Page 46 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
When we first got here, she asked Cal about installing floating shelves behind the register. Now she’s giving me a tour while Cal and Kelsey play with raven and oriole stuffed animals.
“You’re not from Baltimore, right?” I ask.
“Is it that obvious?”
“I’m a lifer,” I say. “We can tell.”
“D.C.,” Meredith says. “No way I could afford this down there. Plus, I was ready for a change.”
There’s a wound there. This ham-fisted attempt at matchmakingwouldn’t be happening if there wasn’t, I suppose. When you’re our age and you find yourself being set up with strangers, it’s because whatever plans you had for your life have been tossed out the window.
Our tour has brought us to replicas of Rudolph and Bumble the Abominable Snow Monster. They’re standing together—Rudolph smiling, Bumble waving. “Oh wow,” I say. “Turns out they were friends all along.”
Meredith’s laugh is disarming and includes a snort.
“So, Cal told me you’re an artist?” she says.
I look over at my brother, my hype man, and imagine him telling Meredith about me—doing his best to make me sound like someone who isn’t a mess.
“Very subtle, Cal,” I say.
We’re walking now, Cal and me and a dangling Kelsey, along a bustling sidewalk.
“Um, whatever do you mean?”
“Mhm.”
“I was right, though, wasn’t I?” he asks.
“About the recessed lighting? Yeah, it was okay.”
He laughs. “About Meredith being awesomely nerdy.”
“She’s not a nerd, Cal,” I say. “She just has glasses and looks like she’s read a book since junior high.”
“Whatever, dweeb,” he says.
A man on the other side of the plaza walks a large dog on a leash, and Kelsey points and scream-laughs.
“I know, right?” says Cal. “Doggie.”
Two women wearing big sweaters glance at my handsome brother and his adorable child. As always, Cal plays this off with practiced obliviousness, like only someone who’s been good-looking his whole life can do.
“She liked you, you know,” he says. “I could tell.”
“Stop it.”
“Youstop it.”
We should hit that men’s store over there for a dad gift, brainstorm ideas for our mom, maybe get something to eat. But for now, we’re walking with no particular purpose.
“I really do love you, you know,” he says.
“I know, Cal,” I say.
“And I don’t want you to move to L.A.,” he says. “I want you to stay here forever.”
When I don’t say anything, he stops walking.
