Page 25 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

Not a moment later I hear Josh’s truck pull into the driveway. Of course this would be the one day he comes a little early. I throw my hair into a quick, messy bun. It had to happen at some point—Josh seeing me looking like a disaster.

I’m jogging down the stairs when he walks through the door. That’s when I remember I’m in tiny black cotton shorts and a tank top that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. He glances at me quickly and then immediately averts his eyes.

“Sorry, I just woke up,” I explain. “And I think something is wrong with the AC. It’s miserable in here.”

“That AC unit is crazy old, but the good news is that most of the time they can be easily repaired, unlike some of the new ones,” he responds, grabbing his cell phone from his back pocket. “My buddy Billy owns an HVAC company. I’ll text him to see if he’ll be in the area this morning.”

He seems happy to have a task to divert his attention. I, on the other hand, realize that the temperature isn’t going to get any better here and decide to prioritize time at The Drip this morning. My new writer’s desk upstairs will have to wait.

“A quick bite to eat and I’ll be out of your hair,” I say as I move into the kitchen.

Never one for a big breakfast, I grab an apple out of the bowl on the counter, rinse it, and take a bite.

I prop my phone on the counter against the fruit bowl and start reading news, bent over at the waist, happily eating the apple like no one else is in the house and I’m not dressed in a quarter yard of fabric, max.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Josh staring out the corner of his eye .

Or maybe I’m imagining it. Damn Dr. Lisa and her ideas about this maybe being a potential romantic situation.

Josh is hot; my butt looks fantastic in these shorts.

Those two things can be true without two people being interested in one another. Right?

“What’s on the project list for today?” I inquire, attempting to free us from this unexpected eye-catching fiasco.

“Today I’m replacing all of the outlets and switch faceplates on the first floor,” he responds, all business. “Thankless, boring work.”

“Thank you,” I respond with a bit of sass. “So, life here is just boring now.”

With that, I grab my partially eaten breakfast and run upstairs for a change into a light, flowy sundress. After that, a quick stop to throw my laptop in my bag and bolt out the front door before Josh and I stumble into another uncomfortable situation.

—

I spend the first thirty minutes at The Drip procrastinating big-time in conversation with Sunny.

Always on the lookout for things to tease Josh about, I prod her for stories about him in high school and college.

It’s all pretty tame except for learning that he and his high school friends dressed up as the Backstreet Boys for Halloween one year.

I practically beg her to find the photos, and she promises to try to dig through her old scrapbooks for proof.

We’re both firmly on the happy-to-be-distracted-from-work train when I decide to follow up on what I learned from Lenny. The conversation that Josh and I had during our hike earlier this week has only made me more curious, more desperate to find details.

“Can I ask you a random question about Josh?”

“Always,” she tells me, a big smile opening on her face. Just like Lenny, she seems to be on the hunt for any opportunity to discuss the emerging friendship between us.

“No surprise, but I spent lunch with Lenny the other day, and he was brimming with this news that Josh’s ex is in town or coming to town,” I share with her.

“He overheard it from a group that came in for lunch. Honestly, I’m not even sure that he has any of the details right, but it seemed like a big deal. ”

Sunny’s face makes a quick and uncharacteristic shift to an expression of concern—and for the first time since we’ve met, I see her face without a smile or hint of optimism.

The last year of writing has sharpened my observation skills, so even after she adjusts to a more neutral expression, I know there is something beneath the surface.

The next skill set I need, however, is a little deeper than simple observation.

I need to pry. As much as I share about my own story with the world, digging into other people’s lives does not come naturally to me.

Thankfully, I’ve had the opportunity to learn from the best. Nobody in my life can get to the heart of a story quite like Dr. Lisa, so I pivot into therapist mode.

“You seem awfully quiet,” I say, letting a silence fill the air, hoping Sunny will feel the pressure to fill it. “Anything you want to share?”

She takes the bait.

“It’s complicated,” she says, her eyes now darting around The Drip. I assume she’s looking for an unexpected chore or task that didn’t seem important until just this moment. I remain quiet. After a few seconds that feel like hours, she continues.

“The thing is, Gracie, as much as I love our fun small-town gossip, there are just some things I really don’t think are my business to talk about,” she tells me. “That was not a good situation.”

Sunny has been an open book since the moment we met.

I know most of her life story, and she happily answers every little question I ask about people in town.

This also makes me realize how little I’ve really learned about Josh outside of the bits I’ve known about his very recent life.

This town and these people have their own history—and I simply don’t have a clear view to it.

“It’s not like you to be at a loss for words,” I say, trying to keep my best Dr. Lisa poker face but starting to freak out a bit that something is going on here I’m not privy to. I’m still an outsider, after all. Buying a house here clearly doesn’t automatically pull me into the fold.

“Josh really is a good guy,” she tells me, taking a deep inhale and clearly teeing up something that might lead me to think otherwise, “but he has a perpetually bad habit with his girlfriends.”

Good Lord. Bad habit? What does that even mean? Maybe my convict joke wasn’t that far off. I’ve obviously exhausted my poker face capabilities, and now Sunny can see the worry on my face.

“You’re getting to know Josh on a real level,” she jumps in to say, putting her hand on mine, “without any of the baggage or nonsense. Whatever Katrina’s reasons are for being here or reaching out to Josh shouldn’t change your view of him.”

With that cryptic response, she gets up to go behind the counter and help a customer, having spotted a fair excuse to escape our conversation.

The only new piece of information I’ve learned is her name—Katrina—everything else is just more mystery.

When Lenny first told me the news, it didn’t have much impact, but every day Josh becomes more important to me.

His friendship is maintaining my sanity.

I don’t want a former flame to swoop in and take this from me.

I need him, but it’s also clear that the self-proclaimed open book of a man that I share lunch with some days just might have a bad habit or two that I haven’t seen quite yet.

As if on cue, a message comes through from him. Not a lost cause, but he needs to pick up a special piece for your AC. He’ll be back after lunch and knows to wait for my all clear.

I’ve only been away from the house for an hour.

I’m shocked his friend has been there and diagnosed the problem so quickly.

It really is who you know in towns like these.

Trust takes time to build. While Sunny and I are friendly, I’m still a newcomer.

After a minute, I finally grab my laptop out of the bag, open it, and stare at the screen for another twenty minutes trying to look busy.

Mostly, I’m turning over in my mind the conversation that I’ve just had with her.

Why do I care so much? More importantly, why am I letting this impact my writing?

Thankfully, I’ve got coping mechanisms teed up specifically for times like these. I’ve learned to give myself prompts. The content can’t usually be repurposed, but it makes me feel productive.

Before things got serious, hearing Sunny talk about high school and college Josh made me smile.

Isn’t it strange how far away younger versions of ourselves can feel?

Yes, it was me who did shots off a friend’s belly in Barcelona.

Yes, it was me who bungee jumped off a bridge.

Yes, it was me who once passed a biology exam while still fully drunk from the night before.

But really, who was that person? She doesn’t feel like me anymore.

I open up my brainstorming notebook and give myself today’s prompt: Remember the twenty-year-old version of Gracie.

Write about her. This isn’t a note full of wild stories; instead, it’s about me.

The things I liked to do, how I made big decisions, when I knew that Ben was the one for me.

It’s a sweet, meandering journal entry on a previous version of me .

Ava is owed a letter, and this will surely entertain her.

I pull out the instant camera to snap a photo, taking an extra moment to get the composition just right.

The stylish, moody wallpaper is sure to catch her attention.

It seems like every girl her age loves things that are “aesthetic.” The Drip definitely has a vibe.

I tear out the pages and reach back into my packed laptop bag to grab a Post-it, envelope, and stamp. On the Post-it note, I scribble Had writer’s block today, so I wrote this instead. Enjoy. The camp mailing address is committed to memory.

I might not have added any words to my manuscript, but I have successfully unblocked whatever I was feeling after my conversation with Sunny. Remembering the younger version of myself has also momentarily made me feel light as air.

There’s just one problem: I forget to set my alarm.

—