Page 21 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“They literallytradeClaire Danes and Sarah Jessica Parker at the end,” says Grace.
“Okay, notliterally,though,” I say. “Luke Wilson’s and Claire Danes’s characters were never actually a—”
“Do not mansplain me on this, Henry.”
“Okay, sorry,” I say, “carry on.”
“Like, we’re supposed to behappyfor them?” she asks. “It’s offensive. Worse, it’s completely implausible. Any idea how awkward that would be for the rest of their lives? Like, do you ladies remember when we did the ole switcharoo a coupla Christmases ago? Ahh, good times.”
Although Grace is taking some liberties with the term “sister swapping,” I’m ashamed now because…how have I never thought all of that through?
“Oh,” she says, “and let’s not forget the dinner scene where Sarah Jessica Parker says one of the most homophobic things ever put on film.”
Harry Styles barks from somewhere.
“Well, shit,” I say. “I feel like a real asshole now.”
Grace sighs again—a different sort of sigh this time. “No. You know what? I’m probably the asshole here. Once I start joy-killing, I have trouble stopping myself.”
“Yeah, you were really on a roll there, huh?”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“If it makes you feel better,” she says, “that Colin Firth scene inLove Actuallyalways gets me. You know, when he shows up at the cleaning girl’s house. I mean, technically, that’s probably borderline creepy, too. It’s sweet, though.”
The Amazon truck outside lurches away; a UPS truck takes its place.
My palms get sweaty again, like I’m at a junior high mixer. “Well, um,” I say.
“Um, what?” she says.
“I was gonna ask if maybe you wanted to watchThe Family Stonetogether. But I guess—”
“Oh. Yeah, no, I absolutely do.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” she says. “I mean, it’d technically be hate-watching, so I’d be talking shit the whole time, if that’s cool.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s cool.”
“Oh, and there’s zero chance I’ll make it to the end. I was all talk before. Eight o’clock might as well be midnight.”
“You think Henry’s sadder than us or less sad?” Ian asks.
“Buddy, it’s not a competition.”
He’s standing on the couch, which I’ve asked him repeatedly not to do because it’ll ruin the cushions, but he does it anyway because kids are weird. “I know. But what do you think?”
“Probably sadder,” I say.
“Why?”
I’m swiffering because Harry Styles’s spikey little hairs have mingled with the dust bunnies at the corners of the living room to make domestic tumbleweeds. “We’ve got each other,” I say. “You, me, Bell Bell. Henry doesn’t really have anyone else.”
I hadn’t worked that out in my head; I just said it because it seemed easier than explaining the Tiers of Sadness to a kid. I’m probably right, though. I’m sure Henry has friends. Co-workers. Parents. He said something about a brother. Grief like ours, though, is an exclusive, shitty little island. I could hear it in his voice fifteen minutes ago: Henry was all alone.
