Page 77 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“Wow, you look great, Zo,” I say.
Zoe dresses nice once a year. She’s in tight black jeans and a sexy black top that shows off her tats, along with a full face of makeup. “Thanks,” she says, “but this isn’t about me. Let’s go. Scorsese made these chicken parm tender things that are straight-up bonkers.”
“I’m just finishing up some last-minute things,” I say, obviously lying. I don’t think this computer is even on.
“Whatever,” she says. “Get your ass out—” Her face changes now. “Oh, wait. Shit. Grace, are you, like, sad? The party? Is it too much?”
An unreported perk of having a dead husband: People give you thebenefit of the doubt in social situations. Zoe assumes that I’m not being a reclusive weirdo, I’m just giving in to grief.
The truth, though, is that I’m insecure about my outfit. “Can I ask you something?”
She takes a sip of her beer, tells me “sure.”
I stand, unzip the North Face. “Am I overdressed?”
My coat falls onto the chair, and Zoe’s face changes again as she takes in my red dress. “Goddamn,” she says.
There’s a dusty mirror in here with a Heineken logo on it. We look at my reflection now. The dress is shorter than I remember it being when I put it on at home, maybe an inch north of my mid-thighs. I pull it down, but that just makes the neckline even plungier, so I’m left choosing between showing too much leg or too much boob. If I had a time machine, I’d go back and ask twentysomething me what she was thinking.
“It’s too much, isn’t it?” I say.
Zoe cocks her head. “Well, that’s a matter of perspective. I’m not gonna lie, it’s pretty casual out there. Hector’s wearing a pink bunny suit, and we have like three drunk Bad Santas.”
“A bunny suit?” I ask.
“That movie,” she says. “You know, ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.’ ”
“Oh, right. But—yeah, I need to change. Do you have any extra clothes here?”
“Um, no, and the absolute fuck you need to change.”
“I look like a prostitute, Zoe.”
“What? No, you don’t.” She smiles. “Well, an expensive one, maybe. And that’s a compliment. I mean, look at you.”
I did look at myself, earlier, a lot. I’d planned to wear my nicest jeans and a decent sweater, because this is a holiday party in a goddamn Edgar Allan Poe–themed bar in Baltimore. But then I thought of Meredith in that Audrey Hepburn dress in her bio, and I found myself experiencing several interwoven threads of jealousy. I was jealous of Meredith for getting to do what I’d briefly thought about: kissing Henry. I was jealous of Henry for getting kissed before I did.I know that’s childish, but there it is: competitive grieving. And, finally, I was jealous of Meredith a second time for simply getting to be a girl in a pretty dress.
Zoe is full-on leering at me now.
“Will you stop it?” I say.
“Sorry. I’ve just never seen your legs before. You’ve got—you’ve got stems!”
“Oh god.”
She points at my boobs, wiggles her finger back and forth. “And those? Shit. Who knew?”
In most industries, a conversation like this between a boss and an employee would be frowned upon. Zoe and I, however, work in a bar. In terms of HR oversight, we might as well be in the mafia.
“You’re fired,” I say, and she laughs.
“You’re gonna be firing half the staff when you go out there.”
I should’ve thought of that. Aside from Zoe and a few teenage hostesses who are too young to even be here tonight, my employees are all dudes, and they’re all idiots in that way that I imagine two dozen little brothers would be idiots.
“Shit,” I say. “I’m gonna go home and change.”
“No, I was kidding,” she says. “Well, kind of. I’m not psyched to hear myself say this, you know, as a woman. But you’re probably gonna have to deal with some minor sexual harassment tonight.”
