”

“She said I was a fantasy, a high you’d come down from, and then you would want something real, a woman like Qwest, to cure your jungle fever.”

A startled laugh erupts from Grip.

“She actually said jungle fever? Who says that? Damn, that’s some 90s Spike Lee shit. I’m embarrassed for her.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Babe, it kind of is.” The short-lived humor fades from his expression. “Actually, what’s not funny is that you bought into it and let it come between us. You’re it for me, Bris. You know that.”

“I do know that. I’m sorry I was an idiot.”

He softens his voice. “I’m sure it won’t be the last time.” His hands coast down my arms, heating my skin along the way before he takes my hands between his.

Anger stirs anew when I consider the stunt Angie Black pulled.

“I still say Angie shouldn’t get away with this completely. Can’t I—”

“She didn’t.” Grip’s full lips thin into a severe line. “I blasted her ass when we got off the phone.”

“You did?” I hope he gave it to her good, though I would have enjoyed peeling her skin off myself.

“I did, and I talked to her producer about it. He was apologetic and said he hadn’t known she planned to go there. They’re suspending her for two weeks.” He squeezes my hands. “It wasn’t that I didn’t think she needed somebody’s foot up her ass, I just didn’t want it to be yours.”

He was protecting me. I feel worse and better at the same time.

I lean up, whispering my regret to him. “I’m sorry.”

“Baby, it’s okay. Just don’t do that shit again.” He grins and pushes the hair back from my face. “Let’s go home.”

“Are we making it permanent now?” The half-joking question slips past my lips on a fractured breath and a broken laugh. “Is New York home?”

Grip brushes his thumb over my mouth, dipping his finger into the bow of my top lip, pressing against the bottom until he’s touching my teeth and tongue. His eyes rest hot and heavy and possessive on my mouth before he captures my eyes with his, making sure he has my attention.

“I’m your home, Bristol.”

He’s so certain. He never wavers in his love for me, in his certainty that we belong together no matter what anyone ever says. I’m ashamed again that I let Jade’s words, Angie’s criticisms, and Qwest just being Qwest make me doubt even a little bit.

“And you’re mine,” he adds.

“You better believe it,” I agree with a smile. “But speaking of our current home, aren’t you supposed to be in New York? In class?”

“I skipped.”

I know how much he loves Dr. Hammond’s class and what this time means to him. That he would miss that class speaks volumes.

“You skipped class?” I ask, my mouth hanging open.

He’s told me a hundred—a thousand times how much he loves me, but that girl who moped around a deserted mansion while her family traveled the world without her, the one who crouched beyond her brother’s rehearsal room listening to the magic of his music, looking for a way in, she still treasures being the most important thing to someone as incredible as Grip.

“You came for me.” I cup his jaw, my voice and my heart softening the longer we’re together.

Grip cups my face, too, his rough palm a welcome abrasion, his eyes intent.

“I’ll always come for you. You should know that by now.” He bends to press our foreheads together, his words misting my lips. “I have no pride when it comes to you, to this. I’ll chase you anywhere.”

I don’t have words for how secure and completely adored that makes me feel, so I don’t speak. I shift my head, my lips clinging to his, just for a moment. I deepen the heated contact of our mouths until our tongues move in tandem, tangling, wrestling, tasting.

“Don’t run from me again.” He breathes the words into my mouth and his fingers clench in my hair. Though just a whisper, they arrest me, an imperative that grabs me by the heart.