“Why do you keep smiling?” I ask Grip as we walk toward the bookstore for the debate.

“You’re wearing my necklace.” He squeezes my hand and slants me a smile, his eyes locked on the gold bar dangling between my breasts.

“Your necklace?” I touch the chain around my neck, tracing its inscription. “I distinctly remember buying this myself.”

“But I inspired it,” he says smugly.

The Neruda line carries such significance in our relationship, declaring, my heart broke loose on the wind. I can’t wear it without thinking of our first kiss, without remembering him slipping under my armor, his own vulnerability tempting me to share things with him I’d never shared before.

“I love it when you wear it.” He studies the sidewalk as we walk briskly toward the bookstore. “You look beautiful tonight, by the way.”

“Well I knew I needed to dress warmly since you were making me walk.” I laugh at his good-natured grimace.

A white sweater fits my torso closely, and cropped, wide-legged pants of the same color swing loosely from waist to mid-calf. My camel-colored leather boots and cashmere coat finish off the outfit.

“These boots are already killing me,” I complain, sneaking a glance at his face.

“I don’t want to hear it.” He laughs and tucks my arm into his. “It’s a gorgeous night for a walk, and you know it.”

He’s right. The chill in the air underscores the holiday cheer lent by Christmas decorations on every corner and in the store windows.

“It’s our first Christmas as a couple,” I say.

“Yup. Too bad we’ll be back in LA. Maybe I’d get my snowfall on Christmas morning if we stayed here in New York.”

“Do you want to stay?” I hope he doesn’t. I miss my palm trees and my goddaughter, my brother and Kai. I think I even miss my parents. It must be time to go home.

“Nah.” Grip pulls his leather jacket a little tighter around him. “I’m ready to go back. I’d rather have our friends and family than snow.”

“Maybe you’ll get it tonight. They’re calling for it.”

“I’m not gonna count on it.” He stops in front of a bookstore with a line of people stretching from the door. “We made it, and look, your feet didn’t give out.”

“Very funny.” I lean into his shoulder. “I’m really looking forward to hearing Dr. Hammond.”

Grip’s smile drops, and he glances into the store.

“Yeah, well, Clem Ford may be an ignorant ass bastard, but he’s also smart and tough. Hopefully Iz can hold his own.”

He more than holds his own. I’m astounded by the sharpness of Dr. Hammond’s mind. His thoughts are agile, contorting and twisting to cut Ford off and anticipate his arguments before he makes them. I was impressed when I read his book that impacted Grip, but hearing him in person, I understand why we moved to New York, why this man’s ideas swept through Grip like a hurricane.

Dr. Hammond is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. There is a restrained power to him, to the force of his intellect. Physically, he’s more like a football player than a professor. Six five or so, he’s not so much wearing the dark blue suit as leashed by it. I can already tell he’d rather be comfortable than fashionable. Picture a younger Idris Elba, and you’ve got Dr. Hammond. His charisma is time-released, fed to you in slow, sneaky doses, slipped to you with a smile that seems like it’s costing him something. His reserved demeanor, which should make him seem aloof, instead pulls you closer. It draws you in and sits you down to listen. I glance around the bookstore, crowded with his students and readers clutching copies of his book. His deep voice pitches low, and you’re not sure if you’re on the edge of your seat because you’re straining to hear or because what he’s saying is turning the things you thought you knew upside down, but either way, he has you on edge.

In contrast, everything repulsive in this world convenes in Clem Ford. I want to scrub my ears after sitting through an hour of his thinly veiled racist rhetoric. He has a brand of charisma, too, a dark pull, an undertow for bottom feeders.

He has his own supporters here, young students who follow him to the edge of blatant bigotry. As a businessman, he is convincing and astute. Unfortunately, his business is prisons. I never considered that many corporations use prison labor at a fractional cost, and having a large incarcerated population is good for business.

And bad for prisoners.

Ford and Professor Hammond personally dislike one another; it’s apparent from their opening statements and the first questions they take from the audience, standing on opposite shores with an impassable body of water between them. Ford’s ideas are fiscally sound, but morally bankrupt. The professor picks apart each argument methodically, persuading the audience with a formidable grasp of history and philosophy, and a compelling vision for the future.

Grip still isn’t happy about Professor Hammond’s perspective on our relationship, but I read grudging respect in his eyes, a reluctant pride in how well Iz—as he told everyone to call him—represents the issues they’re both committed to. I squeeze his hand, and he turns to look at me.

“You okay?” he asks, head bent attentively.

“Yeah.” I nod and lean over to drop a kiss on his jaw. He palms my head and brings me close enough to whisper in my ear.

“Are you bored?”

The question almost hurts my feelings. I know he’s just being considerate because this isn’t necessarily the world where I spend most of my time, but I want him to know I’m on the edge of my seat along with everyone else.

“I love it.” I press my hand along his face. “Professor Hammond is brilliant. I’m glad I came.”

Pleasure widens his smile and crinkles his eyes at the corners.

“I’m glad you came, too.”

He sits back and tunes in again. They’re almost done with the Q&A; I missed the last question, but I listen closely to the professor’s response.

“Don’t feel bad for not knowing,” he tells the young student still standing at the mic set up in the aisle for questions. “Feel bad for not doing once you know. The things you’ve heard here tonight, now that you know about them, what will you do about them? Ignorance is a naturally occurring state. It’s not what you feel guilty about, it’s what you do something about. We are born not knowing, and our experiences feed us information. You limit your knowledge and understanding of not only your place in this world, but the place and plight of others by doing what you’ve always done and knowing only what you’ve always known. Position yourself socially and intellectually to know more, to understand beyond the scope of your experiences. That is how we evolve as individuals and as a society.”

I want to stand up and yell, Mic drop! after just about everything he says, and this especially appeals to me. Jade was right: there are a lot of things I don’t know and don’t get about Grip’s upbringing, his past.

I definitely don’t get bologna sandwiches.

But I won’t feel bad for not knowing. I’ll do what the professor said. I’ll keep positioning myself intellectually and socially to know more. It’s no different than what Grip had to do, than what millions of people do to understand what is unfamiliar to them but essential to learn.

When the moderator thanks everyone for coming, the crowd breaks and splits, Ford’s followers clamoring to speak to him and a line forming in front of the table where the professor is posted to sign books.

And they aren’t the only ones people are eager to talk to.

“Yo, Grip, could I get a picture?” asks a young guy with dreadlocks.

That one request sets off a chain reaction of people realizing Grip isn’t just another student, but a superstar. Within seconds he has a line of his own and is signing copies of the program we received when we walked in, taking selfies and listening to teary-eyed girls tell him how much his music has touched them. Like a good little celebrity and with much more patience than I would have, he navigates it all with a pen in one hand and my hand in the other.

“Hey.” I tug on his hand to get his attention. “I’ll be right back.”

His smile slips and he turns to me.

“Where are you going?”

I affect a cockney accent. “Can’t a lowly servant girl go to the restroom while you hold court, m’lord?”

He tilts his head and scrunches his face up.

“I don’t even know what you’re doing right now.”

I laugh and pull my hand free.

“Never mind. I’ll be back,” I tell him, walking backward. “Deal with your . . . public.”

I’m still chuckling at the look of frustration on his face as I walk beyond his reach. Bigots make him nervous, and apparently, there are a lot of undercover ones here tonight. They hide behind their hedge funds now, behind profit sheets instead of white sheets, but the heart is the same.

I take my place in line behind a few other people clutching copies of Virus. I pull mine out of my bag and wait my turn. I can tell the professor has signed quite a few of these tonight, and his patience has started to fray. He’s not like Grip, a practiced professional used to all the attention and demands. He’s a brilliant man who wrote a book he never expected to do what it’s done. If the frown he’s wearing is any indication, having “fans” and signing autographs isn’t exactly his forte.

“Who should I sign it to?” he asks brusquely without looking up from the book I handed him.

“Make it to Bristol.” At my name, he looks up sharply, his eyes speculating if it’s a coincidence or if I am who he thinks I am. “Yes, I’m Grip’s Bristol.”

A slow smile works its way onto the handsome face marked with lines of weariness.

“You certainly are.” He extends his hand. “A pleasure finally meeting you.”

“Is it?” I accept his hand, making my tone just cool enough for him to know I’m aware of the words he’s spoken against our relationship.

“He talks about you all the time.”

“I heard he left out one important detail.” I pause meaningfully. “At least important to you.”

He has the decency to look uncomfortable for a second, but it passes quickly, and in no time the same self-assured, self-contained man who dismantled Clem Ford’s flawed arguments tonight stares back at me, awaiting my next move.

“Could you sign by my favorite quote instead of in the front of the book?” I ask. “I folded down the page and highlighted the passage.”

He turns to the page, and I know he’s being confronted with his own words, words I’ve nearly memorized.

Too many of our American systems are built on bias. The irony is that these biases are often inextricably, if unconsciously, connected to our own sense of superiority. The very biases that make those in power feel stronger, better, actually weaken them. Our biases are our blind spots, and we need others to guide us in the darkness of our own ignorance.

He contemplates the passage for a moment before signing and handing the book back to me.

“It’s not personal,” he says with what looks like genuine regret in his eyes.

“When you’re the person, it feels personal.” I lean closer, speaking for his ears only. “What you wrote in that book about bias, I believe it. Do you?”

“Touché,” he says with a tired smile. “You don’t pull punches, do you?”

“No, I don’t, especially when it comes to Grip. Even though he knows where you stand on us, he still respects and admires you. So do I. I believe you can help each other and help a whole lot of people.”

I let those words sink in before going on.

“For that reason, I encouraged him to continue his work with you.” I firm my lips and narrow my eyes. “But hurt him again, and you’ll have to deal with me.”

For a moment, shock overtakes his expression, and I wonder if I went too far. Then something cracks. His eyes light up, and laughter—completely at odds with the sobriety he’s demonstrated all night—spills from his mouth. It goes on for several seconds, and I’m determined not to join him, but my lips twitch, which only sets off another round of laughter. After a few more seconds of me awkwardly watching him laugh at me, he settles into a relaxed grin.

“Message received, ‘Grip’s Bristol.’ Have a good evening,” he says, dismissing me with a nod and still smiling. “Next in line.”

I step aside with my signed copy pressed to my chest. Grip still has quite a few fans he’s making his way through, and he catches my eye and mouths, “Sorry.” I cross my eyes at him, drawing a wide grin before he turns his attention back to the selfies and autographs. I do what I’ve become accustomed to doing trailing behind superstars—my best imitation of a wallflower, posted up and waiting.

“Excuse me, have we met before?”

I glance up and can feel surprise and disgust warring on my face when I see the man in front of me. I school my features, unwilling to give Clem Ford the satisfaction of knowing my thoughts.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Ford.”

“Well you obviously know me.” He smiles like an amicable snake.

“I’m here tonight, so of course I know who you are.” I turn my attention to my phone, refusing to engage with him. “But no, we haven’t met.”

“Your mother is Angela Gray, right?”

Despite my inward double take, I look at him with no sign of surprise.

“Yes. You know her?”

“The Hamptons.” He snaps his fingers as if now he has it. “Last summer in the Hamptons. We were both at her fundraiser for some charity or another.”

I nod, remembering as vaguely as he does, but enough to know I was there.

“Yes, but I don’t believe we met.”

“Not formally.” His eyes make quick work of my clothes like they aren’t there and he can see what’s beneath. “But who could forget a woman like you?”

Clem Ford is sixty if he’s a day, and he might be a bigot and an opportunist, greedy and corrupt, but he’s not a dirty old man . . . so I’m not sure why he’s trying to convince me that he is. His eyes, poured into their deep sockets and surrounded by a network of wrinkles and saggy flesh, hold no real interest, at least not of a sexual nature. He’s not a man who does things for no reason, so why is he bothering with me?

“Can I help you?” Grip asks from behind Ford.

If I hadn’t been watching him closely, I would have missed the glint of satisfaction in Ford’s eyes before he turns to face Grip. No, he didn’t have any real interest in me, but he knew how to draw the person he is interested in. I was the unsuspecting bait in whatever trap he wants to set for Grip.

“Mr. James.” With his back to me now, I’m left with the unflattering view of the balding back of Clem’s head. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to hear from you this evening.”

Grip’s eyes remain locked on Ford, assessing, picking around his intentions.

“From me?” Grip quirks one brow, but otherwise shows no response. “Wasn’t my night.”

“Dr. Hammond is definitely a worthy opponent in a debate.” Ford slides his hands into his pockets and rears back. I don’t need to see his face to know he’s up to no good. “But you’re the man everyone’s talking about and listening to. You’re the voice for this new American Dream.”

Grip watches him, waiting for the point. Despite the languid posture, arms folded over his chest, he’s on high alert, ready to flare barbs like a porcupine at the first sign of threat.

“I know you don’t think we have much in common,” Ford says, “but you’re wrong. I can think of at least one thing we both seem to love.”

Grip’s eyes slit and he swallows, and I feel him bracing for Ford’s next words. I’m sure they’ll be handpicked to antagonize him, and I silently will him not to fall for it.

“And what’s that?” Grip asks.

Ford steps closer to whisper into Grip’s ear. I don’t hear whatever nastiness he feeds Grip, but in a flash of lightning and with a thud that sounds like thunder, Ford lands beside me on the wall, pinned there by the manacle of Grip’s hand.

“Say it now.” Grip’s voice razors through air viscous with animosity.

Even under the weight and pressure of Grip’s hand, Ford forces a strangled, taunting chuckle. The chatter in the room dies down as people turn their attention to the drama playing out between these two men.

I ignore Ford and step close to Grip, placing my hand on his arm.

“You need to let him go,” I say fierce and low. “Now.”

Frustration bunches the muscle along Grip’s jaw and his fingers tighten fractionally around Clem’s throat.

“Man, he’s not worth it,” Dr. Hammond says, materializing on the other side of Grip. “This is what he wants—for everyone to see some violent thug when they look at you. Whatever he said, it’s not worth it. Let him go before somebody turns the cameras back on or calls the cops. Or even worse, start a riot in here.”

He glances at the crowd, a few of Ford’s supporters making their way toward us, wearing outrage on their faces. Others inch closer, trying to catch the words flowing between us. A tall, suited man, apparently from Ford’s security detail, steps forward menacingly, but Ford holds up a staying hand, stopping him from intervening.

“Is this what you wanted to see?” Grip asks Clem, loosening his fingers but not letting go. “The violent thug?”

“I knew he was in there,” Ford rasps. “It’s just a matter of knowing which button to push. We all have our weaknesses.”

His eyes flick to the side and find me, a wretched grin sawed into his face.

“Don’t look at her.” The words fire from Grip’s mouth. “Look at me.”

Clem takes his time turning mocking eyes from my face back to Grip.

“You want to push my buttons?” Grip demands. “I would gladly do time on one of those plantations you call a prison for her. Try me and see.”

I gulp back a river of profanity. The thought of this man using me to provoke Grip unleashes a rage that I leave boiling in my belly. I can’t very well talk Grip down if I’m standing on the ledge beside him, ready to jump.

“Grip, please let him go,” I say, finding matching concern in Dr. Hammond’s eyes across Grip’s arm, a stiff bridge from his body to Ford’s neck.

As abruptly as he grabbed him, Grip releases Ford.

“Get him out of here,” Dr. Hammond tells me, watching as Ford coughs a little, adjusts his suit, and walks back to the group of admirers security is holding back. When I see the outrage on their faces, I realize just how ugly this could have gotten. Grip’s fans and Dr. Hammond’s students and followers study the smaller group of supporters who showed up to demonstrate solidarity with Ford. This has the potential of a bomb poised to blow, and I need to get Grip out of blast range.

I drag him through the door and down the sidewalk. My feet hurt in the high-heeled boots, but I ignore the discomfort, covering as much ground as possible at a bruising pace.

“Bris.” Grip tugs on my hand, trying to slow me down. “Babe, hold up.”

I ignore him and keep moving, as much to give myself something else to focus on as to actually get away from that scene.

“I said stop.”

Grip pulls us up short, stronger and able to stop me when he wants to. He lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. We’ve been practically running in the freezing cold. Exerted, we watch each other through frosted-air breaths. He scans my face under the streetlights, impervious to the steady stream of people trickling past, a few of them wearing questions about Grip’s identity on their faces. It’s times like these I wish he was just mine, wish the whole world didn’t feel they had a right to be in our lives.

Actually, I pretty much feel like that all the time.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Am I okay?” My voice spikes with incredulity. “You’re the one who just choked a white supremacist in a roomful of white supremacists, but yeah, I’m just dandy, Grip. What the hell?”

“I did not choke him. I firmly held him against the wall. The limp dick bastard could have gotten loose at any point if he’d tried hard enough.”

“And why do you think he didn’t try?” I demand. “Why do you think he held back his security? Why’d he grin like a maniac the whole time? You played right into his hands.”

“Fuck this.” He tries to start walking, but I grab his elbow.

“No, listen to me. You’re there for a debate on people of color and mass incarceration and you do something like that? You know what you’re up against. You have everything he thinks you don’t deserve. He wants to discredit you, and you opened the door to let him. You have to be wiser than that.”

“Wiser?” Anger forces a plume of breath out to freeze in the air. “So now you’re telling me how to be a black man in America? Like I haven’t negotiated this shit my whole life?”

“Oh, is that how it’s gonna be?” Hurt crowds my heart in my chest until it’s just a small thing barely beating. “I don’t get to tell you things like this? Why? Is it a black thing and I wouldn’t understand?”

“This isn’t going to a good place.” He runs both hands over his head and down his face. “Let’s get home.”

“No, I want to know.” I tuck my hands, like blocks of ice, into the pockets of my cashmere coat. “Are there things that are off limits with us? When we have kids, if they look more black than white, will it be ‘our’ community and ‘our’ causes and ‘our’ struggle, and Mommy just gets to watch? Is that what you envision for me? Another family where I don’t quite fit?”

Tears blur his face in front of me.

“Because I’ve done that.” I swallow the painful lump searing my throat. “If that’s how it’s going to be, tell me now. I want to be prepared if you don’t want what I thought you did—something that doesn’t have barriers or boundaries. I would never be disrespectful, you know that, but don’t . . .”

I look down at the cracks in the sidewalk, wondering if somewhere inside I’m cracking, too.

“Just don’t leave me out,” I whisper. “Don’t make me feel like there are parts of your life I can’t touch, because I don’t have anything you can’t be a part of.”

He’s quiet . . . not just a quiet that is an absence of words, but a quiet that gives him space to think. He’s turning it over in his mind, the things I’ve said, and I’ve known him long enough to leave him with his thoughts for a while. He’ll come back to it when he’s ready.

“Look.” I take his hand, loosening the tension of the last few moments. “I would never assume I know what it’s like, but I know rich, entitled assholes. I grew up with them, and that one is after you. You gave him ground he should never have.”

I shake my head, bewildered by the idea that he would allow himself to be in that position.

“Why did you get so angry? What did he say to you?”

A wall of ice falls over his face and his lips pull tight at the question, at the memory.

“Let’s go.”

He starts walking again without waiting for me. I stay right where I am in the middle of the sidewalk, and he’s several feet ahead before he realizes I’m not trotting after him like some Cocker fucking Spaniel. When he glances over his shoulder and I’m where he left me, his shoulders stiffen and swell with a breath I’m sure he draws to keep himself calm. Good luck. That shit rarely works for me.

He heads back with swift strides, his eyes a dark maelstrom, nostrils flared, and all I can think about is the amazing make-up sex we’ll have after this fight.

“What?” Hands locked at his hips, the leather jacket fitted to the ridges of his chest, his expression a study of irritation. I just want to shake him up like an Etch A Sketch and jar that look off his face.

“My feet hurt.”

“Your feet . . .” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “What are you talking about?”

“You said we’d be fine walking home, but my boots have four-inch heels, and my feet hurt.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have worn four-inch heels.”

“And maybe you should have called for a car like I suggested.”

“For four blocks?” He rolls his eyes, but the brackets around his mouth disappear. His shoulders, all rigid muscles moments before, drop just a little. “We’re New Yorkers now—we’re not taking a car for four blocks.”

“I’ve been a New Yorker all my life, and I never had a problem taking a car four blocks wearing four-inch heels.”

He cups my neck, his thumb caressing my cheek, his eyes filled with a familiar exasperation and affection reserved for me.

“How many fights do you want to have at one time, baby?” he asks.

“That depends.” I smile and nod to his shoulders. “Are you giving me a ride?”

“A . . . a ride?”

“Piggyback.”

His truncated laugh rides on a puff of frigid air.

“You’re joking.”

“Is that a no?” I keep my face neutral. “There’s only a block and a half left.”

“Exactly.” He throws his hands up. “You can walk a block and a half.”

I look at him. He looks at me. I’d rather our wills clash over something this trivial than what we were wrangling about moments ago. Those things had weight and depth, not suited for sidewalk conversation. Those things should wait until we get home.

“Hop on,” he finally says grudgingly, but with the tiniest flicker of amusement buried in his eyes.

There aren’t many people out as we get closer to our place, and the ones walking past don’t look too closely. They’ve seen odder things than some guy carrying his girlfriend piggyback.

“You’re choking me,” Grip says, but it’s a lie. Just to tell him I know it is, I tighten my arms around his neck.

“Ow.” He laughs. “As if it isn’t already hard enough carrying you.”

“Are you calling me fat?” I inject indignation into my voice. “Keep it up and you’ll find yourself on the couch.”

“First of all, there are three bedrooms,” Grip says. “Second of all, if I slept on the couch, you’d be on top of me when I woke up.”

I smack his head.

“What?” His shoulders shake under my arms as he laughs. “You love couch sex. I mean, you love all sex, but especially couch sex.”

“Oh now I’m a nympho?”

“Only for me.” He pulls my hand from where it’s hooked loosely at his throat up to his lips for a quick kiss. “And that’s totally acceptable.”

For the last block, we don’t speak much, there’s less need to. We feel the things we need to know instead of say them. With my chest pressed to his back, forgiveness, love, understanding, and tenderness transfer noiselessly between the layers of our clothes, an emotional osmosis through blood and bone, through hurt and fear. I don’t know how I realized this was what we needed, but I did. It’s hard to touch when you’re fighting. The anger is like a force field, keeping your bodies as far apart as your opinions. I knew if we could feel each other, my breath syncing with his, my heartbeat seeking the rhythm of his, my nose buried in his neck, his hands hooked under my legs—if we could get back here, touching, we could right ourselves.

And we have.

Even on the elevator, he doesn’t put me down, like we’re afraid to break the truce our hearts negotiated through these points of contact. At our door, he slowly lowers me to the floor, turning to press into me with his arms on either side of my head.

“How about a good night kiss?” he asks, like this is a date and we’re parting ways instead of living under the same roof and sleeping in the same bed on the other side of that door.

A wordless nod is the only signal I give, and the only one he needs. His breath warms my lips after the cold walk home. The sweetness, the rightness of it squeezes around my heart. His mouth is familiar, the shape and texture, the soft fullness I’ve memorized with mine, and yet every time, every kiss is a revelation, a mystery trapped between his lips, hidden under his tongue for me to discover. I will kiss him a million times in our life together and never tire of it. My lips will always cling, curious and searching. His touch is an endless thrill. I don’t know if we’ll have five years or fifty like the O’Malleys, but I will never get used to this wild yearning, will never get enough of this deep contentment.

I can only hope we end every fight with a kiss.