Page 101 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“Ah, therealking of kings.”
“I heard that, babe!” says Nick.
Ian and Bella are at the base of my parents’ Christmas tree shakingpresents. Harry Styles is beside them, and Ruth and I watch as he takes a casual bite of a sparkly bow.
“Get outta there, foot-licker,” my sister says, and he slinks away.
“When can we open these?” Bella asks.
“Soon, baby.”
Ian’s prize-winning painting is on the mantel above the fireplace. I brought it with us tonight so he could be celebrated, and my family delivered. They clapped and cheered and raised their glasses for him, and Ian blushed so hard I was afraid he was going to pass out.
My single aunt Samantha brought a date—a nice guy named Paul with a mustache who’s currently listening to my brother-in-law re-create the drive from Manhattan. Samantha keeps slyly touching Paul’s hand, which is wonderful. Go get ’em, Samantha.
My sister is holding a fizzy water in both hands. She’s dressed it up in a nice glass with a lime wedge, but I’m no fool. “So, what’s the protocol here?” I ask. “Am I supposed to pretend not to notice that you’re not drinking or…?”
“Shh,” she says and smiles.
I put my hand on her stomach and kiss her cheek. My eyes fill with tears, but then I laugh when she says, “Bad touch,” and tells me to get away.
“Who’s the father?” I ask.
She pauses for effect. “Seventy-five percent sure it’s that dipshit over there.”
Nick, who’s wearing a New York Jets jersey, has taken a break from talking about the power of four-wheel drive to thrust his hips like Elvis. Samantha’s date, Paul, has joined him. It’s quite a sight.
“Well, at least he’s tall,” I say.
Love Actuallyis on the flat-screen across the room—an edited version for basic cable. Ruth and I are the only ones watching, but it’s comforting to have it playing, like the movie equivalent of a warm fire. It’s near the end where all the storylines start to converge. Hugh Grant has just raced out of 10 Downing Street to a Pointer Sisters song in search of Natalie, and now he knocks on an old lady’s door.
Ruth sighs. “I wish he’d show up at my house.”
“Nah, he’s old now,” I say. “You wouldn’t like him.”
“Not there, he isn’t,” she says, pointing at prime Hugh. “I think that’s why everyone loves holiday movies so much. The world goes to shit, but they stay exactly the same.”
She’s right. I think of Tim cheering on young Bruce Willis as he shoots terrorists in the ’80s. It was a simpler time.
“Plus,” she adds, “look at those eyes.”
We watch Hugh Grant find Natalie at her parents’ place. Then there’s the Christmas pageant that ends with them making out in front of half the cast.
“I always forget Liam Neeson’s in this,” Ruth says. “God, that man’s hot.”
I take down the last of my drink as Colin Firth reappears, determined and handsome. I thought of Henry a few scenes ago when Colin Firth is all forlorn at his family’s house and one of the kids there says the funniest thing in the whole movie: “I hate Uncle Jamie.” I bet Henry loves that line.
“Oh, and hello again, Mr. Darcy,” Ruth says.
“Stop it,” I tell her. “Also, you’re mixing Colin Firth movies.”
As my family shouts and drinks and listens to Christmas CDs, Ruth says, “But enough about middle-aged European guys and me. How are you?”
“Good,” I say.
She purses her lips. “Really?”
“Goodish?” I say. “It’s been a tough week.”
