Page 16 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction
“Ava and I started this tradition her first summer at camp, and now I do it for both kids,” I explain, lowering the camera to the sandwich’s level so each layer will be clearly visible.
“Any time I write them a letter, I take a photo that captures exactly what I was doing at that moment. Ava said it kept her connected to us without making her homesick.”
“Well, now I feel bad for teasing you, because that’s about the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says.
“This one is for Benji,” I say, gently fanning the developing photo. “He is a sandwich connoisseur. I’d put a hundred dollars on the table that his letter back insists we go to Lenny’s the same day they get out of camp. I’ll write him a quick note when we’re done.”
The last thing I do before I take a bite is grab my little notebook, flip to a page in the middle, and make a quick mark under Benji’s name.
“They are siblings,” I say with a sigh. “They are definitely comparing the number of letters that I send them.”
“You are a very smart mom,” he says as he realizes what the tally marks are for. “So, what did you learn about the art of small talk today?”
“There is an alarming tendency deep inside of me to overcomplicate every conversation—to try to explain everything or find the right words. Today, I tried to take your advice and keep it light. It worked great,” I declare.
“Any surprises? Were all the conversations the same?” he asks.
“No, they weren’t the same. Sunny and I had a short, friendly conversation, but I imagine we’ll chat a million times over the summer.
She and I will get to know one another bit by bit.
Brian asked me lots of questions, and I let him guide the conversation.
Lenny and I were just all over the place, which was fun but also chaotic. I just kind of went with the flow.”
“Are you usually a go-with-the-flow sort of person?” he asks, the side of his mouth going up in a knowing grin.
I pretend to launch another fry in his direction. Of course I’m not a go-with-the-flow sort of person.
“I’m trying out some new things this summer,” I respond.
Josh might be the fastest eater I’ve ever seen, because he’s done with his entire sandwich before I’m even halfway through mine.
“We shouldn’t lose track of our other goal for the summer: interview practice,” he says while walking his container to the trash. “Finish up your sandwich because it’s time to get down to business. Should I ask a question?”
“Let’s do it,” I respond confidently.
“I tried to think of questions that you might actually get asked. First up, what’s the hardest thing about writing a memoir?” he inquires while keeping those brown eyes on mine.
The fact that he’s put thought into these questions makes me feel unexpectedly warm in my chest. The tender kindness of it catches me off guard.
“Without a doubt the hardest thing so far has been including stories that I would prefer to keep private,” I respond, “but knowing that those stories enrich the bigger narrative and will ultimately make the book better.”
“Any examples?” he follows up.
Deep breath. The obvious story is the one from April where the horrible woman ruined a perfectly good first date.
I stare at Josh. He stares at me, and I sigh deeply.
He starts to indicate that I don’t need to share, but I put my hand up to interrupt him.
“You’re doing me a favor,” I tell him. “I have three interviews in the coming weeks with journalists that are particularly interested in my process. This question is bound to come up eventually.”
So I dive into the story. Because it’s Josh and we’ve got this great mix of a new friendship and no baggage, I go into detail in a way that I certainly won’t with journalists and, honestly, even some of my friends at home.
My friends are always quick to worry intensely about everything.
So I leave no sordid detail untold. As the story progresses, I see Josh switch into a defensive posture; his shoulders tighten, and he sits up bolt straight.
As someone who carries tension in my neck, it’s like I can see stress travel up his body just from hearing the story.
He tries to keep a poker face, but it’s morphing just like his body language.
When I finish the story, he quietly tells me he’s sorry that happened and that part of my job means sharing it with the world.
“Maybe you don’t have to share that?” he asks. His body loosens slightly, but it’s just obvious he’s had a physical reaction to my experience.
“It’s an important piece of my lived experience from the first year after Ben died.
And the truth is, I was starting to get cold feet about being away from Chapel Hill all summer before that happened.
Between that date and a particularly bad interview situation, I knew that I really needed to get away for a bit,” I add quietly.
We exist in silence for a minute while I gather my own empty container and take it to the bin under the sink. Josh breaks the quiet.
“Okay, one more question before I get back to work. I’ve decided just now that every interview session should end with a fun question so that we don’t have to be so serious. What is your least favorite movie of all time?”
“So easy. This terribly long movie with Russell Crowe where he’s on a ship for, like, three hours and the dialogue goes on forever and your brain wants to explode from boredom.”
Once again, those brown eyes home in on me like laser beams.
“For real? That is easily one of my top three favorite movies of all time,” he says, hand to his heart like I’ve just broken it.
Then he immediately bursts out laughing and tells the truth. “James made me watch that movie, like, ten years ago, and yes, my brain almost exploded. I’m pretty sure I disassociated for the last hour. That’s a solid terrible-movie choice.”
We have a moment of shared giggles over our dislike of the same film, and then he thanks me for lunch before disappearing upstairs to work on the next project.
With the sounds of his hammering in the background, I flip open my laptop to do some furniture shopping online and realize this has been one of the best mornings of my post-Ben life—filled with small talk and new friends. Who am I?