Page 31 of Grape Juice
“You look really beautiful,” Henri says quietly as if reading my own surprise and slicing through it with accuracy.
“You do too,” I respond.Problematically so, I want to say. But then... he seems jittery, anticipatory, as if overcaffeinated. The space between us—more space than usual—almost vibrates, as if he’s emitting a low, humming sound undetectable to my ears.
We stand in silence, our stilted compliments clouding the air. I exhale. “Are you OK? You seem... a little agitated.”
“No, no, I’m good. Excellent, actually.” His voice is a notch higher than usual. “Genial!” He leans forward, kissing me hard on the mouth, and I don’t see it coming. When we collide, it’s more car crash than connection. An aberration. I press my fingers to my lips.
He scans my face. “Sorry... was just very excited to see you.” He clutches his hands together. “I, um, I have something to tell you.”
He trails off, and I raise my eyebrows. My stomach clenches as I wait anxiously for him to explain last night’s disappearance, his off-brand, frenetic energy.Why the drawn-out preface?I wonder. We’ve never required verbal on-ramps before.
“I did it. I left her. Fully.” His voice wavers as if he, himself, is shocked to hear his vocal cords shaped into those particular sounds. “We talked last night, for many hours, and I... I ended things. Not a break anymore. Just an ending.”
Something swells up in me—quick and violent, like an electric shock. I’ve wanted to hear those words, haven’t I? Have dreaded anythingbutthose words. And yet the fierce reality of our particular scenario is glaring. I am leaving. He is demolishing the scaffolding of his life. And we, well. We are two people now in a position to be awe, should we so choose—with all the burdens that entails. I haven’taskedfor this. Have I?
He leans forward to kiss me again, but I take two steps backward. “Alice?” he says with audible concern, and I hear the metallic ring of his voice somewhere deep in my chest—as if he’s speaking notatme butintome.
I can see the hurt as it flashes across his face—confusion at my reluctance, at my lack of immediate and flagrant enthusiasm.And really, why am I reluctant? Whereismy immediate and flagrant enthusiasm?
“I wanted to tell you right away. To thank you. I’ve been ready to do it for some time,” he presses onward. “The breaking up, not the telling you. For a long time, actually.But I was too... I don’t know. Just couldn’t make myself do it—until now. I needed a reason that I couldn’t talk myself out of.”
His voice shakes softly, and I watch as his hands move toward me and retreat repeatedly—endless false starts. I can feel the weight of his admission simmering somewhere in my stomach, the acid twinge of guilt as it spreads like contagion throughout my gut, coats my esophagus. Am I the cause—thereasonthis man to whom I’ve promised nothing, who has promised nothing to me, is upending his life?
Charlotte, this living, breathing woman, is exhaling, folding laundry, salting her food, processing the end of her relationship somewhere in Lyon, and I am returning to New York. To Emma. To my own alternate reality.
He reaches for my hand and this time holds it between his, looking at me pleadingly. My heart rate quickens—and not in the way it normally does when the two of us touch. This is an alarm sounding, an alert from the nervous system.
“What’s wrong?” he prods, his apprehensive glee fully transformed into something panic-adjacent. “I thought this would be good news. It means that this—us—is not so complicated. I don’t understand why you’re not smiling?”
I push my tongue around my gums, hoping certain words might bubble up, wanting to recover his shaky, eager joy in some form. But my mouth is full of a citric, iron anxiety. Does he not understand that some portion of the fragile, tentative bliss of us—of all of this—relies onthe fact that it can’t exist in the real world? That it can’t survive outside of whatever magical dimension in which we presently stand?
And now, here we are, properly dressed, as our actual selves. I have the odd sense that time is no longer moving in its militant march forward. It’s hitting me sideways, at an angle.
I look down at the hem of my dress, and it strikes me as too revealing of everything underneath. “I just... we never talked about the future. I thought there was some tacit agreement that this was all we had. I didn’taskyou to make any choices around me.”
“Alice... what are you talking about?” His hands go to his hair. “I’m not, like, asking you to marry me, OK?” Something harsh creeps into his eyes—an impatience I’ve never detected in him before. “I mean... forgive me for thinking we weren’t gonna high-five and go our separate ways when harvest ended. Is that so crazy?”
“Viens, my dears!” Bea calls from the front of the house. “Come now, much to do!”
She’s stationed mere yards away, and there is no ignoring her. She stands, hands on her hips; there’s no time to be bought.
As we amble over, I find myself wishing desperately for Emma’s presence. Surely she’d have some idea about what is so disastrously wrong with me. Why I’m so allergic to romantic plausibility. Why the loose ends of this conversation with Henri scratch at my throat like a choking hazard.
XVI
Antoine lights the outdoor brick oven as Bea shows the five of us—so shiny clean we’re nearly reflective—how to make the tarte flambée. She demonstrates how to roll out the dough, slow and steady, until it’s paper thin, then garnish the surface with an array of ingredients spread across the table. The traditional, local version of the dish comes slathered with crème fraîche, slivered onions, and smoky-cured bacon, but Bea has laid out preserved meats, sliced vegetables, and herb sprigs. Once we complete our masterpieces, we’ll pass them to Antoine, who will bake them in his fire-breathing chamber wielding his hulking wooden paddle.
I excuse myself to the bathroom then jog into the house and sit on the edge of the tub to call Emma. I clutch my phone to my ear.Pick up, pick up, pick up, I mouth.
“Alice!” Her voice is dotted with enthusiasm. “I’ve only got a minute—working a double at the restaurant. Talking to you from the walk-in right now.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, picturing her in her work uniform. “God, it’s good to hear your voice.”
“Is that affection? FrommyAlice? France reallyhassoftened you up.”
I laugh.
“So to what do I owe the pleasure of your emergency phone call?”
