Grace
The office door opens, and it’s Zoe holding a beer. “What the hell’re you doing hiding out?” she asks. “And why are you wearing the world’s biggest coat? It’s hot as balls in here.”
She says this the way Zoe says most things: quickly and pissed-off sounding.
I’m in the stuffy little room behind the kitchen at Edgar Allan’s.
There’s a phone in here, a desk, an old desktop from the aughts, and a cardboard Boone’s Farm box that serves as Edgar Allan’s lost and found.
I’m wearing a long, down-filled North Face coat that covers me from my shoulders to ankles.
“Wow, you look great, Zo,” I say.
Zoe dresses nice once a year. She’s in tight black jeans and a sexy black top that shows off her tats, along with a full face of makeup. “Thanks,” she says, “but this isn’t about me. Let’s go. Scorsese made these chicken parm tender things that are straight-up bonkers.”
“I’m just finishing up some last-minute things,” I say, obviously lying. I don’t think this computer is even on.
“Whatever,” she says. “Get your ass out—” Her face changes now. “Oh, wait. Shit. Grace, are you, like, sad? The party? Is it too much?”
An unreported perk of having a dead husband: People give you the benefit of the doubt in social situations. Zoe assumes that I’m not being a reclusive weirdo, I’m just giving in to grief.
The truth, though, is that I’m insecure about my outfit. “Can I ask you something?”
She takes a sip of her beer, tells me “sure.”
I stand, unzip the North Face. “Am I overdressed?”
My coat falls onto the chair, and Zoe’s face changes again as she takes in my red dress. “Goddamn,” she says.
There’s a dusty mirror in here with a Heineken logo on it.
We look at my reflection now. The dress is shorter than I remember it being when I put it on at home, maybe an inch north of my mid-thighs.
I pull it down, but that just makes the neckline even plungier, so I’m left choosing between showing too much leg or too much boob.
If I had a time machine, I’d go back and ask twentysomething me what she was thinking.
“It’s too much, isn’t it?” I say.
Zoe cocks her head. “Well, that’s a matter of perspective. I’m not gonna lie, it’s pretty casual out there. Hector’s wearing a pink bunny suit, and we have like three drunk Bad Santas.”
“A bunny suit?” I ask.
“That movie,” she says. “You know, ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.’ ”
“Oh, right. But—yeah, I need to change. Do you have any extra clothes here?”
“Um, no, and the absolute fuck you need to change.”
“I look like a prostitute, Zoe.”
“What? No, you don’t.” She smiles. “Well, an expensive one, maybe. And that’s a compliment. I mean, look at you.”
I did look at myself, earlier, a lot. I’d planned to wear my nicest jeans and a decent sweater, because this is a holiday party in a goddamn Edgar Allan Poe–themed bar in Baltimore.
But then I thought of Meredith in that Audrey Hepburn dress in her bio, and I found myself experiencing several interwoven threads of jealousy.
I was jealous of Meredith for getting to do what I’d briefly thought about: kissing Henry.
I was jealous of Henry for getting kissed before I did.
I know that’s childish, but there it is: competitive grieving.
And, finally, I was jealous of Meredith a second time for simply getting to be a girl in a pretty dress.
Zoe is full-on leering at me now.
“Will you stop it?” I say.
“Sorry. I’ve just never seen your legs before. You’ve got—you’ve got stems!”
“Oh god.”
She points at my boobs, wiggles her finger back and forth. “And those? Shit. Who knew?”
In most industries, a conversation like this between a boss and an employee would be frowned upon. Zoe and I, however, work in a bar. In terms of HR oversight, we might as well be in the mafia.
“You’re fired,” I say, and she laughs.
“You’re gonna be firing half the staff when you go out there.”
I should’ve thought of that. Aside from Zoe and a few teenage hostesses who are too young to even be here tonight, my employees are all dudes, and they’re all idiots in that way that I imagine two dozen little brothers would be idiots.
“Shit,” I say. “I’m gonna go home and change.”
“No, I was kidding,” she says. “Well, kind of. I’m not psyched to hear myself say this, you know, as a woman. But you’re probably gonna have to deal with some minor sexual harassment tonight.”
I look around the office, desperate. Then I remember the Boone’s Farm box where I find a discarded mitten, a T-shirt from an adult kickball league, two mangled water bottles, a few lighters, and…
“Bingo!” I say.
“What?”
I pull out a long cardigan sweater—furry, beige, like someone skinned Fozzie Bear from the Muppets—and put it on. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” she says. “Still sexy…but with a library card.”
As Zoe drains the last of her beer, I decide to take that as a compliment.
Then she asks if I’m ready to party. I slinked in here through the delivery door before anyone arrived, and I’ve been here since.
Based on the volume coming through the door, it sounds like things have ramped up.
I tell her yeah, but I must sound unsure because she asks if I want to do a shot.
“What?”
“A shot,” she says. “It’s a small, highly concentrated glass of alcohol.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Should one ever, though?” she asks.
It’s a valid point. I’m typically the least drunk person at the Edgar Allan’s employee holiday party, and I plan to continue that tradition. Walking out there with nothing but anxiety and one Diet Coke in my system seems like a bad idea, though. “Okay,” I say. “But nothing too gross.”
Sixty seconds later, Zoe returns with two small, highly concentrated glasses of alcohol. “Baileys, with a little something to get us started,” she says. “Cheers, sexy.”
I don’t generally like shots because I’m a grown-up, but this one tastes like sledding and nostalgia. Like being young and happy. Like setting out presents at midnight with Tim under our tree. Like Christmas.
Zoe takes my glass and opens the office door. The crew has dimmed the house lights and put on a rock and roll holiday mix. The windows are mostly fogged over, but I can see flurries outside.
“Yo, nice legs, boss!” shouts Hector from across the bar. He is, indeed, dressed like a rabbit.
“You can fire him later,” says Zoe.
Edgar Allan’s usually smells like beer and French fries.
Tonight, though, it smells like the Italian Embassy, which I realize just as I spot Dom.
He’s standing alone by the spread of food wearing a dark suit and a dark shirt with no tie.
When he sees me, I can tell he’s been looking for me, and my stomach flutters.
“Oh,” says Zoe, putting her arm around me. “I forgot to mention. He’s obnoxious as hell and generally very irritating, but Scorsese looks hot tonight.”