Page 76 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
When I open the snack cupboard, I find a bag of Hobnobs cookies from Great Britain, and I have to grip the counter because the entire kitchen spins.
“Henry?” says Cal. “Henry, you okay?”
The day of the crash,Win and I were in our office feeling good about ourselves. We’d just come out of a very long pitch to a regional bank who’d hired us to launch a campaign for a credit card aimed at college students. The bank’s marketing manager was a British guy namedWalton Andrews. Walton was one of those stuffy executives who emotionally needy creatives like Win and me fear most because they’re so tough to sell.
Brynn, who knew we were stressed, had suggested we serve gourmet English tea and a big plate of Hobnobs at the pitch in Walton’s honor. She’d done a semester abroad in London back in college and was a low-level Anglophile. One of the affectations she’d carried into adulthood was an undying love for the digestive biscuits that Brits go crazy for. Hobnobs were her favorite. Crumbly, covered in waxy chocolate, bone dry—she always kept a stash of them in the snack cupboard.
Our dumb fight had just begun. I was annoyed with her because she was about to go to L.A., and she was annoyed with me because I was annoyed with her. I knew a good idea when I heard one, though, so I asked the admins to arrange a spread of tea and Hobnobs for the pitch. Walton snagged a handful off the silver tray as he walked into the conference room.
“Off to a good start, lads,” he said. “Reminds me of home.”
The moments after a successful pitch are a kind of euphoria. Win and I had our feet up on our desks and were gorging ourselves on leftover biscuits, riffing in British accents.
“The name’s Bond, Winston Bond,” he said.
“Cheers, mate,” I said.
“Good show, old sport,” he said.
“Old sport isn’t British,” I told him. “It’s fromThe Great Gatsby. Read a book, man.”
“Piss off, wanker.”
Our laughter stopped suddenly when we heard the unmistakable sound of a sob. It came from somewhere outside our office—a burst of anguish. A second later, someone gasped. Reflexively, I grabbed my phone to check the news for all the obvious horrible things: mass shootings, terrorism, natural disasters. That’s when I saw three notifications from Brynn: a missed call, a voicemail, and a text message. They’d arrived during the pitch when I had my phone on silent.
I tapped her text first. It said, simply,I love you.She’d sent it during those horrible, frantic moments. Some of the other survivingspouses and partners got similar messages. I didn’t know that yet, though, so I felt like an asshole because Brynn had been right the whole time. The trip to L.A. was important to her, and my brother would have at least fifty more birthdays. Then I listened to her voicemail.
Brynn and I rarely left each other voicemails, opting instead for texts, so as I waited to hear what she had to say I felt a tug of anxiety in my chest. She’d called about an hour before sending her text. Someone in an office nearby was crying.
Cal puts his hand on my shoulder now. “Those cookies are probably still good if you want one,” he says, taking the Hobnobs out of the cupboard. “I tossed a few stale ones, but these were never opened. See?”
I pull my phone out and stare at it.
“Hey, man. What’s wrong?”
I’ve listened to her last words to me a thousand times. I need to hear them again, though, right now, so I push Play on her voicemail.
Through my crappy phone speaker she says, “Hey, it’s me. Um, obviously. I bet you and Win are doing your pitch.”
Cal’s eyes go wide as he takes Kelsey’s hands. Mr. Ross steps into the kitchen.
“Anyway, you’re still pissed at me, I think, but I’ve got some good news. I sweet-talked my way onto the jet for the return flight, so I’ll be home way earlier. If I’m not too full of caviar and truffle oil or whatever people eat on private planes, let’s go out to dinner somewhere good tonight. I hate when we’re mad at each other. Okay. Well, see you soon. Bye.”
We’re all silent: me, my brother, Mr. Ross. Kelsey watches us. The refrigerator hums. My phone screen goes dark.
“Henry,” Cal says. “Shit. I…I didn’t know.”
“That pause,” I say.
“What?”
“That pause there,” I say. “The one right before she says ‘Okay.’ I hate that pause. It’s like maybe she had something else to say.”
Home Alone
The office door opens, and it’s Zoe holding a beer. “What the hell’re you doing hiding out?” she asks. “And why are you wearing the world’s biggest coat? It’s hot as balls in here.”
She says this the way Zoe says most things: quickly and pissed-off sounding. I’m in the stuffy little room behind the kitchen at Edgar Allan’s. There’s a phone in here, a desk, an old desktop from the aughts, and a cardboard Boone’s Farm box that serves as Edgar Allan’s lost and found. I’m wearing a long, down-filled North Face coat that covers me from my shoulders to ankles.
