Page 54 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
I was making coffee, not saying anything. “It’s too early, Brynn.”
She sighed, leaned on the counter. A few years before, she’d pointed out that I only say her name at the end of sentences when I’m mad at her. “I know you don’t want me to go,Henry,” she said. “But Craig specifically asked me to. He said he needs me.”
I didn’t reply with actual words, just a dismissive half laugh that still haunts me.
“Nice,” she said. “Appreciate that. Really supportive.”
A big crew from Art of the Brand was set to go to L.A. Then Craig Henson, our founder, figured out that they were too heavy on males—the optics weren’t good—so Brynn got a late invite.
“Yes, I getwhyI’m invited,” she said. “It’s a good opportunity, regardless. And Cal will have another party next year. That’s how birthdays work.”
It was one of those rare business trips that would extend over a weekend, Thursday to Tuesday. A mix of legit things like looking at potential office space and less legit things like a Lakers game with our biggest West Coast client on Saturday night, which was the night my sister-in-law was throwing a party for my brother at an axe-throwing bar in Baltimore. He was turning thirty-six, which was a totally random age, but Cal and Sally were hyping it up because it’d be his last birthday as a non-dad. I can barely remember it now. My mom had her first Long Island Iced Tea and nearly fell off her barstool. Cal hit the bull’s-eye and tried to moonwalk in hiking boots.
“The least they could’ve done was give you a spot on the jet,” I said.
“Oh, so that’s it then?” Brynn replied. “If the private plane sat more people, you wouldn’t be acting like this?”
One of my worst qualities is that I get mad at people for not being able to read my mind. I was annoyed about her missing Cal’s party. But really, I didn’t want Brynn to go to L.A. because I didn’t wantanyoneto go to L.A. I’d seen the writing on the wall. I knew Win and I would be asked to run the office out there. Win would want us to go. Brynn would want us to go. She’d call it something fun, like our West Coast Era. All I wanted, though, was to stay here with her because I was happy the way things were. My default setting: no.
“All right, well, I’ll send you a picture of LeBron James, I guess,”she said, which I can only assume are among the dumbest final in-person words ever spoken by a wife to her husband.
Grace finished her beer abouthalfway through me telling her all that. Now she looks at her house through my windshield and doesn’t say anything. Harry Styles has settled at the front window to watchus.
“I just let her walk out the door,” I say, quietly.
She sets her empty can in my cup holder. “Marriage is hard, Henry. And it’s not just hard. It’s every…single…day.”
“I know, but—”
Grace touches my arm. “So you were a dickhead once,” she says. “The timing sucked, granted. But, maybe give yourself a break and think about all the times you weren’t a dickhead. That’s marriage.”
Based on the most general, vaguely told recounting of my last moments with Brynn, Grace is right. Husbands, wives, partners, even the best of us have bad moments. What I don’t tell her, though—what I’ve never articulated aloud—is that if I wasn’t being a dickhead on that very specific morning, Brynn would still be alive. I’m the reason she was on the plane that crashed coming home. I’m the reason she’s gone.
Elf
It’s Wednesday now, and I’m out on my front porch with the humane trap when Henry arrives to pick up the kids. He and Ian are phone buddies now. They’ve been going back and forth about Ian’s contest all week, texting arty things to each other. Last night after dinner, Henry texted me to ask if he and Ian could do a drawing session on FaceTime. When I stopped by Ian’s room to say hi, Henry was helping him with a drawing of Will Ferrell fromElf.
“I was wondering,” he said from Ian’s phone screen. “What if we all go to the Walters Art Museum tomorrow? Maybe after the kids get out of school? There’s an exhibit that’d be good for Ian to see.”
I’d already promised Zoe I’d be at work. When I saw the look of disappointment on Ian’s face, though, a plan came together, because this is the most enthusiastic I’ve seen Ian about anything since Tim died. I gave Miss Nadine—the kids’ nanny and my other hand and a half—the evening off to let Ian and Bella hang with Henry for a few hours, then we all agreed to meet up at Edgar Allan’s for dinner. Now here he is, waving at me as he gets out of his car.
“Oh man,” he says when he sees the trap. “How many did we get?”
“Three this time,” I say.
He takes the trap by the handle and grimaces as he looks off in the direction of the playground. “I’ll let them go before we leave,” he says. “Ian can help again.”
The kids and Harry Styles haven’t figured out that Henry’s here yet, so we stand for a moment on my porch. It’s sunny, barely cool enough for a jacket. According to the news, that’ll change soon, though. Cold, real cold, is finally coming.
Henry points at my feet. “You know, I’ve never seen you not wearing running shoes or Crocs.”
I look down at my black ballet flats. “What do you think? I decided to look like an adult today.”
“Classy,” he says.
“Plus, I can’t wear Crocs to work. Total tripping hazard. They should come with a warning sticker. ‘Will fall on face.’ ”
Henry is wearing a light sweater, jeans, and casual boots. Although the bar for us is set very low, this is the nicest we’ve dressed in each other’s presence. In another life I’d probably think about kissing him right now, but, inthislife, Henry recently asked me for advice on how to talk to his dead wife, so I’ve decided to nip all that in the bud.
