Page 20 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

Josh is out of town visiting his parents for three days, so I spend three mornings in a row at The Drip, writing and talking with whichever barista is feeling chatty.

Sunny is here today, but instead of standing behind the counter as usual, she’s perched on a high-back chair at the bar, looking out the window with a grumpy expression on her face. After I grab my coffee, I walk over to say hello.

“Gracie!” she shouts. “Rescue me from the monthly accounting reconciliation.”

“I really have to write today,” I tell her, instantly registering the disappointment in her face before adding, “but I can make five minutes for the woman who keeps me caffeinated.”

Sunny is one of those free spirits who is magically both a good listener and someone who can talk forever. No topic is off-limits for her because she can introduce any subject in a smooth, honest fashion that never feels forced.

“As you know, I’m a big fan and I’ve read most of your essays,” she begins, “but I’m anti–social media, so I can’t look you up on Instagram. Do you have any photos of you and Ben? Now that I know you, I’d love to know what he really looked like.”

Looked like. The past tense is accurate but always so hard to hear. I do love sharing anything and everything about him when given the chance, however, so I grab my phone and open up an album of about fifty of my favorite photos of the two of us.

Sunny scrolls through a few photos, staring intently, before putting the phone down and looking me in the eyes.

“He was superhot,” she says with a straight face before we both erupt in giggles. She picks the phone back up. “Seriously, why do men look so good with salt-and-pepper hair? You look like two very down-to-earth movie stars together.”

She turns the phone around to show me a photo of us dressed up for a black-tie holiday party his company hosted a few years ago. The photo is framed on the mantel in our living room at home because it is objectively the best photo we took in our last few years together. We do look good.

“For the longest time, Ben was a tall, lanky guy,” I tell her.

“In his late thirties, he put on some weight due to normal life stuff. He was sensitive about it, but obnoxiously, he somehow looked even better with extra pounds on his frame. He could be weird about the gray hair, too, but same thing—it just made him hotter.”

“Men are infuriating like that, aren’t they?” she says, before asking, “How did the two of you meet?”

“In college,” I begin. “I was in my very first semester taking an Intro to Anthropology class. He was a junior trying for the second time to pass the class after failing as a freshman while pledging a fraternity.”

She smiles and asks who made the first move.

“Ben, for sure. I’m way too shy,” I tell her.

“I learned over time that he had slowly been moving down row by row in those first few weeks to get closer after he spotted me on day one. I clocked his accent to North Carolina right away, and I think we were both goners after that. Chicago felt like a long way from home, for both of us.”

A bit of sadness creeps into my voice. That happens a lot when thinking about Ben and remembering those carefree early days, months, and years. Sunny quickly pivots to keep things light and fun.

“Your hair was so short!” she says, turning the phone around again so we can admire a photo of Ben and me out with friends nearly a decade ago. “The bob is cute, but I like this longer flowy style you have now. No surprise, me being a hippie and all.”

“It’s grown extra long over the last year out of pure neglect,” I tell her. “But I kind of love it. I had to keep it short while Benji was young because he constantly pulled on it.”

“Is it possible you got younger over the last few years?” she asks.

“Bougie facials and Botox,” I respond. “They go a long way.”

I can tell the instant she reaches the one photo that she’s already seen before. It’s the one at the bar—me looking at Ben, him looking at me.

“I remember this from the first essay,” she says with a sweet but sad smile.

Lastly, she taps on a photo of us and the kids at a beachside restaurant.

Ava and Benji look so little, even though the photo was only taken three years ago.

We forgot the sunblock that day, so we’d all flown past sun-kissed and were turning slightly red.

It’s a perfect family photo and one I look at a lot.

We’re full of joy and completely in the moment.

“Josh told me your kids are adorable,” she relays. “You and Ben gave them good genes.”

She hands the phone back and turns to look at her screen. It seems we both have deadlines to work against.

“Thanks for sharing,” she says. “And if you’re looking for another tall and dashing leading man, there happens to be one working in your house every day.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” I tell her with a big smile, “but we’re just friends. Plus, I need to write, not date.”

—

I’m not ashamed to admit that today marks my third lunch in a row at Lenny’s.

I enjoy the food and equally enjoy chatting with him and the staff about everything and nothing.

Today I’ve heard the updates about the new merchant moving into the empty storefront next door (a pottery shop), rumors of a torrid (but hilarious) affair in a nearby fifty-five-plus community, and the plans for the peach festival at the end of the summer.

Lenny is not a fan of this year’s tagline: “Peach for the Stars.”

A buzz rattles against the bar and I look down at my phone.

It’s another text from Josh. He keeps asking me questions about Ava’s room.

He got three-quarters of the way through a project before he left town, and it’s clearly driving him crazy that it’s unfinished.

I text back Stop staring at your phone and hang out with your parents and shake my head.

“Lenny, you’ve known Josh all of his life. Is he always this obsessive about his work?”

“My dear, you do realize the entire reason that guy is even available to renovate your house is because he burnt himself out at his regular job, right? He’s a workaholic through and through,” Lenny confesses.

“We haven’t spent a ton of time together, but it’s crazy to me because he’s so laid-back in conversation any time he’s not working.”

“So, y’all spending some time together outside of work, are you?

” Lenny says with a playful look in his eye.

Most of the last hour was spent with me listening to Lenny share the latest Canopy gossip, and this is the last thing I need in the rumor mill.

Men like Lenny always make the best worst gossips. Yes, that’s a thing.

“Nice try, Lenny,” I say, dramatically rolling my eyes for full effect. “We often eat lunch together and chat, but then he disappears to different rooms to work his magic. I just don’t get to see the intensity for myself very much.”

“You need to spend a lot of time with someone to get the full picture of who they are. Except for me,” he jokes. “You could have lunch here every day for years and I’d still have my secrets.”

“Dang,” I say in response. “I bet you have really good secrets.”

“Speaking of Josh, I heard some particularly good intel about your handyman and his ex,” Lenny says, looking at me with a knowing glance.

Except, I don’t have a clue what this could be about. An ex? Gossip? Josh, thus far, has struck me as the least controversial person on the planet. He’s basically the man version of strawberry ice cream—not too plain but nothing over-the-top.

“Not sure I follow, Lenny, and I think that maybe you think I can read between the lines,” I say. “Josh doesn’t really tell me much about himself.”

I say it out loud and realize it’s a bit of a silent confession. So far this summer, Josh has shown nothing but interest in me and my story. Yet I really know so little about him. That’s something I should fix—if only so I can better navigate the gossip mill.

Lenny nods and stares. He’s obviously doing the mental math on whether he should share. In the end, as always, his need to talk wins out.

“A few old-timers were in yesterday, including her parents,” he begins, still not giving the ex a name or any description.

I’m not being let into the full story—that much is clear.

“Now, it’s not my business, but it sounds like she’s coming back to town after some big life changes or something.

If she’s not here now, she will be sometime this summer. ”

“That doesn’t seem like a big deal,” I reply a little too quickly. “I mean, maybe she’s just coming to see her parents?”

“Not getting worried, are you, Gracie?” he asks, trying to pivot the conversation.

“We’ve been over this,” I say. “Just friends.”

It takes just a little extra effort on my part to say the word “friends” in a convincing tone. Why does it feel weird to hear about his ex? Josh is a grown man with a whole life. I’ve known him for only a couple of weeks.

“Well, if you do learn anything, be sure to let me know,” he says. “Not having the full picture drives me crazy!”

He gives me a big hug (and I’m surprisingly okay with it) before I leave and tell him to enjoy his Sunday off tomorrow. On the short walk home, I pop into the hardware store to say hi to Brian and pick up a few things that Josh has asked him to set aside for his next project.

“How many times do you think he’ll be in when he gets back?” Brian asks me with a smirk on his face. “It was four times in three days this past week.”

“I think he just likes hanging out with you, Brian, because there really is no other logical excuse for it,” I say back. I’ve officially moved into the friend zone with Lenny and Brian when it comes to their teasing about Josh.

“You’re probably right. Josh and I go way back. He was two years behind me in school. He’s a good friend. He helped me get the finances straight here when my dad retired about five years ago. Good Lord, it was a mess in here,” Brian tells me.