Page 14 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
Then Nick asks, “So, he local or what? Baltimore?”
“He’s just some guy mom tricked me into meeting last week,” I say. “He drinks rosé.”
“Well, I hardly think I tri—”
“What’s wrong with rosé?” asks Nick. “Idrink rosé.”
My cousin Mark, a Baltimore City cop, says that he drinks rosé, too.
“Thank you, Mark,” says Nick. “Right? It’s very refreshing.”
“And you can drink it year-round now,” says Ruth, “which is nice since the world is burning and all.”
“Oh, here we go,” says Uncle Bobby. “More global warming crap.”
My sister throws her hands up. “Uncle Bobby, it’s almost December in Maryland and you’re actively sweating. Wake up!”
“Well, either way,” Samantha says beside me, “it’d be nice to date someone who’s good with computers.”
“I’m not dating anyone,” I say. “Everyone. Shut it.”
Aside from Mannheim Steamroller, silence returns. I’m not ready to date, as I’ve clearly stated to these idiots. Even if I were, dating Sad Henry would be a bad idea, like two alcoholics hooking up.
I thought of him earlier, though. The kids and I stopped at Giant for green beans on the way here. There was a couple there—young, clearly crazy about each other. The girl read ingredients to some dish aloud off her iPhone while the guy dropped things into their cart and found reasons to keep touching her. I wondered if today was sucking for Henry as much as it was sucking for me. And I thought of him again ten minutes ago when Bella announced that Harry Styles likes licking feet. Henry would’ve thought that was funny.
“Wait a minute,” my dad says, like he’s just catching up. “If we’re talking about men for Grace to date, what about that nice Italian fella, Dom?”
I close my eyes and squeeze my lids together, slowly disassociating.
“Oh yeah, Dom,” Ruth says. “Va-va-voom.”
“Who the hell’s Dom?” asks Nick.
My mom takes a big sip of wine. “You’ve never met Dom?”
“No,” says Nick. “Is there a guy roster I could check? Maybe online, like fantasy football?”
“He owns the restaurant across from Edgar Allan’s,” my mom says. “Nice place.”
“The calamari is excellent,” my dad says.
“Dom’s this hot guy who’s been in love with Grace for years,” Ruth says. “If I ever divorce you, I’m definitely sleeping with him.”
“Awesome, babe,” says Nick. “I’d love to meet him.”
This goes on for a while as I look out the window at my parents’ sun-soaked neighborhood. Michael Bublé can suck it. It’s not beginning to look like Christmas at all.
I’ve begrudgingly accepted that it’s Thanksgiving. There’s a small crew at my parents’ house, like always. My aunt and uncle Judy and Jed made the trip from Annapolis, and Cal and his wife, Sally, are here. The new addition this year is Kelsey, Cal and Sally’s nine-month-old daughter, who’s squeezing two fistfuls of yams and smiling at everyone. All babies are cute, but Kelsey is like a Pixar character—all big brown eyes and babbling.
Cal, who’s sitting beside me, says, “Those go in your mouth, sweetie.”
Kelsey puts her yam hands in her hair, which is a big mess, but no one minds. My dad is talking about how he fell off the treadmill the other day at the gym. “I wasn’t holding the safety handle,” he says. “You can’t jog while holding a bar. It just doesn’t work.”
“You’re too thin,” my brother murmurs to me.
“It makes me more aerodynamic,” I murmur back. As kids we’d do this: have under-the-radar conversations while other people talked.
“You look like a stick figure with a bobblehead,” he says.
