Page 21 of Grape Juice
Which sting?I wonder.
“Well,” Julian tosses a grape into his mouth. “If you recall, when we were picking those terrible reductive grapes the other day, I wassupposedto be able to ask you all any question I like. I was not indulged, so I’d like to exercise my right to ask now.”
“Fine, permission granted.” Henri shrugs.
“Hmm.” Julian looks up at the ceiling in thought as he mashes the grapes against the metal. “OK, why are you and Antoine so close? I only see my uncles once a year on holidays, and frankly, I have no desire to increase that number.”
I see Henri’s shoulders inch downward ever so slightly, and his jaw slackens. He is relieved; this is a question he can answer. It’s coming from Julian, after all—not Ruby. Hardly emotionally invasive.
I lean over the grate, my hands prickling with each thrust, and I angle myself toward Henri. I want to hear him speak.
He smiles sheepishly, using the back of his hand to wipe his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t know,je sais pas—he was with us a lot when I was a kid. My parents weren’t alwaysaround, exactly. And for a while, before he lived here at the domaine, he lived in our house.” He pauses, glancing around furtively, a particular glaze settling over his eyes. “And when I was in grade seven, my mom moved out.” He’s half a decibel quieter now. “So Antoine and I started spending all of our time together—holidays, afternoons after school, the whole thing.”
Unwittingly, Julian and I both cease to move, pause mid-task. But Henri returns to the grate with renewed fervor, as if the confession has wound something up in him.
“I’m sorry. About your mom.” I want to know more, but I won’t ask for it. I want him to offer it to me.
“All good, no need.”
“What about your dad?” It’s a simple enough question. Polite, even. Nothing emotionally prodding.
“He was around. Is around. But he kind of shut down after my mom left. He’s always been a bit rigid. Not warm, exactly.”
“Mine too—I get that,” Julian adds. “The cold dad thing.”
“I guess the point is, Antoine raised me in some ways,” Henri continues. “I mean, he’s thirteen years older—not a parent figure, exactly. In some ways, we grew uptogether.”I process this new understanding of their dynamic silently while Julian grunts softly, signaling his own breed of comprehension. We return to our working rhythm, plowing steadily through the mass of green in front of us. “Now my dad’s getting older and his health isn’t great—but we’ve still got this little family, Antoine and me. He comes out to Lyon for the holidays and stays with me and Charlotte, usually. He helped me open the bar—and he saw up close how much it sucked to close it.”
Charlotte. Her name tumbles out of his mouth in italics. “So he’s protective. Older-brother type,” I say, looking up for confirmation, still struggling to meet Henri’s eyes.
“Yeah, something like that. He’s seen me at my most ruined, I guess. My saddest, most hurt, whatever. I think his way of showing love is just to be some kind of barrier between me and anything that might make me feel that way.”
It’s a broad statement, one he makes nonchalantly, but I wonder if it isn’t more pointed. A peace offering or an apology. An explanation at the very least. His own quiet way of unpacking his tendency to go rigid when Antoine is around. Against my will, I can feel myself thawing in response.
Julian and I nod in unison, and all three of us let ourselves fixate quietly on the mounting web of stems. “Some things are worth protecting,” I say to Henri’s hands, hoping he knows that I mean something like forgiveness.
“OK, OK, very tender.” Julian rains another cascade ofgrapes onto the grate. “Now, perhaps time for something a bit less depressing. Alice,yourturn.”
I watch Henri raise an eyebrow in my direction, and I relish a brief bout of prolonged eye contact between us. I notice a certain pleading beneath his lashes.
“OK, hit me, Julian. Do your worst.”
He strokes his chin, leaving a thin film of rose-hued debris. “OK, what’s the deal with your whole can’t-be-loved complex, huh? You dissociate every time we talk about relationships.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m caught off guard. I’d expected a more appropriately surface-level question. The acid bite of the grape stems scrapes against my finger pads. “I... well. I’m not sure it’s...”
“We want to know,” Henri cuts in. It’s a relief almost, his eager interest.
“You heard the man.” Julian gives the universal gesticulation for “get on with it.” Henri tosses a grape stem in my direction, and there’s a small curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The gesture feels like a gift, like something I could unwrap.
“Well, yeah, OK. Almost two years ago, I ended a pretty long relationship. It was the right thing—I mean, I think it was the right thing. But... he was my family. His family was my family. And, well, until we broke up, I’d never been alone—I hadn’t known what it felt like to be the sort of person who paid rent, commuted to work, had an email signature, owned a bike, without him. I’ddone so much growing up next to him, and I didn’t know what any of it would feel like on my own. But, well. Long story short, he proposed, and I said no.”
Julian winces. “Poor guy.”
“OK, OK,everyonetakes his side. But poor me too.”
Henri laughs, and it sounds warm. Not fiery but like something heated low and slow, left to cool. “Why didn’t you tell me that part?”
I shrug, but I know the answer: I hadn’t wanted him to know I could be cruel. I hadn’t wanted him to picture me in that particular position, arched stoically over someone else who was humbled and down on one knee.
