Page 11 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

We leave the kids, but not before I warn them while cackling in an evil voice that their remaining screen time is slowly melting away.

They groan in sync as we walk out of the room.

We spend another twenty minutes in the other two bedrooms and one bathroom upstairs.

The last room we hit isn’t technically a bedroom, since it has no closet.

“I plan to make this my writing room,” I say. “It doesn’t need much besides the basic cosmetic improvements, but I haven’t really made any plans for it yet. This old desk is just a placeholder until I find the right thing.”

Josh peeks around the corner into the tiny room.

Aside from the save on the stairs, this is the closest we’ve been to one another.

I decide that it’s good to get this out of the way.

He’s going to be here all summer. I need to get used to him in my space and close by.

I can’t let my imagined tension be a third wheel for the next few months.

We convene in the spacious upstairs hallway, and I announce that it’s time for us to discuss everyone’s favorite topic: money.

“James indicated you wanted to do a set weekly fee,” I say matter-of-factly. “What should it be?”

“I don’t know—a few hundred bucks,” he suggests nonchalantly.

“What?” I ask, incredulous. “Be truthful—what’s the catch?”

That big, easy smile crosses his face. It’s just like the one his brother has.

“Gracie, I know James told you about my actual situation. This is a way for me to pass time without going crazy. So, two hundred and fifty dollars a week?”

“Absolutely not. The lowest I will go is five hundred dollars, and I need you to know I will feel bad about that paltry amount every single day.”

“That seems high for a guy just trying to kill time.”

“Josh, you realize I’ve googled your work, right? You are, like, a construction and remodeling genius. I don’t deserve your talents for five hundred dollars a week.”

This causes him to blush and push his hands into his pockets.

“Well, five hundred dollars it is because I won’t charge more than that.”

Deal, we agree, shaking hands for effect. Then I remember the list in my purse. I reach in and hand it to him.

“I almost forgot. This is a list my late husband and I worked on a year ago right after we bought the house. Most likely we didn’t miss anything today, but it’s probably good to have it just in case.

He unfolds the notebook paper, and I watch those dark-brown eyes travel up and down as he skims the list.

“Did you write this?” he asks with an interested look on his face.

“No,” I answer bluntly in a tone that says this thread of conversation is done . Ben wrote it, but I don’t tell him that. He probably assumes it’s my dead husband’s handwriting.

—

Now that we’ve established the ground rules for how this will work, I decide to give him a bit more information about my life and the slightly frantic version of me he should expect to see.

It feels important to stress that the person he’s about to spend the summer with is an amped-up, anxiety-ridden version of my usual self, just so he knows I’m not always like this.

“The other thing is that with me being here alone, without my kids, trying to pound out tons of writing, all the days are the same to me,” I explain.

“So, you should feel comfortable working on the days that are best for you…weekday, weekend…no difference. Just promise not to judge me for the amount of food I’ll be ordering in or that I might not change my clothes for days in a row.

I’ll be very focused on my work this summer. ”

“Got it and I promise,” he responds. “Anything else I should know?”

I think for a minute and realize, yes—there’s a bit more.

“A few times a week at noon I’ll need quiet for around an hour.

I need to do some press interviews as a way to promote my column and a little bit of the book, too.

I’ve given my publicist the noon hour as the one time frame she’s allowed to use because I’m not usually in my creative flow around lunch. ”

Josh stares at me like he’s trying to connect a few new puzzle pieces that have just appeared on a table. “James told me you’re a writer, but interviews and a publicist? Am I just standing here ignorant to the fact that a famous person is in front of me?”

“It depends on how you define famous ,” I say with a broad but slightly embarrassed smile on my face.

“ Internet famous is probably the accurate term, but I hate it. There is an argument to be made that I’m actually famous for a segment of the thirty-five-to-fifty-year-old female population that is chronically online. ”

“That is oddly specific, but I also get it, which is slightly terrifying,” he responds with a quick laugh. “Can I ask what sort of interviews you do?”

I take a few minutes to explain that I will be subjected to every type of interview possible to help build my confidence back up for the eventual wider onslaught that will be the book tour next spring.

Podcasts, women’s magazines, regional newspapers, public radio—if they are willing to talk to me, I will do it.

I’m promoting the column but also practicing so I’m in good shape for the major leagues next year.

Gracie Harris, the brand, reporting for duty.

“It’s all part of the plan to ‘build buzz’ until—if I manage to hit my writing deadlines—the book comes out next spring.

I’ve mostly avoided doing interviews until now, so this is a new layer to the work and definitely not my favorite part,” I add.

I leave out how I’ve got a seven-layer dip’s worth of anxiety about opening up to journalists and “content creators” over the next few months.

This is the Gracie Recovery Tour after my visit to Maisy last month.

If I’m going to fail, I need to fail small, learn from it, and recover quick.

I cannot be in this condition next spring.

“Cool. No problem on the interviews,” he says, and then pauses.

“The walls in this house are solid, but I’m still gonna be pretty noisy with some of the work.

I don’t want to get a fame-adjacent writer out of her creative flow.

Should we have a bat signal or something you can throw up if I’m annoying the hell out of you? ”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was now obviously flirting with me. Remembering terms that I just used, like creative flow , and being concerned about my writing process? I make a note that this behavior is also very attractive to me. I recover quickly and play it cool.

“No need to worry,” I explain. “I grew up in a busy house and I’m a mom to two kids. I can block out any and all noise, but I appreciate you asking.”

He starts digging around in his back pocket and pulls out the little gold key to the front door. Just as he’s about to hand it over, I wave him off.

“It’ll be convenient for you to have that. If I’m working from The Drip, you’ll be able to come right in and I’ll see your truck in the driveway when I get back, so I won’t have to worry when the door is unlocked.”

He slips it back into his pocket and a look crosses his face that I can’t quite put my finger on.

I suspect it has something to do with me expressing stranger-danger concerns to his brother a week ago (which James surely told him about) and now hearing me tell him less than two hours after we’ve met that he can keep a key to my house.

“Most days I’ll get here around nine if that’s okay with you,” he says.

“Totally fine. I’m an early riser. The kids used to wake us up so early when they were young, and my body never really adjusted back,” I respond. “Honestly, I’ll be up and around by seven most days. Don’t be shy.”

“Got it,” he says as we walk toward the door.

We exchange the typical pleasantries that new acquaintances share when saying a first goodbye. I stand in the doorway just long enough to do a stiff, unnatural wave when he turns to get into his truck. Then I close the door and snap back into mom life.

“Benji, Ava,” I call up the stairs. “Time to go explore town for a bit and grab an early dinner before camp tomorrow!”

In the five minutes it takes to wrap up their tablet games, I fire off a note to the group text. They were all convinced James was setting me up to be the subject of a true-crime podcast with some story about an imaginary brother.

Good news—the contractor is REAL and is going to work out. Definitely not a serial killer. With all due respect to James, he is not the cuter brother. Lots of work from the coffee shop for me! NO DISTRACTIONS. Finished memoir, here I come!