She stands there in silence, eyes fixed on her hand over my heart, the muscles in her throat working as she swallows.
“You haven’t asked me because obviously you don’t care,” I go on, my heartbeat kicking into her palm. “But I didn’t sleep with Qwest last night.”
When she looks at me, surprise flickers through her eyes before she veils them with her lashes again.
“You don’t want to know why a guy like me would turn down top-shelf pussy?” I ask, deliberately crude.
“I don’t want to know.” She drops her hand from my chest and turns like she’s leaving, but I grab her arm and turn her back to face me.
“I thought something happened on the roof the other night,” I grit out. “I thought after all these years, it was happening. You were starting to realize we could do this. We could be an us. So, I turned Qwest down. I wanted to be able to look you in your face today and tell you that I didn’t sleep with her. That I would never fuck anyone else ever again if you wanted to be with me.”
The tears standing in her eyes must be for our friendship I’m going to ruin, for the hurtful words I keep making myself say. There was a time I’d fool myself that they were for something else, but that time is gone. I swallow a hot knot of hurt and pointless humiliation.
“But you don’t want to be with me.” I drop her arm and open the door. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna get back to fucking who the hell ever I damn well please.”
Bristol
OUTWARDLY, MY MOTHER and I couldn’t be more different. My cheekbones, wide mouth, dark hair—all my father. In contrast, my mother’s hair is flame-bright, unrelieved red without a hint of gray, thanks to the bottle. She’s like a cultivated pearl, breeding in every curve and class in every line. In the eyes, though, you find the resemblance. The silver-gray eyes I see in the mirror every morning, stare back at me from my mother’s face this beautiful morning over brunch.
“I’ll have eggs Benedict.” Mother glances from the brunch menu for Afloat, the restaurant located on a yacht in Marina del Rey, to the server’s conciliatory expression.
We’ve never eaten here before, and I was surprised when she suggested it. We typically eat at the home she and my father purchased when they relocated here from New York last year after his heart attack. From time to time, we’ll eat in town, but never here. It’s a nice change. I need the fresh air. My world has become claustrophobic since the Spotted piece outing my night with Parker.
“And a Bloody Mary,” Mother adds, closing the menu and handing it to the server.
Of course. Because it wouldn’t be . . . a day . . . without my mother drinking. I’ve only seen her actually drunk once in my life. I learned more about my father, about my mother, and about myself that day than I wanted to know. I wish I could un-learn it, but I can’t.
The server clears his throat, shifting his eyes from my mother to me.
“And you, ma’am?”
“I’ll have poached eggs and smoked salmon,” I tell him.
“And to drink?” The young man’s eyes discretely tease me, bordering on flirtatious. “Bloody Mary for you, too?”
“No, this coffee is great, and I’ll add orange juice, please.”
I’ve avoided vodka, all alcohol really, since last week’s Vegas debacle. If I thought getting drunk would make me forget the look on Grip’s face when he realized I slept with Parker, I’d drink myself stupid. But nothing will make me forget that. I still feel his heart pounding into my hand. His words and the hurt in his eyes have haunted me since he left.
“There was another piece about you and Parker in the New York Post this morning.” Mother’s pleased eyes meet mine across the table as the server walks away with our orders. “You looked good.”
“Those same shots from Vegas?” I sip my coffee. “I looked drunk.”
“No, these were new ones.” She laughs lightly. “Actually old photos, old memories. Someone dug up the pictures from your debutante ball.”
A groan vibrates in my chest and throat.
“Great. That’s all I need. More fodder for this ridiculous narrative they’re spinning. We’ve gone from slutty night in Vegas to epic fairy tale. I wish they’d find some other couple to obsess over.”
“Well, they did feature a piece on Rhyson’s friend Marlon.”
I go still for a moment at the mention of Grip’s name. The speculation about Parker and me has only been matched by rumors of a budding romance between Grip and Qwest.
“They can report on that all day long as far as I’m concerned.” I resume sipping, hoping my face is unreadable, though my blankest expressions have never hidden much from my mother. “That’s good for business. That rumor sells records.”
“Hmmm, yes. That’s right. You’re managing Marlon now, right?”
“Right.”
It didn’t take long for social media to latch on to the relationship it seems Grip and Qwest are pursuing full throttle. He’s been in New York for the last two days, and pictures of them exploring the city have popped up everywhere. The latest of them leaving one of Grip’s favorite strip clubs, Pirouette, surfaced last night.
Of course there’s already a hash tag shipping the two high-powered performers. #GripzQueen has been trending since yesterday, connecting their hip-hop love affair with “Queen,” the single still sitting at number one on the charts. With Grip’s album dropping so soon, it couldn’t be more perfect if I’d planned it. In a way, I did plan it. Will is ecstatic, as I should be. But the pictures I’ve seen of them holding hands in Central Park, kissing on the Brooklyn Bridge, and leaving Qwest’s Manhattan apartment building for a morning run—they all turn my stomach. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat my eggs when they come.
I feel even sicker when I think of my last conversation with Grip. I may have done irreparable damage to our friendship. At least we still have his career. We still have work. I keep comforting myself with that, though it feels hollow. I knew it might come to this, but I had no idea it would hurt this much. His crude words keep playing over and over in my head. Even if Grip and his “queen” weren’t trending, I’d still be unable to get him out of my mind.
“It’s nice he’s found someone of his own . . .” My mother trails off as she searches for some politically correct word. “Type. You know. Another . . . entertainer.”
“Yes, they make a great couple,” I agree neutrally.
“And much more appropriate than the crush he’s had on you all these years.” Mother says it matter-of-factly, as if we’ve discussed this many times in the
past. We have not.
“What do you mean?” I pleat my brows in a facsimile of dismay. “What crush?”
“Oh, Bristol. It’s me.” Mother tilts her head, her eyes sharp and brittle. “I’ve seen him several times over the last few years with you and Rhyson. It was patently obvious he had feelings for you.”
“He doesn’t,” I reply softly, fixing my eyes on the boats floating around us.
“And of course that you have feelings for him, too.” Mother smiles her thanks at the server who sets her Bloody Mary on the table. “But you’ve always hidden those feelings well, thank goodness.”
I sit quietly, biding my time until the server places a glass of juice in front of me with promises to bring our food in a few moments. I save my response until he has stepped away.
“I have it under control, Mother.”
There’s no need to deny it. That would be useless and foolish. Even as careful as I’ve been, at some point, I slipped, and she saw something that told her things I’ve never said. Pretending she has missed the mark would be futile.
“You’d better.” Mother watches my face, her bright eyes as hard as diamonds. “Because Parker would not take kindly to you tossing him over for some . . .”
“Careful,” I warn, clenching my jaw.
“Musician,” she says, her tone defensive. “I was going to say musician.”