Page 7 of Grape Juice
I can’t remember the last time I’ve spoken about Max—even with Emma. This is the sort of dialogue that usually embarrasses me. But there’s something about Henri’s prompting questions, the steady rhythm of corrected verb conjugations, the green barrier between us that makes it easy. Something about the faraway closeness of us. Perhaps even some long-dormant desire I’ve harbored, unwittingly, to relinquish this narrative to the air.
He pulls aside a leaf and winks at me, an unabashedI told you sosmile plastered across his face. “Therapy! See?”
Fuck, he’s right. I grin back. “Therapy.”
“Andthatman, what was he like? We need all of the details if we’re going to heal you of your ennui.”
I laugh and share the contours with uncharacteristic generosity: The man, tall and sturdy, raised in a Brooklyn Heights apartment too astoundingly charming to be true. A handful of key plot points involving the Rockaways, Thanksgiving, cigarettes on one stoop or another. Intermittently, Henri asks for another detail or clarification, ushering me along like some gentle, almost imperceptible current.
“And there’snobody, in the whole wide city of New York, who’s held your interest since this ex?”
“Nope.”
“Not a single person?”
“No.”
“OK, so why did you bother with thislastguy, then? The accident?”
“It’s not like there was anything wrong with him,but...” I try to understand it myself—or, at the very least, explain it in a way that makes me a vaguely sympathetic narrator. “It was bizarre, actually. Most of the time, Iwantedto like him. But I just couldn’t feel anything.”
“OK, so, wrong person, wrong time. Right time, wrong person. Right person, wrong time. If you’re having fun, no harm, though, right?”
“Sure. I’m not always very good at having fun, though. My roommate back home always tells me I’mwired wrong.”
He snort-laughs. “You’re wired just fine.”
“You don’t know me nearly well enough to make that assessment.”
“Sure, but give me a week of vine therapy. Maybe two. By the end ofles vendanges, I’ll know all about your wiring.”
I wonder if we’re still talking in the same metaphor. “We’ll see about that,mon ami.” I overturn my bucket into one of the baquets. “Your turn. What aboutyourgirlfriend? Far more interesting than addressing my nonboyfriends.” I make my voice light and bright. I do and do not wish to know—but by the etiquette of our vine rapport, it would be gauche not to ask.
I feel him hesitate on the other side, shaving vinaigre from a bunch of grapes with a needless attentiveness. “Well, um. We’re on a pause. A break?”
I exhale as quietly as possible, surprised at my own discernible relief.
“I’m not sure I have the right word. I... I don’t know. I wasn’t doing so well after the bar closed, and we were fighting a lot, and we thought some time away would be good.”
“Has it? Been good?”
“Well, thus far... relieving, yes. But I’m not sure that’s what I’m supposed to feel. For a while now, it’s just been a little... empty. Maybe I blame her for what happened with the bar? Maybe we’ve grown out of each other? Maybe it’s just a rough patch? I don’t know.”
“How long has it been?”
“We’ve been together since we were young—even before university. Our families know each other, our friends are close. But sometimes it feels like we’re just going through the motions because we don’t know hownotto: parties, laundry, birthdays, emails.”
“Well... going through the motions can be nice. You forget how comforting it is to do laundry next to someone else until you’re washing your sheets alone.”
“Trust me, I know. The shape of our life... it’s good. Very comfortable. I don’t know why I’m complaining.”
“Why are you, then?” I nudge aside a leaf cluster to look at him. I take in the line of his chin as he clenches his teeth, running his hand across the surface of his mounting haul of fruit before turning to meet my gaze dead-on. “Therapy, remember?” I goad, emboldened by his own tactics.
“Touché. It’s probably because the wholebreakthing feelsgood.Reallygood. Which, if I’m being honest, probably means I’ve been unhappy for longer than I realized. Or... I don’t know. I don’t know if I see myself as unhappy. That doesn’t feel like the right word. But something that’slikeunhappiness.”
“Go on.”
“It’s this thing that’snextto being sad but isn’t. Not quite.”
