Page 22 of Grape Juice
“Go on,” he coaxes.
“Fine. The thing was, I watched this boy I loved so much lower himself in front of me, ring in hand, and it just hurt. Saying no—it was embarrassing, obviously. For both of us. I did this unkind, violent thing—even though I knew that the crueler, more violent thing would’ve been saying yes, then changing my mind. But I was never going to be happy if I stayed—not forever.” I pause, grinding my teeth. “I believed for a long time that we’d find our way back to each other again once I’d done a bit more living without him... but I think that’s probably just a stupid, comforting thing people tell themselves to mute all the hurt that comes with leaving someone.”
I round up the grape stems in my palms and deposit them in a crate on the floor. “Anyway, I thought we’d be friends—that we’d always know each other because how could we not? We were so large in each other’s lives. ButI think he’s still pretty angry at me... which is fair. I’m not faulting him for that. It’s just tough for me that he hasn’t come around. It hurts for me too.” I look up at my rapt audience, and I realize I’ve now shared more on this subject with these foreign men in this foreign country than I have with anyone, anywhere in years. “I mean, toactuallyanswer your question, I think I just started to feel like I was some kind of bad, poison thing, romantically. Like... noble rot.”
“But noble rot—it’s not bad, not always,” Henri says with a tenderness that makes me blush. He’s right, I know. It’s an infestation in vineyards—gray mold, essentially—that can be harnessed for good. It can even be cultivated with the intention of concentrating sugar in grapes. It’s a benevolent attack of sorts.
“Eh, I’m not a fan of sweet wines.” Julian unleashes another load of fruit. “Noble rot is just rot to me.”
“Ouch,” I say with a laugh, wincing.
“It wasn’t a metaphor! I was just speaking literally!” Julian is adamant, but he bites back a smile. “Anyway, surely your ex is just as responsible as you are.”
“Maybe. But all along, I knew I had it in me to hurt him. And when you have power like that, dormant or not, it still feels malicious. It’s like carrying a concealed weapon. Even if you don’t intend to use it, the fact that it’s there at all still means something.”
“When did you know it was over? That you wouldn’t end up with him?” Henri asks as he discards a cocoon of stems.
I pretend to think, furrow my brow in a posture of contemplation. It’s a question I’ve asked myself countless times, and in truth, I know the answer, though I’ve never opted to share it. I look directly at Henri and run my gaze across the plane of his face before I respond. “I have this wildly distinct memory of seeing him on the sand in the Rockaways—that’s a public beach in New York.”
“Like the Ramones song!” He grins.
“Exactly. Like the Ramones song,” I affirm. “So, I was swimming, and he was on land helping this woman with her umbrella. He’d always been helpful that way, had the kind of face that made people stop him on the sidewalk to ask for directions. She was small and blonde, and while I watched, I couldn’t help but think they looked oddly beautiful together.” Henri tilts his head, but his expression remains static. “And you know, he was the biggest thing that had ever happened to me. But right then, looking at him on the shore, I had this strange feeling: I was hoping he’d happen to someone else.”
I remember, that day, searching my body for symptoms of jealousy, scanning my sternum and pelvis for tightness. But there was nothing there.
“Woah.” Henri exhales, and I do too, somewhat awed that I’ve managed to speak that particular anecdote aloud. That I’ve made it to the end.
“That is extremely specific,” Julian adds. “I can’t imagine having that feeling about anyone.”
“I... yeah, woah,” Henri repeats. “Did that make it easier? To leave?”
“Maybe.” I chew on my bottom lip. “But I guess what I didn’t know then is that a person can keep on happening to you after they’ve left.” I don’t tell Henri that when I stopped loving Max, the shift felt violently small, like some mistaken swallow of ocean water. It had tasted like salt, like fruit gone bad, like New York in July.
“Can peoplehappen to youin English? Grammar doesn’t work that way in German,” Julian says.
“Technically, no... but that’s what I mean.”
“That’s what it was like after my mom left.” Henri moves his hair off his forehead with his forearm. “En fait, it’s probably still going for me too. The her-ness. Maybe even a comforting thought. Makes a person less gone.”
“Exactly.”
“Fine, I’ll admit it: Thatiskind of nice,” Julian confesses.
“Wait.En fait...?” I ask. I’ve never heard the phrase before, can’t decipher it.
“‘In fact’... or ‘actually.’”
“I’ve been sayingactuellement... is that wrong?”
“Faux amis,” the two shoot back in unison. They’re so in sync it feels rehearsed. Thexpronounced as az: foe-za-mee.
There is a certain relief in returning to talk of language. I want Henri alone, want to speak for however-many more hours on the subject of Max, his mom, ocean water, so many things. But for now, the three of us at work, discussing the nuances of vocabulary, is plenty soothing.
“‘Fake friends,’faux amis—they’re what you call false cognates in English,” Julian explains. “Words that are similar enough to convince you that they’re like terms.Butactuellementis kind of like saying ‘right now, in this moment.’”
“Ah, I see.” I grin. “Faux amis, I love that. So much more charming thanfalse cognates.”
“False cognates,” Julian imitates my American accent in a flat, nasal drone.
