Page 13 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“At first, you’re like, ‘Oh, cool, Michael Bublé.’ Then, a coupla weeks in, it’s more like, ‘I’m about to Michael Bublé my brains out.’ ”
Everyone laughs—some boozily, since I brought a keg over from Edgar Allan’s.
My mom points at Ruth with her fork. “Don’t ruin my Michael for me.”
My nineteen-year-old cousin, Campbell, brought her new boyfriend, Ben. The sheer number of us here has rendered Ben mute and startled-looking. My uncle Bobby just asked him what kind of job he expects to get with a goddamn sociology degree.
“Poor kid,” says Ruth. “Look at him, trapped there.”
“Some guys don’t have what it takes to hang with this family,” says Nick. “The secret: Start drinking right when you wake up. It helps.”
Everyone around me is working hard. Ruth is always funny, but she’s trying more than usual. My brother-in-law, too, quipping in his Long Island accent. My mom keeps making toasts and smiling, and each of my aunts and uncles have hugged me more than they usually would. They want to make this a happy day for the kids and me, and I love them for it, but I keep glancing at the chair to my right. My single aunt Samantha is sitting there today. She’s perfectly nice, but Tim sat there last Thanksgiving and every Thanksgiving before that for so long.
Nick was right—this can be a tough family to crack into. Tim was a natural, though. Grief is one long flashback interrupted occasionally by the present, and seeing my cousin’s boyfriend look so uncomfortable reminds me of the first time I brought Tim to Thanksgiving fifteen years ago. He helped my dad carry the extra tables up from the basement and insisted on joining the cleanup crew. He played yard games with my cousins and helped my aunt Jackie jump-start her car when it stalled as she tried to leave.
“I love ’em,” he told me later that night when we were alone.
“Really?” I asked. “Allof them?”
“Hell yeah. The kids and the Republican guy and the…wait, which one tried to sell me a timeshare?”
“Uncle Toby.”
“Yes! Him, too. All of ’em. They’re part of who you are, Gracey. How could I not love ’em?” It was the first time he called me “Gracey.”
“Mom, can we take Harry Styles out?” Ian asks now.
“Yeah, can we?” says Bella. “He wants to run around. I do, too.”
They’re done with their kid-size servings, and there’s always a lull before dessert, so I tell them yes. “Don’t let him eat grass, though.” As they head for the back door, all the other kids scatter, too, leaving just adults.
“This is better,” says my sister. “We can swear more freely now.”
Then my mom asks, “Grace, have you talked to Henry this week?”
Conversations stop—fork and knife sounds, too.
“No, Mom.”
I use my eyes to tell her to drop it, but she pretends not to notice.
“He’s just a few blocks away. They’re doing Thanksgiving at his parents’ this year. You should invite him over for dessert. We have so, so many pies.”
“What?” says Ruth. “Grace? Who’s Henry?”
I wish I could crawl under the table. How nice would it be to curl into a ball in the warm spot that Harry Styles just left? “No one,” I say.
“He’s a new friend of your sister’s,” my mom says. “He fixed our Wi-Fi.”
“Mom, he didn’tfixanything.”
Ruth puts her hand on mine. “Grace, are you, like, back in the game?”
“The game? Ruth, are you twelve? Jesus, no. Just—all of you—stop it.”
“Because if you are,” says Ruth, “Nick’s hot co-worker just got divorced. He works in Philly, but that’s only like an hour and a h—”
“Ruth,” I say. “Stop.” And for a moment she and everyone else does.
