Henry and Gracie

by Marilyn Jeulin

  “I told you…”

  “My twenty-first wasn’t that bad. We met the night of my party,” I remind him.

  “I wanted to do something nice,” he says. “I’m not dying, Graciela.”

  “Fine.” I say before taking another bite of the sandwich.

  “Your party could be thrown here, you know.”

  “Don’t even think about it. Diana and Bernie will hate you forever if you try to take over their celebration.”

  “It’s your birthday,” he reminds me. I wish he didn’t, it’s actually hard to forget that I’m turning thirty. “Wouldn’t you like to have a party here? Great views of London, an ice rink, swing music?”

  “Ugh, stop,” I groan. He knows me so well.

  “I’ll talk to them. Maybe Patty’s 1940s won’t be too much.”

  “You can’t charm them; they’re both married. They’ll see right through you,” I volley before taking another bite.

  “They don’t know about me, do they?” he asks after a pause and I shift in the chair. “I mean, they don’t know about me.”

  “What?” I arch an eyebrow before clearing my throat. “What do you mean?” I ask while the confusion coats my features.

  “Why haven’t you told them you have a shag buddy?”

  I stare and then shrug. “I don’t talk about those things with them… they’re married and deeply judgmental.”

  “But you are the Trinity,” he teases as his hand moves to tuck my hair behind my ear.

  “Yes, we were… when we were in High School. I should have never told you that.” “The Trinity” was our nickname because we were probably the last virgins out of our entire senior class. After telling Henry, he’d badgered me for more information, which involved painful memories of not only high school but my horrible first time.

  “Your party should be held here or at Patty’s 1940s,” he states, and though I know he’s right, I refuse to meet his eyes.

  “Only… if you can convince them to let you help.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? Women love me.” he smirks as I lightly punch his stomach.

  “And don’t take over. They’ll bitch and moan about you, and they’ll hate you for it.” Our eyes meet before I nod.

  “What if they do? They live in Manhattan and you’re not moving back there,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. When I don’t respond, he lifts my chin up with his finger to make me meet his eyes. “You aren’t, right?”

  “No, but there’s a possibility I’ll be transferred to the L.A. office or maybe New York… it depends on the clients.”

  “You represent British actors and a handful of international bands that only need you when they come to the UK or Europe. You don’t have to move to L.A. or New York for that,” he says cuttingly, and like that, the conversation is over.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My body aches, though I won’t admit to it. I also ignore the nagging thought telling me that I’m turning thirty and perhaps can’t ice skate for hours on end after months of total inactivity in that department.

  Henry gets up and walks outside to the garden for a cigarette break as my phone rings. After finding the remote and pausing the movie, I glance at the screen and shake my head. Diana and Bernie are going to grill me over things that I would rather not discuss. I’m sure of it.

  After swiping the phone’s screen, I answer. “Hi.”

  “Hey, what are you up to?” Diana asks.

  “And give us details,” Bernie chimes in.

  “Oh, nothing much. I went ice skating.” Once the words leave my mouth, I immediately regret them. I’ve opened Pandora’s Box, or actually, I took a wrecking ball and broke through the seven hells.

  On the other end of the phone, I can hear my friends’ growing impatience through a series of clicks of their tongues and exasperated sighs. It’s clear they’re expecting much more information than what I’ve provided.

  “So, you went ice skating… and?” Diana inquires.

  “Yes…” I reply, walking toward the window and looking at Henry before leaning against the wall.

  “So, did you go alone?” Curiosity is clearly drenching her words.

  “No, I went to meet my old roommates from Cambridge.” I’m going to Hell.

  “Boring,” Diana announces as I can’t help but laugh.

  “Well, we started the countdown. Two more weeks and we’ll go shopping,” Bernie says.

  “Excellent. I can’t wait.” I try to mirror her excitement, but fail miserably. “So, are the hubs coming with you or will they join you here?”

  “No, they’ll join us a few days before your birthday. My mother and Bernie’s parents are helping with the kids until they come to meet us in England,” Diana explains, and I can’t help but feel guilty that the kids won’t see their moms for a few days.

  “Great.” I yawn as Henry comes back inside, and before I can say something, Bernie speaks.

  “We should let you get some rest.”

  “Yes, I’ll call you during the week.” I hope my voice conveys how grateful I feel at that moment.

  “Let’s Face Time, instead,” Diana says. “We can show you what we’ve put together so far. Oh, before I forget, what about Leticia’s brother?”

  “Ugh.”

  “You didn’t call him, right? Don’t you want to get married? You’re acting like you don’t want to meet someone and fall in love.” Bernie states.

  “I have too much work for relationships and putting a man before my work, etcetera, etcetera, and etcetera.”

  “Right,” Diana says in a way that I know she means bullshit. “Well, you won’t mind someone who supports you, loves you, and worships the ground you walk on.”

  “Ha, and where am I going to find someone like that?” I ask, watching Henry walk back inside and then out the front door.

  “Well, I hope you don’t mind,” Diana begins, but the pause makes me nervous. By the time my mouth recovers and I’m about to speak, she continues, “I ran into Jared.”

  “And?” I ask; the emptiness in my stomach spreads through my body as I glare at the floor.

  “Don’t be mad. He wanted to know how you were…”

  “It’s been nine years…” My voice’s cutting as another thought creeps through my mind. “Please, tell me you didn’t give him my number, D!”

  “Well, he was excited about seeing you,” Diana tells me, and immediately, Bernie makes excuses and hangs up. Typical; Bernie doesn’t want to hear the whole argument.

  “You idiot,” I say without being able to stop myself.

  “Oh, come on, it’s not like you’re seeing someone,” she says flippantly when Henry comes back in with his mail. “I mean a string of really bad blind dates don’t count…”

  “I am,” the words fly out of my mouth before I can stop myself and the line goes silent for a few seconds.

  “Who?” The incredulity of her voice rubs me off the wrong way as I wipe my face, exasperated. “Who are you seeing?”

  “I’m …” I take a deep steadying breath before starting over. “I’m not seeing anyone.” I kick the chair beside me and catch Henry’s frown.

  Don’t kill my furniture, he mouths with a concerned look.

  “Are you seeing someone or not?”

  “Not regularly,” I say before I swallow hard and hold the bridge of my nose with my fingers. Henry stands behind me, rubbing my shoulders.

  “Then you can meet him for one lousy cup of coffee. He’ll be there on Tuesday,” Diana says, annoyed, before she ends the conversation and I stare at my phone in disbelief.

  “So, what did Diana do?” Henry asks, kissing the top of my head.

  “I-Nothing, I—” I slide the phone in my pocket. Henry turns me around so I can’t look away and bullshit my way out of this.

  “Is she setting you up with one of the Manhattan jetsetters?” He pokes my side.

  “N-No one from Manhattan.”

  “Where from then?” he asks, much too curious.<
br />
  “Jared.”

  “Jared.” Henry’s voice is barely audible as he takes a deep breath. He runs a hand through his ginger locks and looks away. “Jared,” he repeats, this time with more disgust than the first time. “The asshole that dumped you after proposing?” His eyes darken in annoyance, and rather than answering, I nod slowly. “Is she insane?”

  “Mental,” I tell him, watching him. He grabs the corners of my v-neck and presses his forehead against mine. “What?”

  “I don’t think your friends know you well enough,” he stares right into my eyes.

  “Well, no, they think they do.” I shrug when his phone goes off.

  “Well, that’s precious.” He lets me go so he can answer.

  “Meh, I’ll have a cup of coffee and leave,” I say, fixing my shirt.

  “Wait…” He turns and fixes me with a glare as his phone rings again. “Are you going to see him?” The annoyance in his voice is palpable, though there’s an undercurrent of disbelief that doesn’t escape my notice. My hand runs through my hair, trying to avoid a lecture on how much of an asshole Jared is. I’m sure a book has been written on the very subject of Jared.

  “Come on, Henry,” I say as he starts walking away from me. “It’s just coffee,” I repeat as he slams the door behind him before he steps outside to take the call.

  Henry’s smiling at whoever’s talking on the other end of the phone. I love the way his face crinkles enough to hide his aquamarine eyes. Taking a deep breath, I try to ignore my brain’s better judgment. This is a stupid idea. That is a given, but I want to show Jared that I’ve done better for myself than he probably has, and that I didn’t die when he broke me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’m not sure how long Henry’s been on the phone, but I’ve watched a few episodes of an old sitcom by the time he’s back in the house. After making sure that the TV’s volume’s low enough, my eyes move from the screen to him. He sits in his favorite light blue armchair with eyes on me; his forehead wears a deep frown.

  “Why do you want to see Jared?” he asks point blank, irritation coating his voice.

  “It’s been nine years. I’m over him,” I say, rubbing my eyes.

  “So, why, if you’re over him, do you want to see him?”

  “I don’t know, Henry. I’m fine. I look good, I have a great job, and I don’t need a man to provide for me. I can take care of myself; I have great friends. I want him to see that I didn’t curl in bed and die. I also didn’t get fat, as he’s probably fat by now,” I say as he shakes his head.

  “I guess that’s a good excuse,” he says, turning to look at me, his expression unreadable.

  “I’m not - I’m not making up excuses to see him,” I protest and watch him get up before sitting next to me on the love seat. “This wasn’t even my idea.”

  “You have a thing for ginger men,” he begins in a worried tone. A single giggle escapes my lips.

  “There aren’t that many of you in the world, can you blame me?” I quip.

  “No, I guess not.” He glances my way. “Just promise me…” he begins before he waves his hand around.

  “What?” I ask, frowning.

  “Nothing.” He stands up and I reach out and grab his hand.

  “Henry, tell me.”

  “Nothing, Gracie,” he says, and the way he pronounces my nickname freezes me in place. “You’re not mine, and I’m not yours. We’re best friends.” His eyes are guarded. “I’m sure that you’ll not do something stupid like fall in love with him again.” He pulls at my hand, so I stand up.

  “I won’t fall in love with him again,” I say solemnly before Henry pulls me into his arms, snaking his arms around my body in a possessive way.

  ***

  That night, after returning home from Henry’s, I decide to do the laundry and pick a movie to watch. Unable to pick, I open the music app on the TV and then sit down to mull over my decision to see Jared. However, those thoughts quickly evaporate as one of those get-up-and-shake-your-ass songs comes up on the playlist. My cell phone rings, rudely disturbing my duet with some bubblegum pop English band. Reluctantly, I reach for it and immediately regret it. Area code 33 is calling, and that can only mean Sebastien’s finally relented. I wonder how many text messages Leticia has sent him for him to be calling at this time.

  “Hello, Sebastien,” I say, trying to sound cheerful.

  “Bonsoir, beautiful. I was wondering if I could take you to dinner.” His sexy French accent is enough to melt my resolve. I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall and then assess the disaster that is my one-bedroom apartment.

  “Now?” I ask, turning the TV off.

  “Of course, now, unless you’re busy?”

  “Sure… how about I meet you in an hour?” I glance in the mirror, evaluating my appearance before walking to the bedroom.

  “I’ll come pick you up. Leticia says we’re practically neighbors.”

  “Guess you have the address,” I tell him before grabbing one of the dresses from the wardrobe.

  “Yes, see you in an hour.” The line goes dead.

  “Goodbye to you, too…” I say, throwing the phone on the bed.

  This is not a date-date, I tell myself for the thousandth time, shoving my feet in the black heels, then reaching for my earrings. The dress I picked is tight, though not overly slutty. After all, the hemline falls mid-thigh and I’m not showing any cleavage. And with that thought in mind, I tell myself this isn’t a dress that screams “do me” in any language.

  Just as I run my fingers through my hair, there’s a knock at the door. I take a deep, steadying breath and then look at my reflection. “Be done with it, Grace.”

  This is just a non-date. Leticia will get off my back, my friends will ask questions, and I’ll offer them painful details of the night, and most importantly, Sebastien will be on his merry way back to Milan for a photo-shoot. I’ll not have to discuss this anymore.

  I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, after all, Leticia’s office is littered with photographs of her family and those include her brother. It’s not as if I’d not seen him before. Perhaps it’s the fact that the photos don’t really do him any justice. When my door opens, and almost as if on cue, he turns around slowly before leaning closer to the door frame and offering me a dazzling smile.

  “Hey,” he says in a carefully breathy tone as his long black hair falls straight to his shoulders. The contrast between his hair and his deep green eyes is wild. For a moment, I get lost in them when I hear his voice. “Wow, you’re pretty; I really thought you were a charity case. I mean, you’re at best a five and a half,” he adds while I close the door slightly louder than intended. I will definitely have to apologize to Mrs. Quentin in the morning.

  “I beg your pardon!” I huff, looking at him.

  “It’s a good thing, trust me, Grace.” He grins as I open and close my mouth before locking the door. This isn’t a date, I remind myself. It’s a charity case. I’m being charitable by putting up with his overinflated freaking stupid ego, and I’ll make Leticia pay… maybe dinner at a top London restaurant.

  On the way down the stairs, he has his eyes glued to his phone and trips over the last step, prompting me to stifle a fit of giggles. The moment we reach the front door, he makes no move to open the door and when I finally do, he walks through it, still texting.

  Outside my building, a black cab is waiting on us. After I open the door, Sebastien climbs in first and closes the door, leaving me to have to walk around and open my own.

  These simple actions grind on my nerves as I look out the window while buckling up. Henry’s definitely spoiled me.

  “So, Leticia says you love Lebanese and Moroccan food,” he states and suddenly a shimmer of hope appears in the horizon. Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought. “I hate it, so I thought we should go for either French or Italian.”

  “That’s fine,” I say, wondering if his abruptness has something to do with his Frenchness or is it just a
part of his personality. I glance at the clock on the dashboard of the cab and groan inwardly. It’s only 9 p.m.

  We stop at a little bistro, which is no longer serving dinner, but the manager is willing to let us order coffee and dessert since there are quite a few patrons still finishing their dinner. The pretty brunette hostess leads the way and Sebastien quickly follows her, leaving me behind. I swear, if it wasn’t because the waiter pulls the chair out for me to sit, he’d forgotten all about me.

  “They’re as bad as people in Paris,” Sebastien complains as I look up from the dessert menu, confused by his statement.

  “They allowed us to come in and have something to eat.”

  “Dessert,” Sebastien spits the word out and makes a face as if it tastes bitter or worse: rotten. It makes me click my tongue with exasperation. “What? Am I offending your American manners?”

  “No,” I swallow hard so I don’t let my temper flare, because the fact that he’s said American in the same tone as he said dessert makes me want to deck him. “I was merely pointing out the obvious. If they didn’t want to serve us, he wouldn’t have given us the table.”

  “I don’t know what to have; maybe the cheesecake,” he says, ignoring me.

  When the waiter comes back, I order a black decaf coffee and then stare at Sebastien, who is busy checking out the waitress and the hostess, trying to catch the eye of either one of them.

  “So, are you on a diet or something?” he asks when his attention shifts to me.

  “I don’t eat this late,” I lie. Truth be told, he’s killed my appetite.

  “Why not? You’re skinny enough.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t usually do,” I reply, ignoring the intensity of his eyes once they begin studying me. “Leticia doesn’t eat this late, either. When we used to live with our mother in Spain, we would have dinner at ten o’clock, but once back in Paris, dinner was at eight.” He glances around the place, surely looking for one of the girls. I glance at my phone when it chimes.

  “Sorry, I must take this,” I say, not even looking at the phone as I step outside of the restaurant with my purse phone in hand. When I finally look at the screen, I see Henry’s picture. “Please save me.”