Page 68 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“I mean, you don’t normally hear the F-word that much during Christmas songs,” she says, “but somehow it worked.”
“It did, didn’t it?” I say just as a white Toyota with a glowing Uber light appears down the block.
“Maybe you could show me some other places, too,” she says. “You know, if you’re up for it. You could be my unofficial Baltimore tour guide.”
I’ve had a nice time tonight. As her ride inches toward us, though, I somehow imagined that it’d be an isolated thing, like a chance encounter with a nice stranger during a layover. There’s no way to articulate that, though, so I say, “Okay, yeah, sounds nice.”
Chantelle arrives at the curb with the sound of squeaking brakes. “Hey, baby. You Meredith?”
“Hi. Yeah, just one sec, okay?”
Should I shake her hand? A half hug, maybe? Unfortunately, I try a combo of the two, and Meredith laughs, but not unkindly.
“Sorry,” I say. “Let’s go full hug.”
“Good idea,” she says. “I’ll go this way, you go that way.”
“Okay, here we go.”
She’s in my arms for maybe a second, tall and thin in a scratchy peacoat. Then her glasses brush my cheek, and she kisses the corner of my mouth.
“Night, Henry.”
As Meredith rolls away in Chantelle’s Tercel I’m left feeling a little dizzy, but it passes, and I stand quietly on Thames Street until I realize that I’m thinking of Grace.
“I see we’ve advanced from booty texts to booty calls,” I say. “Jeez, Henry. It’s like you’re obsessed with me.”
He laughs, but I can hear that his heart isn’t in it.
“So, you’re up,” he says. “I was worried I’d wake you.”
“Might hit a rave later,” I say. “By the way, I’m starting to get your point about this lady wine. You’ve ruined me for real booze.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I just hear street sounds—music, honking.
“Are you outside?”
“I’m walking home.”
We’re quiet, like we’re having a staring contest with our phones. I want to ask how his date went, but I don’t want to actually ask because I’m just a cool, carefree girl in her closet. Finally, though, I blink. “Sooo? How’d it go?”
“She kissed me,” he says.
I always think of sadness as a slow-moving thing, like a sandcastle being washed away. I feel sad very suddenly now, though. I sit down on my closet floor and rub Harry Styles’s head and remind myself that this is fine. This is better. This is good for Henry, for me, for Tim, for all of us.
“What kind of kiss was it?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Henry, don’t be an idiot. There are a million kinds. Was it akisskiss. Or just—”
“A small one,” he says.
“Did you kiss her back?”
“No,” he says. “Not really. She was about to get into her Uber, then…”
“One ofthosekisses, huh?”
