Page 18 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“See? I told you it would help,” I say confidently, even though I didn’t think it would actually work so quickly. How about that?

I’ve likely made Josh late for whatever lunch meeting he was trying to get to, but he doesn’t rush to leave. I thank him again and walk across the hall to the writing room to collect my thoughts.

Josh is the first person to successfully talk me through a stress tic.

Jenny, my mom, Dr. Lisa—they’re all almost always focused on trying to get to the root of the problem or downplay my mental spiral that they don’t take time to just talk me through it.

Frankly, I didn’t know a calming conversation was an option.

Josh was surprisingly adept at de-escalating the situation and acting like it wasn’t a big deal.

I sit down at the desk and think about an essay from five months ago.

Over wine and a late-night phone call, Jenny and I basically cowrote the equally loved and maligned essay called “Rules for Dating a Despondent Widow.” It was a mostly tongue-in-cheek look at what it means to date someone who is both very sad and very new to the realities of dating in the modern era.

It included tips like Don’t mention anything to make them cry (spoiler alert: you won’t know what those things are until they start crying).

It was all based on real experiences of mine in the first month I got back into dating.

It was a sensation. People shared it with comments like “Also goes for divorcées” and “Literally peed my pants reading this.”

Some readers without a sense of humor declared that I was a terrible person and mom for attempting to date within the first year after Ben’s death.

I have no doubt that the horrible woman at the restaurant was one of them.

Meanwhile, Ava read it and laughed so hard she snorted.

“Wow, Mom—I didn’t know you could be so funny,” she said with so much preteen honesty that I didn’t know whether to be offended or honored.

That piece is on my mind because now I’m thinking of new rules—rules for distracting a despondent friend. I reach for a pen and notebook and jot down three things that Josh did really well.

Rule #1: Don’t make it about you.

Rule #2: Engage them on a topic that always brings them joy.

Rule #3: Let them decide when they feel better.

I like where this is going. I reach across the desk for my laptop and open a fresh document.

I type for long enough that I see the mailman drive up one side of Wilson Street and come back down two hours later to my driveway.

That means he’s done most of downtown; I’m at the end of the central route.

A true creative flow. The pull quote for this one is easy:

Perhaps the most important rule of all is this: don’t try to solve the problem. The problem is a bigger and more tangled mess than you can imagine. Be there, be present, be aware. That’s what we need when we’re down.

Aside from Ben and the kids, the only other people who have inspired essays for me are Dr. Lisa and Jenny.

I take this as a sign that this is a genuine friendship blooming.

Something about this summer in Canopy really, truly matters.

I won’t tell Josh, though; it might go to his head.

I also conveniently leave mention of my leg shake out of the essay.

That isn’t something I’m ready to share with the world just yet.

—

I expected that yesterday’s minor freak-out on my part might’ve scared Josh away for a day, but we’re back to the normal routine like nothing out of the ordinary happened at all.

“What’s your biggest fear?” he asks me over today’s kitchen-island lunch. I’m nibbling on toast with almond butter (which Josh claims isn’t even a real meal) and he’s got a turkey sandwich.

“Do you mean like a very in-the-moment fear that camp calls me about another injury, or, like, I’m afraid of heights?”

“Probably aiming for something in between those two,” he begins. “But glad to know I shouldn’t take you on any hikes with tall peaks.”

“Definitely not,” I say playfully before turning serious.

“Honestly, Josh, my biggest fear right now is dying—and not in the sense that I’m afraid of death for me or have issues with mortality.

I’m desperately afraid of leaving my kids orphaned.

There were many days, weeks probably, after Ben died when I stayed up at night just panicked at the thought.

Suddenly it’s just you standing between some semblance of happiness and total childhood devastation. ”

“How do you work through that?”

“You know me well enough now. There’s a practical answer and a more philosophical one.

Practically speaking, I got my will rewritten within the first month of Ben’s death.

I talked to designated caretakers instead of just writing it down and assuming it would never matter.

I made sure beneficiaries were listed on literally every insurance policy and retirement account.

Just tons of stuff like that, so at least if it happened, they would be taken care of in the legal and financial sense. ”

“What about the nonpractical stuff?”

“I try to decrease risk as much as possible in my life. I used to love traveling around not just the state, but the country, for work. Now I try not to be far from them. The few trips I’ve done to New York City for book stuff, I’m there and back in thirty-six hours or less.

I turned down an amazing writing residency in Italy this summer in part because my kids didn’t want me so far away. ”

“Wait. First of all, that’s still a practical answer. Second, are you telling me that you could be in Italy right this second?”

“Tuscany, to be exact. Probably getting served a drink by some handsome Italian man asking me if there is anything else he can do to help me finish my book,” I say, giggling and raising my eyebrows in a very unsexy attempt to convey romance.

“I would argue that getting your house remodeled is way more valuable than whatever that situation would’ve been, even if it means you have to watch me sloppily eat sandwiches a few times a week,” he replies, seeming almost disappointed on my behalf that I’m not in Italy.

“Canopy isn’t a consolation prize,” I firmly tell him.

“My mom and best friend, Jenny, both thought I was insane to turn down the residency, but the truth is that I knew after the first few days here that I made the right decision. This all feels meant to be. I feel strongly that Ben would want me here finishing the book, even if I do have to watch tomato juice drip down your chin with alarming regularity.”

The other truth is that I can’t imagine a better summer than the one I’m having. I feel lighter, happier, and more productive than I have in years—not just the last year.

“Canopy is happy you’re here,” he says, before adding, “I’m happy you’re here, too. You should know that. This whole situation we’ve got going on has been good for me, too.”

This makes me smile. Big. It’s hard for me to keep my classic Gracie poker face with Josh. We speak so openly and honestly to one another that playing it cool has become nearly impossible.

“You can’t distract me with that smile, Gracie,” he says, looking maybe just a little off his game. “Next question: Did people say or do anything after Ben died that annoyed you?”

“You mean aside from the standard ‘He’s in a better place’ or ‘The universe has a plan for us all’ sort of crap?”

“I hate when people do that.”

“It’s the worst, but over time I came to realize that most people just have no idea what to say in grief-filled circumstances.

Americans are terrible at grief. We let ourselves go to a funeral or memorial and then fold the grief up in our pocket and try to never take it back out again. I’m the worst offender.”

“Is that what made you start writing?”

“I have no idea what possessed me to write the first essay. Honestly, it was like an out-of-body experience. But it was like floodgates opening. I suddenly had so much to say. I think it’s the reason I agreed to start writing the biweekly column.

I wanted to make a space to talk about grief and to share what it’s like to live and exist in the thick of it, especially when there are no easy answers. ”

“Was there anything people said or did that genuinely surprised you?”

“I mean, I guess I was surprised by how many people wanted to give me advice for ‘moving on’ or ‘getting back out there’ who had never themselves experienced anything like this. You learn a lot about people watching them try to help and console you. Even my closest friends missed the mark on this one.”

“What made you decide to write a memoir? Writing a book looks like a lot of work.”

“So much work. Honestly?”

“Honest answers only.”

“The book advance. I got a huge—well, huge to me—advance. It doesn’t come all in one check. It’s broken out into four payments. I saw the advance offer and the consistent income for a few years and decided that I had to do it. Again, practical.”

“So damn practical. You didn’t have even a moment of wanting to be a published writer?”

“I did think it would be pretty great to hold a book in my hands with my name on the cover. I do get more excited about that as time goes by. That, and leaving my kids with something tangible and important that tells this story of me and Ben.”

“Last one for today before I get back to work. What’s the single most important thing you want to get out of your time in Canopy this summer?”

“I really do want to finish the book here. It feels important but also right. I can’t explain it. I want to leave here knowing myself just a little bit better, too, because I am still figuring out who I am without Ben.”

“I can’t speak to who you were before,” Josh says, piercing me with those eyes. “But I like the person I’m getting to know. I think all of your new friends here would agree.”