Page 8 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“That’s really specific.”
“She’s got a flair for details,” says Grace. “Your hair looks fine, by the way. Good job.”
I touch the top of my head, self-conscious. “They mommed us, didn’t they?”
“Bitches,” Grace whispers. Then she bites her lip, thinking. “You know, as long as you’re here, though. Do you like IPAs?”
“Um.”
She punches my shoulder—not hard, but not softly, either. “Come on, Henry. Outside. I need your opinion on something.”
Watching this guy drink a beer is like watching someone test something for poison. He sips, looks with trepidation into his glass, awaits death.
We’re on the cushy outdoor chairs in my parents’ backyard by the firepit, which my dad has had burning all afternoon. Harry Styles is chasing Ian in circles on the grass while Bella holds a stick and watches. I find this whole setup offensive because Henry’s mom has clearly told him nothing about me, yet mine has given me his life story.
His name is Henry Adler. He’s an advertising guy, cute in his own way, no kids, dead wife. Along with being the mommest expression I’ve ever heard, “cute in his own way” isn’t specific enough to describe Henry. He’s tall, but not weirdly so. He’s thin, but not in a way that makes you think he works out all that much. Is he cute? Fine, maybe, like a guy in a bank commercial. His specific level of attractiveness is irrelevant, though. He looks like the first guy you go out with in your midtwenties after you decide once and for all to stop dating complete assholes. His appeal lies in the fact that you can take one look at him and know that he’s not going to drain your checking account and run off with a Pilates instructor.
“Soooo?” I say. “What do you think?”
He looks back into his beer, trepidation again. “It’s not bad.”
“Really? You don’t think it’s too hoppy?”
“I’ll be honest,” he says. “I don’t really drink beer very often.”
“Ha!” I say. “Well shit, dude. You’re a lotta help.”
“Sorry. What does too hoppy mean?”
“Is it bitter at the back of your throat? Like a bite?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
I sip my own because I poured glasses for both of us. “Agreed. Our distributor wants me to carry it at my bar. I don’t know. Everyone’s just trying to out-hop everyone else. It’s boring.”
“What bar?” he asks.
“Bar and restaurant, officially,” I say. “You know Edgar Allan’s over in Federal Hill?”
“Oh, okay,” he says. “Cool place.”
Everyone knows Edgar Allan’s. It’s an institution in town—divey enough to keep locals happy, but quirky and “Baltimore” enough to bring in tourists. Our signature life-size bronze statue of Edgar Allan Poe right by the front door is featured in about a million selfies a year with #EdgarandMe. Last Saturday a bride and groom stopped in with their photographer on the way to their reception. #EdgarandMe4Ever.
“That’s actually not too far from our house,” Henry says, then I watch him deflate because he meantmyhouse. The stupid grammar of death again.
I already know what he does for work, but I ask him anyway because I don’t want to look like a stalker. Advertising, he confirms. “I’m on vacation, though,” he says.
Our eyes meet, then his flutter back to the fire, and I wonder if I look as obviously sad as he does. In the beforetimes, I would’ve assumed all grief is created equal. There’s a website I found, though, called GriefUnited. It’s like Reddit for sad people, with posts, links to articles, never-ending threads. That’s where I learned that grief comes in tiers. For example, an elderly spouse dying peacefully in their sleep after a long, loving marriage is one of the lowest tiers—entry-level sadness. After all, isn’t that what we sign up for when we get married:a down payment on heartbreak? Tim’s death scores much higher because our kids are so young and because who dies of prostate cancer when they’re forty-two anyway?
A plane crash, though? An event that makes the national news? That’s on a whole other level.
“So, do you live here?” Henry asks. “With your parents?”
“God no,” I say, literally shuddering. “That would lead to me killing at least one of them, and I feel like enough people have died, don’t you?”
Henry looks startled.
“Sorry,” I say. “Grief manifests in mysterious ways. For me it’s inappropriate jokes that make everyone uncomfortable.”
