Page 10 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“Yep. Not sad at all.”
We return our faces to their normal configurations, and everyone and the dog pause to stare up at a tree with a bird that won’t shut up.
“Iamsad, though,” says Henry.
“Duh,” I say. “It’s called the fourth stage of grief. The big D. Depression. Welcome to the club.”
“It’s nice to admit it,” he says. “I spend a lot of energy trying to convince everyone that I’m fine. I hate the idea of people worrying about me.”
Bella watches Henry and me from across the yard. She’s become such a watchful kid since Tim died. She was so normal before—giggly and silly. Now she looks like a little girl in colorized footage from the dust bowl, like she’s just waiting for something even shittier to happen.
“You know what, let ’em worry,” I say. “Own your sadness. Get yourself some Costco sweatpants. Listen to the Cure. Quit grooming. Go all in.”
“Costco sells sweatpants?”
“Are you kidding? Costco sells everything. And their sweatpants will change your life. No joke. They’rethatcomfortable. The entire time we’ve been talking, I’ve been waiting for you to leave so I can go home and put mine back on.”
A log shifts in the fire, and for the fourth time today Ian asks if he and Bella can make s’mores. Then Harry Styles pees on the kids’ soccer ball, because he is dog-shaped chaos.
“Ew!” says Ian.
“Groooossss!” says Bella.
“Harry Styles, we have a guest!” I shout. “Ian, buddy, be a sweetheart and spray that with the hose, okay?”
“Harry Styles detained in Baltimore for public urination,” says Henry, and I bet we’d both be laughing if it weren’t for all this sadness injected into our faces.
“So, whatdoyou drink, Henry? Wine? Cocktails? Organic juice boxes?”
“Wine would be nice,” he says.
“Cool. My parents have some reds, I think—maybe a rosé left over from summer.”
“I’ll take a rosé.”
Back in the kitchen, mymom is ostensibly drying a butter dish. “Well, he seems nice. Handsome, too. Kind of. And he’s pretty tall.”
I open the fridge. “Mom, you gotta stop this. I told you, I’m not ready to date. And the only person on the planetlessready to date than me is that guy out there.”
“Who said anything about dating?” She puts the butter dish down and starts toweling off a perfectly dry water glass. “I just think it’d be good for you to talk to someone who’s been through what you have. It’d be good forhim,too. His mom’s worried about him. Says he’s having a tough time.”
We look out the window at Henry. Harry Styles is showing him Bella’s stick.
“I’m no expert,” my mom says, “but he looks like he could use a friend.”
Harry Styles sets the stick in Henry’s lap, and Henry gives it a light toss.
“We’re tougher than they are, Grace.” She’s been telling me this since I was six. Women are stronger than men. Smarter. Generally less gross. “Maybe you can help him.”
“Is that my job now?” I ask. “Fixer of Sad Henrys?”
She sets her towel on the counter. “No. But maybe he’s not the only one who could use a friend.”
For reasons I can’t explain—probably leftover hardwiring from when I was a teenager—I prefer when my mom is wrong about things. It’s been nice talking to Henry, though, like bumping into a fellow expat when you’re far from home. I grab a better beer for myself, pour some rosé, and find two juice boxes in the fridge, then my mom tries to fix my hair.
“Will you stop it!”
“Could you at least try, Grace? You look like you’re about to march for women’s suffrage.”
