Page 51 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
We get to the back of the house. Some worn outdoor furniture, a storm door that doesn’t close all the way. I set the bin under an outdoor light.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Ian asks.
“I’ve never really thought about it,” I say. “Do you?”
“Not really,” he says. “I’m pretty sure my mom does, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
He shifts the empty mouse trap from one arm to the other. “I hear her talking to my dad sometimes.”
When I was twelve, I was obsessed with making out. I hadn’t ever done it, mind you, I just thought about it all the time. At first, it was targeted at specific boys, like Preston Wick, who everyone agreed was the cutest boy in school and who looked like he could’ve been in a boy band. Eventually I became less discriminate and thought about making out with every boy and then all males in general.
It wasn’t a sexual thing—at least not yet. It was the mechanics of making out that fascinated me, the logistics of that kind of closeness. Closed-mouth kissing. French-kissing. Head-tilting. Where hands did and didn’t go.
I’d watch some dopey kid scoop ice cream at the mall and wonder how he’d do it. I’d be side-eying a bored lifeguard at the pool and think about whether or not his lips would taste like sunscreen. Would Mr. Block, my math teacher, calculate the circumference of my tongue?
This continued into my twenties, which meant it sometimes wasabsolutelya sexual thing, like when I met Tim and wanted to swallow him whole. More often than not, though, I was still fixated on the logistics. I’d be in line at the grocery store and a perfectly normal guy would be standing in front of me holding a box of pizza rolls and I’dwonder what I’d do if he just started kissing me next to the magazines and Skittles. Society really isn’t set up for that behavior, so realistically I’d probably scream and punch him in the throat, but these scenarios played out constantly in my mind. FedEx guys, my college professors, dudes who shouted drink orders at Edgar Allan’s.
Thirty minutes ago, I wondered what it’d be like to make out with Henry.
He and Ian were back from their mouse adventure. Over hot chocolate, Ian gave us a play-by-play: the mice running away, two Goth girls, Henry agreeing to help with his contest. When we resumed our spots in the TV room to finishScrooged,I found myself glancing at Henry every few minutes. He and Ian were sitting on the floor at the coffee table, drawing. Ian was completely absorbed as Henry told him about free sketching.
Henry had shaved. I noticed that when he first got here. He must’ve done it yesterday or the day before, because there’s an even layer of shadow now across his face and down his neck.
“A winter scene, maybe,” Henry said.
“Yeah,” said Ian. “That’d be cool.”
“But something that means something—something with depth. I think that’s important.”
“I can’t hear the movie,” Bella complained, so they switched to whispering.
Then, as Bill Murray watched his own coffin incinerate in a futuristic crematorium, I imagined kissing Henry. I thought,What?and immediately tried to blink the image away, because…what? It’d been nearly a year since such a thing had even crossed my mind. Maybe it was a fluke—a trick of the chocolate. A few minutes later, though, I watched Henry show Ian a technique for shading and thought about his lips on that spot just under my ear with all the extra nerve endings.
I’m not an idiot; I know what’s happening here. This isn’t about Henry, it’s about evolution.
We’re well into the twenty-first century. I’m financially independent and self-sufficient. I need a man about as much as I need an extra arm growing out of my chest. My brain, though, doesn’t know any ofthat because it’s dumb and mired in antiquated, misogynistic hardwiring, so it’s looking for an able-bodied male to protect me and my fledgling offspring from wolves and lions.
Nice try, brain.
Henry said goodbye to the kids. Now we’re outside by his car again, and he’s talking about Ian’s art contest. I’m kind of listening, but I’m also wondering what his stubble would feel like against my skin. If my sister was here, she’d say something crass and annoying like,Um, I thought you said she was asleep, Grace.
Shut up, Ruth.
“We need to come up with something good,” he says. “That’s the thing about these competitions. The winning pieces are always elevated, you know, thematically.”
“You do realize we’re talking about a school art contest, right?” I say. “A bunch of kids.”
“Yeah, but he really cares about it. I wanna, you know, help him.”
Oh jeez. I bet he’s one of those hands-on-the-face kissers, like in movies. His height is probably contributing to this train of thought. Like a lot of shorties, I spent my young womanhood wishing I could be tall and flowy. That’d be nice for some things, I’m sure, but not for making out, because climbing a guy is one of life’s great pleasures, like sunsets.
“Oh, wait,” he says. “I almost forgot. I got you a present, too.”
“You…you got me a present?”
He opens his car door. “It’s just a silly thing. I debated it because I didn’t want it to be weird. But when I saw it, I thought of you.”
