Grace
“I see we’ve advanced from booty texts to booty calls,” I say. “Jeez, Henry. It’s like you’re obsessed with me.”
He laughs, but I can hear that his heart isn’t in it.
“So, you’re up,” he says. “I was worried I’d wake you.”
“Might hit a rave later,” I say. “By the way, I’m starting to get your point about this lady wine. You’ve ruined me for real booze.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I just hear street sounds—music, honking.
“Are you outside?”
“I’m walking home.”
We’re quiet, like we’re having a staring contest with our phones. I want to ask how his date went, but I don’t want to actually ask because I’m just a cool, carefree girl in her closet. Finally, though, I blink. “Sooo? How’d it go?”
“She kissed me,” he says.
I always think of sadness as a slow-moving thing, like a sandcastle being washed away. I feel sad very suddenly now, though. I sit down on my closet floor and rub Harry Styles’s head and remind myself that this is fine. This is better. This is good for Henry, for me, for Tim, for all of us.
“What kind of kiss was it?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Henry, don’t be an idiot. There are a million kinds. Was it a kiss kiss. Or just—”
“A small one,” he says.
“Did you kiss her back?”
“No,” he says. “Not really. She was about to get into her Uber, then…”
“One of those kisses, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Women are good at those,” I say. “A little something to remember us by.”
I listen to the clomping of his feet, the sound of slight exertion.
“How was it?” I ask.
He hesitates; there’s a siren somewhere. “It was nice. You know, it’s…it’s been a while.”
“I do know.”
“I kinda thought I’d never be kissed again,” he says. “And I kinda thought I was okay with that. Now I feel a little shitty about it, like I’ve done something wrong.”
“It’s complicated being the one left behind, huh?”
“It is,” he says.
“Maybe just focus on the nice part,” I say. “It’s nice to be kissed, and you deserve to feel something nice again.”
I’m out of things to say, but I don’t want to hang up yet. Seems like Henry doesn’t want to hang up yet, either, because he says, “So, how are you?”
I laugh. “Um, fine. I watched the end of Edward Scissorhands after you left, so I’m probably gonna go ahead and heave myself into the Inner Harbor now. Other than that, all good.”
A small smile creeps into his voice. “I warned you. Dark and sad.”
“Yep,” I say. “Dark and sad.”
Another siren, but this one sounds farther off, barely a whine.
“Anyway,” he says. “Sorry I called so late. I just…after all that…well, I just wanted to talk to you again, I guess.”
“I get it,” I say. “That’s what friends are for, right?”
“Right. Friends.”
When I finally do hang up, the dog watches as I stand up and go back to my clothes. I push some things aside, hoodies and a Ravens pullover from Bud Light. Then I stop at my red dress. I take it down and hold it up to myself.
Harry Styles looks up at me.
“What do you think?” I ask him. “Can I still pull it off?”