Page 23 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“He ate an elf ornament,” says Ian.
I’m also just realizing that Henry is still technically outside. “You can come in, you know,” I say. “You’ll be able to see the TV better.”
He pauses, shoves his hands into his pockets. “Actually, I got a little anxious on the way here. I realized that I just sort of invited myself over. Plus, I’m basically a stranger. If you’d rather do this some other time, I could…”
And now I like him a little more because he, too, is wondering if this is weird.
“Henry,” I say. “Just shut up and come in.”
Henry settles on the loungechair after some pacing and a stressful moment of despair when he seemed not to know whether he should take off his shoes. I told him that if I can wear Crocs, he can wear whatever he wants.
“Look,” I say now, coming in from the kitchen. “I found you some rosé.”
“Oh, thanks. I drink other things, though. Notjustrosé.”
“I get that that’s probably true,” I say. “But in my business, you mark people by the first drink they order. So, you’re Henry Rosé forever now.”
“Your place is really nice,” he says, looking around, and I guess Ian isn’t the only one telling nice lies. Our house is two stories, built sometime in the ’50s, I think. A small yard, nicked-up wood floors, endless clutter.
“Do you want some popcorn fish?” asks Ian. “It’s popcorn with Goldfish in it.”
“Definitely,” says Henry. “Oh, that reminds me.” He digs into the pocket of his jeans. “I brought some M&M’s.”
“Oh awesome,” says Ian. “We can mix them in!”
“And I was thinking. If you wanna watch a different movie, Grace, I’m flexible.”
Then Ian blurts, “Can we watchDie Hard?” and it knocks the air out of me.
Henry is about to be a go-along guy and say “Yeah” or “Sure, whatever,” but I stop him with a small shake of the head. I’m already remembering how Tim would sometimes sleep in a wife-beater tank top like Bruce Willis’s character and refer to himself as Detective John McClane. Or how he once kept a body count of dead bad guys—twenty-three—or how he always whispered along with the dialogue.Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker. The worst thing about husbands is that you don’t realize all the things you love about them until they’re dead. Henry doesn’t know any of that, but somehow, he gets it, and we share a look over Ian’s oblivious head.
“You know, on second thought,” he says, “I sort of had my heart set onThe Family Stone.”
Ian shrugs and sits on the couch, and Harry Styles jumps up to join him. I mouththank youto Henry, then tell him that I’ll get him some popcorn fish. “It’ll pair nicely with your lady wine.”
“Who’s that woman again?” Ian asks.
“The oldest daughter,” says Grace. “She’s not a major character. She mostly just sits.”
Just an estimate here, but I’d guess that was Ian’s fiftieth question since we pushed Play. A sampling of those questions includes: “Is there a bad guy in this?” “Was the brother born deaf, or did he become deaf from an accident?” “Are you gonna eat the rest of your M&M’s?” “Do you think we should tell Bella that I got candy? Probably not. She’d freak out.” “Are there different kinds of sign language in other countries?” “Is thatrealsnow, do you think?” “Does Harry Styles know this is pretend, or does he think there are little people in the TV?”
He’s next to Grace on the couch with Harry Styles. At first he was upright, fully engaged. A few scenes in, though, he started to slump, and now his head is resting on his mom’s shoulder.
“Did you like your popcorn fish?” he asks me.
I look at my empty bowl. “I did. More than I thought I would, actually.”
“I invented it,” he says, yawning. “It’s my favorite snack. The M&M’s made it even better.”
Grace and Tim’s wedding photo hangs on the other side of the room. They’re outside in a leafy field. Tim is handsome and broad-shouldered, a full head taller than Grace. They look so happy. It’s impressive that she can be here day in and day out with that thing hanging there.
Dermot Mulroney and the actor who plays his aforementioned deaf brother are shopping for a diamond ring together, and it dawns on me that Ian’s nonstop questions have, in fact, stopped. I look over at him.
“Is he asleep?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” Grace whispers back. “You can tell because of how his eyes are closed.”
“Should I wake him up?”
