Page 28 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

And he does. While the veggies sizzle on the stovetop, he tells me about his former fiancée —the now-infamous (at least to me) Katrina.

Lenny and Sunny both somehow left the fiancée bit out for reasons I simply do not understand.

Josh and Katrina met when she came to town to teach a few classes at Canopy Community College.

It was only supposed to be a six-month contract, but she met Josh and decided to stay.

They dated for five years and were engaged for one more before she sat him down on a completely normal January evening and told him she was leaving.

The prime dating years of his late twenties and early thirties were gone, and he felt he had nothing to show for it.

“Six months after she left, business really started to boom, and my love life has been mostly awful since then. I love it here, but small-town dating in your midthirties is not for the faint of heart.”

“Josh, I don’t know how to tell you this, but at thirty-seven, you’re not really midthirties anymore. The technical term is late thirties.”

He tosses a tortilla chip at me and acknowledges he’s older than he likes to admit.

“Not all of us can knock it out of the park like you apparently are.”

This makes me throw my head back and laugh. Knocking it out of the park? Are you kidding? I’ve been writing about my dating life for the book and it’s the comedic relief I’ll be asked about in every interview once it gets published to balance out the serious questions.

“Josh. JOSH. The last time I dated successfully was in the early 2000s. Friends was still on the air—we all actually watched television, not our laptops. Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez were dating for the first time. I had an iPod with a spinny wheel. That was the last time I was on the dating scene. What do you think it’s been like for me? ”

“If you’re going to try to convince me that men haven’t been lining up at your door, I will simply refuse to believe anything you say.”

This makes me blush. And a little angry because, yes, I’ve been out with some eligible men, but it’s been nothing serious and I’ve been a mess through most of it.

“I’m desperately out of practice, and the men are nothing to write home about.

My first date talked for thirty minutes straight without asking a single thing about me, and when he finally did, I cried because my answer reminded me of Ben.

A few weeks later, I went out with a guy—a whole grown-ass man—who chewed with his mouth open throughout the entire dinner.

I literally left the restaurant and cursed Ben for abandoning me to the weirdos. ”

“Didn’t you ever learn that if you don’t have something nice to say, you shouldn’t say it at all?”

“Ha! Okay. I did realize, however, that dates would make me better at writing.”

“How on earth do bad dates help your writing?”

“I like observing people. It’s amazing how much most people will tell you over a date. First dates are nothing if not entertaining. I’ve learned a lot.”

“Have you really not been on any second dates?”

“Not one.”

As he finishes up plating the food, I set out napkins and silverware on the kitchen island. The dining table is only a room away, but the island is where we’ve had all of our good conversations, and I don’t want to mess up the energy. I make another drink for me; Josh hasn’t touched his yet.

He sets the plates down and we both pull ourselves onto a stool. Instinctively, we turn our bodies to face each other.

“When’s the last time you were on a date?” I ask, realizing that most outside observers of this scene could be confused into thinking this was one.

“A year ago. And it was a disaster.”

I decide not to pry. Josh is funny, smart, handsome, and runs a successful business.

He’s also very sensitive. If he’s had bad luck dating lately, I don’t want to make him feel even worse about it.

So, I take a bite of food, savor the delicious flavors for a moment, and then decide to switch things up.

“Changing topics. This question starts with a compliment, so don’t make me regret it,” I say as a warning. “You and James are two of the nicest people on the planet. I have to know—what are your parents like?”

“The literal best. James and I both grew up thinking we hung the moon, thanks to their support.”

“I need more than this, Josh. I’m looking for tips on how to raise good people.”

“I don’t know if I have tips. I can tell you that we grew up knowing that we were loved completely for who we were.

My parents got married right out of high school and wanted to start a family but struggled.

They gave up after a few years. James was a surprise when my mom was thirty-four.

I came along five years later. They were always just so happy to have us around.

We never felt like a bother. There was just a lot of love. ”

“That’s amazing. Did they ever get an explanation for the issue?”

“I’m sure my mom told me at some point, but what I do remember is that it wasn’t just one of them. They both had medical things that made kids harder to have. My mom is religious, and she just took it as a sign that God knew the right timing.”

“Do they still live nearby?”

“Asheville, so only about a half hour away. James and I bought them a little bungalow there a few years ago. It’s all one floor and they can walk to tons of stuff. There are good medical facilities nearby. It’s a good spot for their retirement. Their social life is way better than mine.”

“Present company excluded.”

“Obviously.”

We jabber on for twenty more minutes, talking about our families and friends, taking turns to pause while the other speaks, giving us time to eat, listen, and, in my case, sip my drink.

Before I know it, we’ve both cleared our plates and are happily dunking chips into a bowl of store-bought guacamole.

We’re both double dipping, so we’re officially friends.

With my second margarita almost gone, I’m rounding the corner to tipsy.

Time for another tough question after our light-hearted banter.

“You know the worst thing that’s happened to me in the last year or so. What about you?”

“My dog died. He was only eight. Cancer.”

“You struck me as a dog guy, and I couldn’t figure out why there wasn’t one always two steps behind you. Lab or golden retriever?”

“Wow, I’m that predictable. Hammy was indeed a black Lab, and he was gorgeous. Hammy is short for Ham Sandwich, by the way. James’s oldest daughter Lucy won the naming rights in a game of Uno when she was seven.”

“Did you let her win?”

“Absolutely, but I wouldn’t have if I knew what the outcome was going to be!”

“Not to add on to the sad dog stories, but our dog died a few months after Ben. He was super old—a pet we got way too early—but was seriously like a child to us. Buddy was, like, ninety in dog years, and the kids became convinced that he held on so long to personally take care of us after Ben died.”

“Jesus. How is that the sweetest and most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever heard?”

“Welcome to my life,” I say, raising my glass.

“Be honest with me, Gracie. Was my dinner better than Lenny’s takeout?”

“SO MUCH BETTER. If you tell him that, though, I will deny it.”

The intensity of my tipsy margarita voice makes Josh laugh. He glances down at his watch and starts to apologize.

“How is it seven already?” he says. “I’ve stayed too long, and you’ve had too many margaritas. I hope you didn’t plan to write tonight.”

“My current plan is to clean up—you are not allowed to—and then read a single page of my book before falling peacefully asleep entirely too early. I need a good night’s sleep more than anything right now.”

He tries to insist that he stay and help clean, but I tell him he’s already done too much.

As we walk toward the door, I realize how much I like having him here.

How much I don’t want him to leave. Is this romantic?

Maybe it’s loneliness. Maybe it’s because he’s the first regular companion I’ve had in over a year. Maybe I’ve simply had too much tequila.

I’m lost in these thoughts and my senses are dulled just enough from the drinks that I take a second too long to stop when he opens the front door.

When he turns and pauses to say goodbye, we are alarmingly close.

He puts his arm up on the door frame in an attempt to make things more casual, but it fails. Miserably.

“We’re friends now,” I say, reaching out my arms while leaning in for a hug in my own attempt to make things more casual. This also fails.

The moment I tuck my arms around him—feel the warmth of his chest, the firmness of his back, and the comfort of the embrace—I know this is a bad idea.

I look up at him before pulling the proper distance away and a subtle flutter hits my heart.

Knowing that he’ll blame the tequila, I linger a second longer than I should—just to remember the quiet magic of being hugged by a man who knows me.

Throughout it all, he keeps an uncharacteristic poker face.

I’ve spent weeks on the receiving end of his animated expressions.

I know the way his eyes get sad when I tell him a story about Ben.

I know the way his cheeks lift up when I share a funny anecdote.

I know the way he scrunches his nose when I’m heading down a bad train of thought in interview practice and need to pivot.

But tonight, there is nothing to read. He has somehow stripped away all expression and left me standing here with my arms wrapped around him, secretly hoping for something more.

“Seriously, thanks for dinner,” I say, officially stepping back from the embrace. “It’s been a long time since someone has done something like that for me.”

He takes a deep inhale once we’re separated, and it hits me that for however long we were in that hug, I didn’t feel him breathe—not once.

“You are very welcome, fancy writer Gracie. I’ll be back here bright and early tomorrow.”