“Wine?” I ask once we’re inside.

“God, yes.” Bristol sits on the arm of the couch and gingerly takes off her boots like her feet might come off with them. I owe those boots new soles, a spit shine—something to express my gratitude. If it weren’t for them, Bristol and I might still be snapping and snarling at each other on a New York sidewalk.

That’s not to say we don’t have to finish our conversation. We do, but with calmer heads and hearts back in alignment.

“Meet me in the greenhouse,” I say, heading for the kitchen to grab a bottle of whatever is already chilled. When I get out there, she’s curled up on one of the thick-cushioned outdoor couches. Her legs are folded under her, and her head is tipped back as she stares up at the stars through the tinted glass.

I pour us both a glass of Bordeaux and take my place beside her. There are many kinds of quiet. The kind we shared the last block of our walk home needs nothing added. Then there’s silence like the one we’re sitting in now, one that’s primed for confession.

“That white pussy,” I say, barely loud enough for her to hear. I don’t want her to.

“What?” She turns her head, still tipped back on the couch, to watch me. “What’d you say?”

“That white pussy,” I repeat. “That’s what Clem Ford whispered to me. He said the thing we have in common is that we both love that white pussy, and that fifty years ago I would already be dead for fucking you.”

I suppress the anger that immediately ignites in me again at the words he said, at the way he looked at Bristol before he said them. I’m such an idiot. I knew he was setting a trap for me, but he used the only lure I would never leave in his snare. As much as I told myself not to respond, my hand had a mind of its own as it wrapped around his fleshy throat, and in the moment, it felt like my hand had the right idea.

“Oh, my God.” Bristol gulps, indignation stealing her breath. “I can’t even . . . That’s awful.”

“Yup.” I sip the Bordeaux, waiting for the expensive liquid to settle me, not feeling the effects yet. This situation may require weed.

“As much as I want to kick his ass myself,” Bristol says, anger straining her features, “you know he was just provoking you, trying to get a rise out of you. You can’t let him.”

She turns her body to face me, but leaves her cheek against the cushion.

“And I’m just concerned. I didn’t mean to lecture you.” She holds my eyes with hers, takes my hand, and weaves our fingers together. “You know I would never presume to tell you anything about being black in America.”

“That was a stupid thing for me to say,” I interrupt. “I was angry and frustrated. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe I was being . . . I don’t know, presumptuous.” She fixes her eyes on our fingers twisted together. “I just wanted us to both see what he was doing and not fall for it next time.”

Bristol grimaces delicately.

“And I’m afraid there will be a next time. There’s something about you that offends him. Actually, I think it’s everything about you. When there are guys like you running around, how is he supposed to sell his false superiority bullshit? Men who are smarter than he is, rich like he is, more accomplished. Famous. Well respected. He wants to think you’re an aberration, but he’s scared there’s more where you came from.”

Her assessment is spot-on. Now I have to wade into what is sure to be one of the toughest conversations we’ve ever had.

“When I first started at the performing arts school,” I say, studying our hands caressing, mine darker and rougher than hers, “I’d never really had a white friend. Your brother was the first.”

She watches me, not making a sound, so still I wonder if she’s breathing.

“There were pretty much no white people in my neighborhood,” I continue. “Not at my school, not in the stores where we shopped. The only white people I ever saw on a consistent basis, who were in my life, were cops, and I’d been conditioned to fear them.

I take a gulp of wine.

“That’s how separate we felt. I’d go as far as to say sometimes we felt forgotten.” I pause to laugh. “When I showed up at my new high school, I’d never seen an episode of Friends, and who the hell cared about that show? The kids’ jokes weren’t funny, but I was the only one not laughing, and when I tried to be funny, they didn’t get it. None of it made sense to me. It was foreign, like a parallel universe where up was down.”

I glance up to find her eyes fixed on me in complete concentration.

“If Rhyson and I hadn’t become close, I probably would have quit. He’d never seen Friends, either. He knew less than I did in a lot of ways because he’d been on the road busting ass like a grown man, playing piano since he was eleven years old.”

I shrug, trying to remember why I thought I should tell her this.

“I just . . . Tonight, you asked if it was a black thing and you wouldn’t understand.” I sigh, unsure how to approach this, but needing to say it all without a filter, the way our other conversations have always been. We’ve never done eggshells, and tonight sure as hell isn’t the time to start. “Is that how you feel when you’re at my mom’s or . . . wherever with me? With my friends?”

“Sometimes.” Her voice is soft, but her eyes remain undaunted. “Like everybody understands something I don’t. Like at any given moment, I’ll make a fool of myself and not even know it. It’s a very vulnerable feeling—that you don’t even know what you don’t know. I think that’s why I let Jade’s words get to me. You know me, I’m not the girl who gives a fuck, but around Jade, in situations like that, I find myself trying so hard—not trying to be black, just . . . trying, because I want to understand.”

“I’m sorry if I make you feel excluded sometimes. I don’t mean to.” I tilt my head to peer into her eyes. “Some things are specific to my cultural experience, and I don’t know if you’ll ever fully grasp them all. Real talk, I don’t care if you don’t. Ethnicity is just one part of who I am, a very important part, yeah, but just one, just like it’s only one part of who you are. There are things about your job, your past, your experiences that I won’t completely get, either, but I want to know about them because they make you who you are.”

“You’re right.” She looks at me, the open love and need in her eyes burning a path to my heart. “There will be things I can empathize with, but won’t ever know firsthand. Please don’t ever feel there’s anything you can’t say or that we can’t share. I want a love with no walls. This world uses whatever it can—race, politics, religion—to divide us. We can have differences, but promise me they won’t be walls that divide us.”

“I can promise you that.” I capture her hand because I can’t not touch her when the air throbs with our honesty.

“We’re doing something hard, Grip,” she says, her expression earnest. “In a culture, in a climate that would push people like us apart, we choose to be together. We fight to be together.”

“Yeah.” It’s all I can manage because the passion on her face, resonating from her body, steals my words, quickens my heartbeat.

“And I will have uncomfortable conversations with you. I’ll confess embarrassing things so you understand me. Whatever it takes. Listening to Dr. Hammond tonight helped me understand that even if I find bias in myself, if I’m ignorant in some way, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It means I don’t know.”

She reaches up, her hands trembling around my face, her eyes deep and dark and frank.

“And I want to know. I need to know because I love you. You’re my end game, Grip. Any hurdle we face, we’ll overcome it together. Nothing will stop us.”

There’s no other way to respond to that except to touch her; to physically express how her words have exploded inside of me. I lean to drop a kiss on her lips, meaning for it to be quick, but she’s so sweet, so addictive, I can’t let go . . . can’t pull back . . . can’t stop. My fingers drift into her hair and my thumb presses on her chin, opening her up to go deeper, seeking the passion that gave me those words. She shudders when I lick the roof of her mouth.

“Grip, God,” she whispers into me. “It’s always so good.”

My lips dust over her jaw and behind her ear, the delicious scent of her hair making me dizzy, making me want her more. She tips her head back to give me access to the smooth skin of her neck.

“Oh my God!”

If she’s saying that now, wait till I get this sweater off.

“Grip.” She taps my shoulder. “Hey, stop for a second. Look up. I think you’re finally catching Mother Nature in the act.”

I drag my attention from the curve of her neck to glance up through the greenhouse glass tiles. Huge snowflakes drop from the sky, a starless black hole that stretches beyond my imagination. At thirty years old, I’m seeing my first snowfall. I doubt it will even stick or that there will be much accumulation, but the point is seeing it happen, seeing what feels like a miracle in progress. Most people have experienced this, felt this wonder when they were just kids. Having it this late in my life makes it sweeter, makes me appreciate the miracle of nature that it is.

And I know exactly how I should mark my miracle.

“Close your eyes, Bris.”

She swings a look around to me that asks what I’m up to.

“What do you—”

“Would you just do what I ask for once without all the—”

“I will kick you in the balls if you say without the sass.” Bristol crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not a fourteen-year-old girl and you are not my father. I don’t need paternalism from you, Grip.”

“Okay, can you further the feminist cause later and just close your damn eyes?”

“I will.” Bristol grins widely. “But only because it’s your first snowfall.”

“Why you gotta make everything hard?”

“If that’s a hint that you want to have make-up sex,” she says, finally obediently closing her eyes. “I won’t give you sass on that.”

I slide off the couch and onto the floor in front of her, reach into the interior pocket of my jacket.

“All right.” Standing on my knees, I face her, wedged between her legs. “You can open your eyes.”

She does, and they immediately widen beyond what I think is humanly possible.

“How about engagement sex?” I hold the delicate platinum band between my thumb and index finger. “I’ve heard it’s even better than make-up sex.”

Her jaw drops a few more centimeters with every second that passes. Bristol, who always has something to say, is struck dumb, and I’m about to tease her about it when fat tears slip over her cheeks.

Holy shit. I can’t do Bristol tears under any circumstances, even joyous occasions.

“Babe, don’t cry.” I swipe a thumb over her cheekbone and cup her chin. “You’re gonna give me a complex.”

“How can I not . . . you just . . .”

She gives up, shaking her head and dropping her lashes into the wetness gathered under her eyes. Her forehead falls to rest against mine, and we just sit there for a few seconds. Her hand slides around my neck and she kisses my jaw, sniffing and blinking rapidly against my face. I turn my head to look at her and she stares back at me, her silvery eyes as clear as crystal, as certain as the sunrise.

“You just gonna leave a brother hanging like this?” I ask, my voice husky with emotion.

Her chuckle breezes over my lips, and she sits up straight with a red-tipped nose and damp cheeks.

“I heard you say something about engagement sex,” Bristol says. “But I haven’t heard an actual proposal.”

My smile wavers and then drops. I can’t lighten this moment any more. It has more weight than anything I’ve ever done, and it deserves more than I’ve ever given anything.

“Bristol, I’ve loved you so long, my heart doesn’t remember life before you. For the last decade, you’ve been the first thing I think about and the last thought in my head.” I proffer the ring. “Would you do me the honor of forever? Will you marry me?”

She swallows and fresh tears fill her eyes, but she blinks and bites her lip as if she’s trying to keep it together.

“I aspire to be many things,” she finally says, “but there is nothing I will ever do that will make me prouder than being your wife.”

When she puts it that way, knowing her ambitions and her drive, to hear her esteem our relationship above all else as we start our life together humbles me. If I wasn’t already on my knees, that would have brought me to them. I take her hand and slip the ring on her finger.