Page 46 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“You need to stop pretending, Gracie. You aren’t the same person. You’re not. Jesus, every time someone sees you on a video call or visits, they freaking tell you that. They straight up tell you that you’re different since you’ve been here. Why am I the bad guy?”

“Because you want to believe that you changed me, Josh,” I say, looking him square in the eyes. “Like, you rescued me or some stupid shit like that.”

“That’s not what I think,” he says in a quiet tone, shaking his head and attempting to somehow right the situation.

“Well, that’s what you’re acting like,” I say, standing up. “I think you should go home.”

“Gracie, please let’s just go inside and figure this out,” he suggests, presenting the option that I know is right and reasonable.

“This isn’t real life, Josh,” I yell, raising my voice and surprising us both. Despite all of Felicity’s guidance and all of the thought that I’ve put into how to merge myself into something new, I’ve decided to take the path of least resistance. The easy off-ramp. I’m making summer the excuse.

“Can we please go inside?” he asks again, and I agree because the last thing I want is a reputation as a yeller in a small town.

As soon as the door closes, he hits me with a question.

“What do you mean this isn’t real life?” he asks, hurt spread across his face. “This isn’t real for you?”

“The things I feel for you are real,” I say, rambling.

“But this summer isn’t real life, because my life doesn’t look like this.

I don’t spend the morning in bed or write for hours in coffee shops or jump around antique stores looking for a perfect new desk.

This is all make-believe. My real life is a fucking grind, Josh.

This new version of me that you think you know… she’s a fantasy.”

“This isn’t my normal life, either, Gracie,” he responds, his own voice annoyed and rising. “I don’t work twenty hours a week or take lunch breaks or get to build shit anymore. My normal life is a grind, too. Are you suggesting that maybe that’s the only reason why this works?”

“It works for the summer, Josh. It works for the couple of months we find ourselves in these exact conditions,” I tell him. “Where do we even go from here?”

“We’re adults, Gracie,” he tells me. “I just assumed we’d figure it out.”

Ben and I rarely fought, but when we did, both of us refused to give up or give in. Both stubborn to our core. I realize in this moment that even this new version of me that everyone keeps claiming exists still won’t let things go without a fight. I dig in.

“I don’t even live here, Josh. I live three hundred miles away,” I press on.

“What happens the first time we’re supposed to see each other for a weekend and my childcare cancels on me?

The first time you’ve got an important event and one of the kids gets sick?

When the book tour next spring eats into the few precious weeks of potential ‘us time’ we have?

What happens as our parents get older and need us to be in all of these different places? What happens?”

“I don’t know, and maybe it will be hard,” he says with a changed, worried expression. “But, Gracie, I’m crazy about you.”

“That’s the thing, Josh,” I say, making eye contact and immediately fighting the urge to fall into him for a hug. “I’m so tired of things being hard. You probably are, too.”

“The hardest thing for me is that all this happiness that I feel is the result of you losing the love of your life,” he says, his voice cracking with those last few words.

“And knowing I would give away everything we have if there were a way to let you go back to your old life—to who you were before—if it meant you were happy again.”

“That’s not how life works,” I say, feeling inexplicable ire rising in response to one of the most truly moving things anyone has ever said to me. My instant regret causes my head to throb and my leg to shake.

“I know,” he responds. “Which is why I thought you might settle for a chance to be happy with me.”

Settle . It’s a ludicrous thought because every inch of me thinks it’s impossible that he would ultimately settle for the emotional dumpster fire that I am . It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m still in this for the win, not for the reasonable adult conversation.

“Listen, I need to be up at, like, five a.m. for this flight, and I just can’t do this tonight,” I say back, now unable to look him in the eye.

“Gracie, please. I don’t want to leave you angry.”

“I just need the night to myself to think about things.”

“Things?”

“Us.”

“Gracie, please tell me you don’t mean that.”

“Just give me a day or two, Josh—please.”

With that, he does exactly what I’ve asked and opens the door and walks back down the path to his truck instead of doing what I really want him to do—hug me while I cry.

But I do—cry. For the next hour, I’m inconsolable, and I don’t know who the tears are for: Ben, Josh, or me.

Maybe all of us? My leg is shaking, but so is the rest of my body.

In the span of a few minutes, I’ve managed to ruin—or, best-case scenario, taint—the only thing besides my kids that has brought me sustained joy over the last year.

This whole time, I was worried about Katrina swooping in to take Josh from me, but she didn’t have to take anything.

I lost it for myself by not being able to figure out who I am. And what I want. What I need.

“Josh deserves better than me,” I say to no one but myself. I put my head on my pillow and somehow fall asleep.