I’m in the kitchen when Grip comes home. I bought a cookbook, and it openly mocks me from the counter, its pages a reminder of my culinary failings. Occasionally I have these domestic urges. They typically pass, but ever since we moved into this beautiful place that has never been anything but a home since the O’Malleys drafted their first designs, the urges are harder to ignore—to buy fresh flowers for the kitchen from the stand up the street, to try cooking pan-roasted chicken with lemon garlic green beans.

That’s why I’m in the kitchen asking myself how the hell to make lemon garlic sauce when Grip comes home. It’s crazy that I know him so well, but I allowed Angie Black and Jade and others to get under my skin, to play on my unreasonable insecurities. And I do know him. I know how his steps sound at two in the morning when he’s been at the studio laboring over a track and drags himself through the front door, or when Dr. Hammond says something that rocked him to the core, rearranges the way he thought about life. Those days his steps eat up the hardwood floor, eager to find me and share. Today’s steps stutter, like someone lost and looking. They pause, wait. They’re not sure.

He’s on the couch when I enter the living room, head in his hands and elbows on his knees. On bare, silent feet, I pad over to him. He doesn’t look up until I rest a hand on his head, caress the tight muscles in his neck.

“Hey.” He manages a bend of his lips, almost a smile, but his eyes are defeated.

I instantly want to make whatever it is better, and my fix-it instinct springs into action. He pulls me down onto the couch to straddle his lap. Many days I don’t leave the house because it’s also my office, but today I met with Charm about Grip’s book deal. The Stella McCartney dress I wore to her office inches up my bare legs as I settle over him. His hands are on me right away, caressing my calves and feet, venturing over my thighs, reacquainting himself with the shape of my back through the thin silk. He greets my body the way he typically does, but there is nothing typical about his expression as he lays claim to me one limb at a time.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” I back the question up with kisses feathered over his jaw.

He surprises me, grabbing me by the neck and pulling me into his lips forcefully. He kisses me like a savage, a greedy plundering of my mouth, consuming me with both hands. His kisses spill down my chin, a delicious mess. I hate to stop this but I know him too well and love him too much to be an escape hatch.

“Hey,” I say against his lips, scooting back from the stiffening length of him. “This is all very nice, but I asked you a question. What’s wrong?”

He stares into my eyes, and I see hurt there. Someone hurt him, and now I’m the savage. My teeth clamp down. My nails cut half-moons into my palms. All I want is a name, a name I’ll find a way to erase. He leaves kisses in the hair curling at my temple from the heat of the kitchen. I just caress his jaw, giving him room to tell me what happened.

“Iz and I talked about the Artists As Activists panel.” He shakes his head, a fraudulent laugh escaping. “I assumed he’d be on my side, that we believed the same things.”

I already know, but I still ask.

“Believe the same things about what?”

At my question, a shadow passes over his face, like the sun playing hide and seek with the clouds. In an instant, he goes from telling me to protecting me.

“It’s nothing.” He shrugs and pulls me back down to lock my crotch over his. I resist, forcing resolve into my look and my voice.

“Tell me.”

He sighs and licks his lips before speaking.

“Iz doesn’t think we should be together,” he finally says. “He doesn’t believe in us.”

Doesn’t believe in us.

I don’t think Grip realizes how telling the phrase is, how much the professor’s opinion has come to mean to him. In a relatively short time, Dr. Hammond has become much more than Grip’s temporary professor. Grip moved here for the social justice maven with the brilliant mind, but he’s become friends with the man. He respects Dr. Hammond as much as I’ve seen him respect anyone ever. He may not say it, may not even be able to put into words how deeply injured he feels, but it’s there.

“And to think I was about to donate to his community bail program.” Grip shakes his head, disgust written plainly on his face.

I stiffen against his chest, pushing a chunk of hair behind my ear and processing what he’s saying. On our flight back to New York, Grip showed me the preliminary plan for Dr. Hammond’s program. His eyes lit up, passion and purpose humming through every cell of his body. I can’t get that image of him out of my head, and his friend Matty is there in my mind’s eye, too—the one who sat in jail for months because he didn’t have money for bail, the one who hadn’t really done anything wrong. For him, I have a name and a face, but how many men are in that position and worse? Men we don’t know are suffering, and nobody is saying their names.

“But now you won’t?” I ask. “Because Dr. Hammond doesn’t approve of us, of me, you won’t work with him?”

A scowl etches Grip’s expression.

“Hell no I’m not working with him. He’s a bigot, Bris.” The words fly from his mouth like hornets, swift and stinging. “Why am I here? I uprooted my life, had you uproot yours, to chase a small-minded reverse racist. I feel like a fool.”

I understand his disappointment, but I can’t say I agree fully with his assessment. I’ve known Grip a long time and he’s breathed his convictions since the day I met him, but I’ve never seen him the way he has been these last few months. There is a focus and determination all encircling this incredible sense of purpose, like he understands what he was made for. I don’t want him to lose that because of me. Besides, his mother felt the same way about us not too long ago, but her heart has changed; why can’t we give the professor’s heart the chance to change, too?

“Imagine something with me for a minute.” I trace the velvety line of his eyebrows and run my thumb over his full lips.

His eyes drift closed as he absorbs my touch, sounds of contentment stirring in his throat and vibrating against my fingers.

“Let’s say I have cancer.”

He opens his eyes to glare at me.

“I don’t like this.”

“Just hear me out. I have cancer, and there’s nothing more they can do for me.”

He goes still, and for a moment I don’t even feel his heartbeat through his chest, like the thought of my heart stopping stopped his.

“I don’t have much time left,” I whisper, letting him feel the possibility of me being gone. “But then someone discovers the cure for cancer.”

He tips his mouth to the left and he traces the curves of my knees.

“There’s just one catch.” I dip my head to capture his eyes. “The man who discovered the cure—he’s a white supremacist.”

He looks back at me unblinkingly for a second before allowing himself one blink—just one.

“Do you accept the cure for cancer?”

“What good is this when—”

“Answer the question. Do you accept the cure for cancer from a white supremacist to save my life?”

“I’d accept the cure from the devil himself to save you. You know that.” He sighs. “It’s not the same.”

“What’s the title of Dr. Hammond’s book?”

He rolls his eyes.

“You know the title, Bris.”

“Humor me.”

“Virus. The title of his book is Virus.”

“And the point is that racism is a virus that’s constantly changing, constantly adapting, right?” I ask. “That it adapted when slavery was outlawed and when Jim Crow was eradicated and when segregation was legally struck down. It works its way into our systems, like our penal system, right? It’s a nasty bastard that just keeps morphing and surviving like a cockroach.”

Now I have his attention. He’s stopped countering my every word, stopped protesting and thinking this is a useless exercise. He’s finally listening.

“The person who finally cures cancer won’t be perfect,” I tell him. “They’ll just be the person who figured out the cure for cancer, and the people who live because of that won’t care that he cheated on his taxes or stepped out on his wife. They’ll care that he cured cancer. Dr. Hammond has a cure, at least for part of the problem. With his ideas and your resources and influence, imagine how much good you can do.”

“He doesn’t think we should be together, thinks I’ve been societally conditioned to ‘acquire’ you.” Grip’s flinty look doesn’t dissuade me, even though that is some bullshit.

“I bet there are more things you agree on than disagree.” I prop my elbows on his shoulders, leaning into him and persisting. “I bet when he gets to know me, I’ll go from being a ‘they’ to being Bristol. Isn’t that what you said months ago when you performed ‘Bruise’ for the Black and Blue Ball? That sometimes it takes us being around each other and getting to know each other, at least giving us the chance to go from being a category to who we really are? As individuals, who we really are?”

He shakes his head, genuine humor apparent for the first time since his steps stuttered through our front door.

“So, what?” A grin tilts his mouth. “You remember every word I say?”

He really has no idea.

“If I only get one life with you,” I mutter into his neck, “then, yes, I’m holding on to every moment and every word you say.”

He pulls me away from the crook of his neck, studying my face. His eyes darken, emotion redolent in the air between us.

“You’re so precious to me, Bristol,” he says, his voice the perfect blend of raw and reverent.

I kiss him deeply, my tongue sliding against his, a choreographed dance between two partners, sensual and tender. I feast on his bottom lip, nipping and licking at the spot until he groans and shifts me lower again, his hardness marrying my softness, my wetness. Not this again. He keeps getting me off topic.

“Will you consider it?” I ask, inserting space between our lips, cutting into the hungry kisses.

“Huh?” Passion glazes Grip’s eyes. “Consider . . . what?”

“Dr. Hammond.” I pant between our lips, resisting the temptation to sink into another kiss. “You’ll think about still working with him?”

He tilts his head back into the sofa cushion, lashes lowered over the resentment in his eyes at the mention of the professor’s name.

“Yeah.” He nods, but derision still twists his lips. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” I startle him when I hop off his lap.

“Hey, where are you going?” He points to the situation behind his zipper, the pole in his pants.

“We’ll have to handle that later, babe. You think you love me now? Wait’ll you taste my garlic lemon chicken thingy.” I head toward the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, “By the way, don’t bother me tonight. I have lots of reading to do.”

I downloaded Virus a long time ago, and it’s well past time I read it for myself. If I used Grip’s own words to prove my point, maybe I’ll need to use Dr. Hammond’s own words on him, too.