Page 19 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction
I smile and look down, bashful and feeling my cheeks getting red. I’ve always been this way with compliments. Flushed cheeks and a nervous smile. He jumps in for one final question.
“Actually, one more,” he begins, rescuing me from my embarrassed flush. “I’m curious about something after the call from the summer camp yesterday. Do interviewers ever ask you about your kids? It dawned on me that I don’t hear them come up during your interviews.”
“No, not usually,” I respond, grateful for the serious line of questioning to help tackle my rosy cheeks. “Mostly because Lucia, my publicist, sets ground rules with journalists.”
“Rules?” he asks, tilting his head. “You can do that?”
“It’s pretty common to put expectations on the table ahead of an interview—things I’m willing and not willing to talk about,” I explain. “Of course, there’s no guarantee that people will follow rules, but for the most part, journalists do.”
“Can I ask why not speaking about your kids is one of the ground rules?”
“I want to protect their privacy and their mental health,” I tell him.
“And I never want to tell their stories for them. They lost their dad and it’s been really, really hard on them.
They don’t owe anything to anyone. I accidentally made my life available for consumption, but not theirs.
I don’t even post photos of them on social media anymore. ”
“You said ‘not usually’ a minute ago,” he follows up. “So, someone broke those rules? What does angry Gracie look like when someone breaks the rules?”
I think back to the spring and the appearance on The Maisy Show .
She sideswiped me with those questions about the kids and suddenly that cozy velvet chair felt like a prison.
I stuttered, struggled through my answers, and made a fool of myself.
If this conversation with Josh happened first, I might have been ready.
Although, who is ever really ready to share the worst parts of their life on national television?
“Well,” I say, taking a deep breath. “You know Maisy Miller?”
“I’m a culturally plugged-in man, Gracie,” he says with a laugh and slightly offended look. “With a mom who watches a lot of daytime television.”
“I’m just checking,” I respond, smiling.
“A little over a month ago, I was on her show—another writer had to cancel, so they dropped me right in their spot. My publicist had only floated my name to their booker, like, two weeks before, so this was a big deal. We didn’t have a lot of time to prepare, and I had to jump on a flight to Nashville with very little notice. ”
“Number one, I’m impressed. My mom would be beyond starstruck. You are indeed a fancy, famous writer,” he says. “What happened?”
“I was so nervous,” I begin. “And I got on that stage and the first few questions were easy enough, but then she asked about the day Ben died. I don’t really share that.
It feels too intimate, too private. But Lucia and I had practiced how to artfully dodge that, so I was feeling confident.
I didn’t expect the next line of questioning.
She asked if my kids were in therapy, what I’ve gotten wrong about guiding them through this loss, and what the hardest part is for them—when we all miss Ben the most.”
Josh takes a long, deep inhale as I continue.
“I’m more than willing to talk about motherhood, challenges from my perspective, and things I’m doing, but not about my kids’ feelings and experiences. Some people can’t see the difference, but as a mom, it’s an obvious line in the sand.”
“How did it go?”
“Not good. An absolute train wreck, if we’re being completely honest,” I tell him.
“That leg shake you asked about? Stress tics have been an ongoing issue since Ben died, and they’ve presented in different ways.
That shake started earlier this year and for the six weeks prior to the Maisy interview, I had a long stretch of no issues.
Those six weeks were a big achievement for me—and my therapist.”
We both let nervous smiles escape. I’m always finding ways to make light of the serious stuff. I think Josh appreciates it. At the very least, he gives me space to make light of these moments when I choose to.
“But it kept getting worse. I had trouble catching my breath, and my vision got blurry—I had to ask her to stop the interview so I could get control of myself again,” I share, feeling my mind and body reliving that day.
“So in summary, ‘angry Gracie’ is a big wimp with a stress tic. That’s why I’m doing all of these interviews.
I need to figure myself out. Hopefully, I’ll be ready by next spring, and if not, the internet can just have its way with me. ”
“Writing a book, doing these interviews, renovating a house,” he begins, looking me square in the eyes. “That’s stressful stuff, Gracie. I think you should go easy on yourself.”
“To be fair, you’re the one renovating the house,” I say, pointing at him.
“True,” he laughs. “But you’re still living in the chaos of it all.”
We both take quiet sips of our drinks, feeling the natural end to today’s conversation.
It’s never awkward with Josh. One of us inevitably excuses ourselves to take care of a real task, and we pick up where we left off the next day, or the day after that.
It’s the easiest friendship I’ve had in a long time.
Maybe I need more straight male friends.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
“For what?”
“For being the one person in my life who hasn’t seen that interview and can let me tell the story completely from my point of view. Please never watch it.”
“You’re welcome, and I won’t,” he says. Then he pauses, clearly weighing whether or not to continue. “Gracie, are there any ground rules we should have? For my ‘interview’ questions, I mean.” He adds air quotes to interview , which elicits a smile.
I’m surprised by how quick my response comes, and how true it feels.
“A couple of weeks ago, I didn’t know you, and now you’re the one person I can just be completely honest with. I like that I don’t have to think before I speak with you. Probably not the best for you, but it’s good for me. No rules.”
“The gloves are off,” he says, pivoting us back to our usual lighthearted banter. “Now I’m off to do more work. Thanks for indulging my questions, as usual.”