Page 85 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
Hector claps. “Yo, shut up!”
Everyone goes quiet, and I pull my sweater back on. Zoe and Hector are looking at me.
“Boss, can you come up here for a second?” says Hector.
As I do, a few people whistle and shout my name in support, and Zoe looks like she’s about to cry. “It’s been a tough year, Grace,” she says. “Tough for you—first and foremost—and for Ian and Bella. Your family.”
A new kind of quiet has settled over Edgar Allan’s, solemn and nerve-racking.
“But Tim was part ofourfamily, too,” says Zoe. “And all of us—your staff—we wanted to commemorate him at the place he owned with you. The place he helped you build. The best goddamn bar in Baltimore. Am I right?”
People cheer, and Hector in his bunny suit climbs up on the bar to remove a black-and-white portrait of Edgar Allan Poe hanging overhead. Then Zoe hands him what I see now is a large framed photograph of Tim.
“And even though he’s gone,” she says. “At Edgar Allan’s, as far as we’re all concerned, he’s gonna live forever.”
Hector hangs the picture where the Poe portrait was. In the photo, Tim is standing on the street with Edgar Allan’s just behind him. The early evening sun is shining on his handsome face, and he’s smiling his big, wonderful smile.
“If you’ll all raise your glasses,” says Zoe. “To Tim!”
“To Tim!” dozens of voices repeat.
I’m not holding up a glass, though, and I didn’t just say Tim’s name with everyone else. As I look at my dead husband all I can see is Ian, because, my god, hedoeslook just like him. And then I’m back at Costco watching a woman I hardly know be struck silent and weepyby that fact. And then I’m at Tim’s funeral again, looking out at all the people who loved him. That same woman is there, and she’s crying harder than anyone else, even me. Lauren Maxwell.
The next few minutes are a blur. At least ten people hug me. Zoe kisses my cheek. Hector’s bunny suit smells like thrift shop and weed. At some point I grab Dom. “Are you drunk?”
“What?”
“Drunk, Dom. Are you?”
He shows me his glass. “No. I’ve been sipping this thing all night.”
“Good, you’re driving me home. I Ubered here, and I need to leave. Now.”
He follows me out of Edgar Allan’s and onto the street. “Grace, what the hell’s going on. Are you okay?”
He’s confused, which I guess makes sense. My co-workers, one of whom was dressed like a rabbit, hung a photo of my dead husband over the bar, and suddenly I was demanding to leave. I’m not going to answer him, though, because I don’t even know where I’d start. I hug my cardigan closed against the cold. I forgot my giant coat, but there’s no way I’m going back.
“You’re freezing,” he says, coming after me. “Here. At least take my jacket.”
I stop and turn, and his suit coat is already off. He drapes it over my shoulders, and it’s warm from his body. I can see Tim again. He’s not in my imagination out here in the cold haunting me—instead, he’s just a memory floating in our bathroom mirror.
But what ifI’mnot ready, Gracey?
Well, you know what, Tim. Fuck you.
I put my hand on Dom’s chest and stand on my toes, then I close my eyes and touch my mouth to his. Despite all his edges and hard angles, his lips are soft and warm, and we sink into each other, kissing on the street like kids who’ve known nothing but a lifetime of ease and joy. But then he pulls away, and when he does he puts his hands on my shoulders and gently holds me in place.
“Grace,” he says. “Grace, no.”
This may be my first time babysitting, but I had the wherewithal to lay down a bunch of paper on the coffee table. There’s a whole box of clean canvases in the Chaos Cabinet—high-quality, twelve-by-fifteen-inchers. I grabbed one for myself, and Ian and I got to work.
I talked him through color blending, careful to lethimdo it, because it’s his project. We started at the bottom of the image. He was tentative at first—I was, too—but as the colors came together his confidence grew.Home Aloneended, and the TV asked if we wanted to watchHome Alone 2: Lost in New York,and we all agreed that we did.
“Wow, this is really good,” said Meredith about the popcorn fish.
She’s still here because the Uber app kept glitching out, then a driver canceled on her, then the next car was eleven minutes away. She’s on the couch now with Harry Styles, who climbed onto her lap when Miss Nadine left. I feel bad that the night—our date—got derailed, but painting with Ian right now is a blast.
“You’re really talented, Ian,” Meredith says.
