“Can I see it?”

Amir and I are in the kitchen. He’s frying, of all things, bologna, and I’m on my laptop working on an assignment for Iz’s class. Things have not been the same between the professor and me since our argument. He was watching the door the next day when I came in, like he wasn’t sure I’d show, and honestly, I was ready to pack up my shit, grab my girl, and fly back to LA. Even sitting through his class felt like a betrayal the first few minutes, like I was telling him it was okay to think the things he does. If it hadn’t been for Bristol, I would have chucked the deuces on his ass.

But during class, we dove into case after case, injustice after injustice that reiterated just how broken our justice system is, how black, brown, and poor people are clearly disproportionately suffering the brunt of it. This is bigger than even something as important as whether or not Iz approves of me loving Bristol. For me, that’s a heinous bias, and I can’t believe the same bright mind that produces brilliant ideas for programs and policies confines itself to that kind of thinking, but he does have solutions. He does have good ideas, and together, we can help a lot of people. Maybe we can even change things.

“Bruh, you gonna show me or what?” Amir scowls through the smoke rising from the sizzling pan.

“Not while you got my house smelling like a heart attack.” I glance from my laptop to the sizzling grease in the pan. “You can’t keep eating like this. We’re thirty, not thirteen. You need to eat better.”

“Who you supposed to be?” Amir demands, a grin on his face. “The surgeon general?”

“The surgeon gen—” I shake my head and laugh. “Also, if we’re gonna get technical, you’re thirty-one, a year older than me.”

“Aw, hell. Here we go.” Amir rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer.

“I mean, we can’t forget you flunked the first grade.”

“You know I was sick that year and missed a lot of days.”

“Still.” I slant him an amused glance. “First grade.”

“You ain’t ever gonna let me live that down, are you?” He shakes his head and adjusts the flame on the burner.

“My point is you gotta adjust that diet. You know all the shit that runs in your family.”

“What runs in my family?”

“Hypertension, heart disease.” I tick the afflictions off on my fingers. “Diabetes.”

“Always with the ’betes,” he mutters.

“And that’s just your mama’s side.”

“Don’t talk about my mama,” he warns, but still chuckles.

“I’m just saying, half your aunts died with no feet ’cause of the ’betes. You can’t even crip walk with no feet, bruh.”

“Do I have Bristol to thank for the lecture?” Amir asks. “She got you eating healthy? She cooking vegetables for you every night or something since we moved to New York?”

My laugh booms in the kitchen, and even after it fades, a grin still hangs around on my face.

“Did you ask if Bristol . . . my Bristol . . . has been cooking every night?” I clarify with a laugh. “Occasionally she’ll get in here and try a little something. Not that I give a damn. I don’t care if Bris can’t boil water. She has other talents.”

“Please don’t talk about your sex life.” Amir grimaces. “It turns my stomach to see a man so pussy-whipped.”

“Least I’m getting some.”

“Ooooooh. That’s low.”

“On the regular,” I continue goading. “Daily. Usually twice a day, and it’s the bomb.”

“You just gotta rub it in, don’t you?”

“Hey, you can’t call a brother pussy-whipped then get salty when he tells you how good it is.”

“You got me there.” Amir laughs.

We’ve been teasing each other this way since eighth grade when we both got our dicks wet for the first time. I’m not one of those guys who fucks and tells, especially about Bristol, but I’ve never been able to take a shit without Amir knowing. That won’t change any time soon.

“What about you and Shon?” I ask.

“What about us?” Amir’s eyes narrow, wariness seasoning his words. “What you mean?”

“I mean what about you and Shon? I tell you all my business. You’ve told me jack shit about you and Shon.”

“Nobody asked you to spill all your business.”

“I’m pretty sure you did ask me to spill all my business.”

“Yeah, but now you can’t shut up about your girl.” Amir offers a good-natured smile and shrugs. “Since it’s Bris, I’ll let you get away with it. Me and Shon went on a few dates. We’re taking it slow.”

“Slow?” I ask with disbelief. “Dude, you met her in pre-k. How much slower can you take it?”

“You didn’t close the deal with Bristol for eight years. I think I’m on pace to do better than you.”

I laugh when grease flies up from the hot pan and pops his hand.

“See, that’s what you get for cooking that shit in here.”

“You know you love some bologna,” Amir says with a grin. “Don’t even try to get all new now that you live in Tribeca.”

“If I’m not mistaken, you live downstairs in Tribeca.”

“I ain’t footing the bill, though. That’s on your dime.”

“You a freeloading motherfucker.” I laugh at the expression on his face. “You knew good and damn well I didn’t need you to move with me to New York, and you let Bristol get herself all worked up about security. I hope you’re happy now, living in Tribeca and getting paid to do jack shit all day.”

“Man’s gotta make a living,” he says, his grin unabashed.

My discussions with Iz about increasing enterprise in urban communities, a green revolution for people of color, come to mind.

“What do you want to do, Amir?” I flip the high-backed chair around and straddle it, folding my arms on its back.

He glances up from flipping the bologna to the other side.

“Do with what?”

“Bruh, with your life.” I shoot him a skeptical glance. “It’s gotta be more than pretending to protect me for the next fifty years.”

Amir turns down the corners of his mouth.

“I was taking some night classes before I won the lottery on your security detail.”

We share a grin before he sobers, shrugs.

“I took some business courses at the community college. Maybe I’ll get on the Magic Johnson tip, ya know? Bringing quality businesses to the hood, that kind of thing.”

“Hey, I’m here for that, too.” I hesitate before voicing the idea that has been unfolding in the back of my mind for a few weeks. “You could do what I’m doing, get a degree online, business or something. Between music and the stuff I want to do with Iz, I might not have much time for the businesses I’d like to see happen.”

“So, what?” Amir points the spatula he’s holding at himself. “You want me to do some black enterprise stuff or something?”

“Why not?” I ask. “You’re smart. You know how to hustle and understand the hood, know what it takes for businesses to make it there. I trust you. Who better to invest with? All you’d need is some training.”

Interest sparks behind Amir’s eyes before he looks away to open a loaf of bread.

“I’ll think about it,” he says and clears his throat. “Now back to my original question. Can I see the ring?”

I let him get away with changing the subject.

“I hate that I even told you I had it.” I grin and make no move to get it out.

“Stop being a pussy and show me the ring.”

I reach into my bag, take out the ring I’ve been carrying for the last week, and walk over to the counter where he’s still frying up heart disease in the form of meat product.

“Shiiiiiit.” He stretches the expletive out like a Slinky, obviously impressed as he takes it from my fingers. I want to take it back as soon as it leaves my hands, not because of how much it costs—though, damn, it cost a lot—it just feels like he’s holding my future in his big ol’ clumsy hands.

“If you get grease on the ring, I’m gonna—”

We hear the front door open, and Amir’s eyes go as round as plates. Bristol’s heels tap on the hardwood, the sound louder as she rounds the corner. Before I can take the ring back, Amir tosses it into the sugar canister.

“What the . . . ?” I smack the back of his head.

“I panicked!” He shrugs just as Bris enters the kitchen.

“What’s that smell?” She wrinkles her nose, distaste on her face.

She joins us at the counter, tipping up for a kiss. I try to think what acting-normal Grip would do . . . he would cup her face with both hands and kiss the hell out of her, so I do. She’s liquid against my chest and breathless by the time I’m done. She glances at Amir, smiling a little self-consciously even though he’s used to us.

“Is that what you’re wearing to the debate?” Bristol asks.

The conversation on race and mass incarceration between Iz and Clem Ford is tonight and being broadcast live from a nearby bookstore.

“Yeah.” I glance down at my narrow black slacks, gray button-up, fitted black leather jacket, and boots. “What? It looks busted?”

“No.” She frowns at her pantsuit, not even wrinkled after a full day of meetings. “The opposite—you look too good. I need to step up my game and change.”

She looks gorgeous.

“You look gorgeous.”

“You have to say that.” But my compliment puts a smile on her face. “Are you going with us tonight, Amir?”

He meets my eyes over her head, and I silently shake my head and give him the finger-slitting-the-throat warning.

“Uh . . .” His eyes dart from her to me and back again. “Nah. I have . . . um . . .”

“Shit,” I offer helpfully. “He’s got shit to do tonight. Besides, the bookstore is only a few blocks away. We can easily walk. We’ll be fine.”

“There’ll be a lot of racist idiots there.” She glances uncertainly between the two of us.

“I said we’ll be fine.” I’m barely holding on to my patience now.

“You strapped, dawg?” Amir asks.

I lift my pant leg and show him the gun at my ankle.

“Is that really necessary?” The concern trebles in Bristol’s eyes once she sees the gun. “You know how I feel about guns.”

“And you know how I feel about not being able to protect you—not gonna happen.” I drop the pant leg and turn to Amir. “Like I said, we’ll be fine walking.”

“It’s cold out there.” Bristol rubs her arms like she’s still standing on the sidewalk. “It’s December.”

“I’m the Cali dude,” I tease, “and I’m willing to walk in the cold, but you grew up here and are wimping out?”

“She’s right, though,” Amir says, poised to take the first bite of his sandwich. “It is cold.”

I point in the direction from which Bristol just came.

“Why don’t you take your heart attack on white bread and go back to your place?”

Bristol gives the sandwich a cautious glance.

“What is that?”

“You never had bologna, Bris?” I ask.

“No.” She offers an investigative sniff.

This I have to see.

“You probably wouldn’t like it,” I say casually. “It’s what we grew up on. We had to eat it in the hood—you know, us being poor and all, struggling to make ends meet. Right, Amir?”

He catches on immediately and jumps in.

“Oh, yeah,” he agrees. “Some nights this was all our moms could afford, but I understand, Bristol, if you don’t want to try—”

“Give it to me. I’ll try it,” she interrupts, stepping over to Amir and the sandwich in question. “I bet it’s . . . well . . . I’m sure it’s . . .”

Her voice dies when she comes face-to-face with the processed meat. Looking brave, she bites into it. She goes a little green for a second, like she might be sick, then she chews it quickly, determined not to ever let us know. Meanwhile, Amir has a coughing fit to disguise his laugh. I’ve had lots of practice keeping a straight face when messing with Bristol.

“You like it?” I ask.

“Mmmhmmmmm.” She swallows her gag reflex. “I can see why . . . see why you guys loved it. It’s . . . so . . . so . . .”

“Good?” I supply.

“Yeah, it’s good.” She hands it to Amir like it’s burning her fingers. “I don’t want to take it all from you, Amir.”

“Oh, no, Bristol.” He pushes it back toward her. “You can have—”

“No, really.” She shoves it back to him, looking like she needs a barf bag. “Please take it.”

“I’m gonna head out then.” Amir bites the sandwich, closing his eyes in ghetto rapture. “Hmmmmm. Thanks for leaving me some, Bris.”

“Of course.” She laughs nervously, like she’s afraid she’ll have to down some more. “You keep it. You eat it . . . all of it.”

As soon as we hear the door close behind him, Bristol rounds on me.

“Oh, my God. Why did you let me eat that shit?”

My laugh bounces off the walls.

“That’s what you get for trying to hang with them hood boys. It’s definitely a meal we learned to love out of necessity.”

“Next time a warning would be nice.” She stretches up to grab a mug in the cabinet, smiling at me over her shoulder. “You ready for tonight? Are you gonna behave?”

“A rapper, a white supremacist, and a narrow-minded professor walk into a bar.” I cross my arms over my chest and shrug. “What could go wrong?”

“It’s my first time meeting Dr. Hammond.” She pours this morning’s coffee into a mug and pops it in the microwave. “I’m a little nervous.”

“Don’t be.” I scowl at the thought of introducing Bristol to Iz knowing how he feels about our relationship.

“You just leave the professor to me.” She reaches for the—holy shit.

The sugar.

I race over and slam my hand on the canister.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Um . . . making a quick cup of coffee?” She slides a perplexed look from my face to the canister. “It’s been a long day, and I just need a hit of caffeine to get through tonight.”

“It’ll just make you jittery.” I sound jittery as hell. I feel like the ring might glow through the canister and give itself away.

“I got up way too early. Someone woke up before my alarm and demanded sex.” She cocks a chiding brow. “Twice.”

“What can I say?” I lift and drop my shoulders. “A man’s got needs.”

“So does a woman. I need my coffee, and I take sugar. Move.”

“You can’t have this sugar because . . .” I twist my brain around until I stumble on a logical explanation. “Roaches.”

Judging by the horror on Bristol’s face, you’d think I said Nazis.

“Did you say roaches?” Her voice drops several decibels to deathly quiet.

“Yeah, I, uh . . . saw a roach in the sugar.”

“Here?” I’m pretty sure her face blanches. “In Tribeca?”

“They get around, Bris.”

“I better dump it.” She goes for the canister, but I slide it out of her reach.

“I’ll throw it out.”

She pulls her phone from her pocket.

“I’ll just call property management. They need to—”

“Let me do that, babe.” I pluck her phone from her fingers and slide it back into her pocket. “You go get dressed. We need to leave soon.”

“But you’ll call?” She gives the sugar canister one last anxious glance. “I may not be able to sleep tonight thinking about that roach.”

“I have creative ways of putting you to sleep.” I lean down, lips on her, hand locked onto the canister. I pull away and turn her toward the stairs. “Go get even more beautiful for me and we’ll go. We don’t want to be late for the showdown.”

I swat her ass, smiling when she jumps a little and laughs back over her shoulder before taking off up the stairs.

Relief slowly pushes a breath out and slumps my shoulders. With one last furtive glance to make sure she’s not coming, I lift the lid and dig around in the sugar to retrieve the ring. The purity of it captures then reflects the overhead lights, a spectrum radiating from the yellow diamond.

“No roaches.” I slip the ring back into my pocket. “But I did find a canary.”