Grace
Another drink, a “Take On Me” sing-along with Zoe and Hector, and a few chicken parm fingers later, and I’m back at the high-top with Dom again, standing close to him, our elbows on the table.
“You hit that high note well,” he tells me.
“My vocal range is unrivaled,” I say.
I eat one of the tiramisu shots. The food is amazing, but not enough to dull the warm rush of alcohol moving through my system.
I let my cardigan fall open again and track Dom’s eyes, which move across my collarbones.
Then I think, Fuck it, and take the dumb thing off entirely.
It’s hot in Edgar Allan’s, but the new air on my skin makes me shiver.
“As I was saying,” says Dom. “Nice dress, Gracey.”
“Thanks,” I tell him and lick tiramisu off my upper lip.
“Listen,” he says. “I’m sorry I’ve been kinda distant this year.”
I scan Edgar Allan’s. There are people everywhere, but it feels like we’re alone. I touch Dom’s hand just long enough for the warm, knife-nicked roughness of his skin to register against my palm. “That’s okay,” I say. “I guess it’s complicated.”
“I haven’t really known what to say,” he says, “so I’ve mostly said nothing, and that was shitty of me. I miss you, though. I liked it better when we were fr—”
The music cuts off—sudden silence—and Dom and I step away from each other. Zoe and Hector are at the head of the bar now, and Zoe shouts, “Your attention, please!”
Hector claps. “Yo, shut up!”
Everyone goes quiet, and I pull my sweater back on. Zoe and Hector are looking at me.
“Boss, can you come up here for a second?” says Hector.
As I do, a few people whistle and shout my name in support, and Zoe looks like she’s about to cry. “It’s been a tough year, Grace,” she says. “Tough for you—first and foremost—and for Ian and Bella. Your family.”
A new kind of quiet has settled over Edgar Allan’s, solemn and nerve-racking.
“But Tim was part of our family, too,” says Zoe. “And all of us—your staff—we wanted to commemorate him at the place he owned with you. The place he helped you build. The best goddamn bar in Baltimore. Am I right?”
People cheer, and Hector in his bunny suit climbs up on the bar to remove a black-and-white portrait of Edgar Allan Poe hanging overhead. Then Zoe hands him what I see now is a large framed photograph of Tim.
“And even though he’s gone,” she says. “At Edgar Allan’s, as far as we’re all concerned, he’s gonna live forever.”
Hector hangs the picture where the Poe portrait was. In the photo, Tim is standing on the street with Edgar Allan’s just behind him. The early evening sun is shining on his handsome face, and he’s smiling his big, wonderful smile.
“If you’ll all raise your glasses,” says Zoe. “To Tim!”
“To Tim!” dozens of voices repeat.
I’m not holding up a glass, though, and I didn’t just say Tim’s name with everyone else.
As I look at my dead husband all I can see is Ian, because, my god, he does look just like him.
And then I’m back at Costco watching a woman I hardly know be struck silent and weepy by that fact.
And then I’m at Tim’s funeral again, looking out at all the people who loved him.
That same woman is there, and she’s crying harder than anyone else, even me. Lauren Maxwell.
The next few minutes are a blur. At least ten people hug me. Zoe kisses my cheek. Hector’s bunny suit smells like thrift shop and weed. At some point I grab Dom. “Are you drunk?”
“What?”
“Drunk, Dom. Are you?”
He shows me his glass. “No. I’ve been sipping this thing all night.”
“Good, you’re driving me home. I Ubered here, and I need to leave. Now.”
He follows me out of Edgar Allan’s and onto the street. “Grace, what the hell’s going on. Are you okay?”
He’s confused, which I guess makes sense.
My co-workers, one of whom was dressed like a rabbit, hung a photo of my dead husband over the bar, and suddenly I was demanding to leave.
I’m not going to answer him, though, because I don’t even know where I’d start.
I hug my cardigan closed against the cold.
I forgot my giant coat, but there’s no way I’m going back.
“You’re freezing,” he says, coming after me. “Here. At least take my jacket.”
I stop and turn, and his suit coat is already off. He drapes it over my shoulders, and it’s warm from his body. I can see Tim again. He’s not in my imagination out here in the cold haunting me—instead, he’s just a memory floating in our bathroom mirror.
But what if I’m not ready, Gracey?
Well, you know what, Tim. Fuck you.
I put my hand on Dom’s chest and stand on my toes, then I close my eyes and touch my mouth to his.
Despite all his edges and hard angles, his lips are soft and warm, and we sink into each other, kissing on the street like kids who’ve known nothing but a lifetime of ease and joy.
But then he pulls away, and when he does he puts his hands on my shoulders and gently holds me in place.
“Grace,” he says. “Grace, no.”