Page 52 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
He closes the door and hands me a raven stuffed animal with googly eyes.
“Maybe you could take it to Edgar Allan’s. You know, like as…décor?”
“Oh,” I say. “Henry, it’s…” I want to tell him that it’s sweet because that’s exactly what it is, but that word won’t quite come out, so I say “cool” instead. I’m not going to kiss him, but this is where I would if I didn’t have impulse control.
“Grace, can I ask you something?” he says.
Oh shit.
Imaginary kissing aside, I think he’s about to ask me out, and I’m not ready for that. “Henry, I—”
“Do you talk to him?”
“What? Talk to who?”
His eyes are everywhere but on mine, like the day we met. “Tim,” he says. “Do you talk to him?”
I didn’t see that coming, but I’m relieved. I think. Yes, I’m definitely relieved. Having to tell Henry I don’t want to go on a date with him would’ve messed all this up. Whatever this is. “Yeah, sometimes,” I say, taking a step back. “How do you…?”
“Ian,” he says. “He’s heard you talking to him.”
“Shit,” I whisper.
“Does he ever talk back to you?”
I nod. “I know he doesn’t,” I say. “But…yeah, he does.”
The Rodrigos next door have kept adding Christmas decorations to their yard, and we watch the lights blink and glow for a moment, then Henry says, “Can you help me talk to Brynn?”
Grief is weird. It sometimes gives you little breaks to remember what it’s like not to be sad—to think about kissing and art contests and blinking reindeer. But then there it is again, putting you right back in your place. Henry is sad, and I’m sad…we’re sad.
The kids aren’t watching us like last time—neither is Harry Styles—so it’s just Henry and me. It was warm earlier, but it’s chilly now that the sun’s all the way down, so I’ll need a coat. A drink, too. Definitely a drink.
“Okay,” I say. “How about you get in your car and turn the heater on? I’ll be right back.”
My car heats up fast, so I tick the temperature down.
Grace’s front door opens. She’s in Tim’s coat again and holding a beer and a glass of rosé. When she climbs in there’s a chill, and I hope the mice Ian and I freed earlier are okay.
She hands me my drink. “Your lady wine, sir.”
“For someone who makes fun of rosé so much, you certainly have a lot of it.”
She takes a sip of her beer. “I may have bought you a few bottles. It’s important to be a good hostess.”
“Aw,” I say. I’m touched by the thoughtfulness of this simple thing.
Grace can tell, I think, because her eyes soften. “Well, I get wine at cost, so, you know, I’ll send you a Venmo request.”
The car stereo is linked to my phone, so a Wilco song plays at a low volume over our brief silence. A couple of hours ago, as I came around the house with the recycling bin, I felt something strange. I looked through the window at Grace and Bella drinking their hot chocolate. Grace was in her sweats and Bella was sitting on the counter poking at marshmallows floating in her mug, and I wanted to bein there with them. And not just as some guy who’d shown up for a Bill Murray movie. I wanted to be…with them.
Then Ian said what he said about ghosts.
“My brother tried to set me up with someone the other day,” I say, because I guess I’m not quite ready yet to talk about talking to Brynn.
“Yeah?” she says. “Was it ambush style, like our moms did to us?”
“Yeah. Didn’t see it coming.”
