Page 12 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“Is there anything in particular I should say?”

“It’s everything and nothing,” I quickly answer. “That’s probably enough.”

Ava taps away, kindly places the phone next to me, and kisses my forehead. She mumbles something about not staying up too late on the phone and quietly walks back to her room. I glance down at the text thread and seeMom is freaking out about the summer. Someone please call her, she looks pathetic. Love you all.She read me like a book. The message is lighthearted enough, however, for me to know that she’s nottooworried.

While I’m reading Ava’s message, Jenny responds with a heart and quickOn itnote. This will keep the other girls from stressing out and save their Friday night from becoming a widow-filled bummer. I know my friends don’t really feel that way, but I do.

A few minutes later, a FaceTime comes in from my dearest, most trusted friend. Before I can say a word, she jumps in.

“Did you put that oxygen mask on?” she asks, skipping the normal pleasantries and asking a question she already knows the answer to. “Tell me everything.”

“It iseverything, Jenny,” I begin. “I’m already missing the kids for the summer, I’m sad to leave this bed and the imaginary Ben smells, I’m weirded out by the new routine I need to manage and nervous about spending months in that crappy house.”

“It’s a lot to handle, and it’s completely understandable,” she responds. “From your text the other day, I assumed that the house was getting fixed up?”

“It is,” I answer, “assuming James’s brother actually knows what he’s doing, but I’m losing my mind about everything. I’m really scared about the book not living up to expectations. I don’t want to disappoint everyone. I want to honor Ben’s memory.”

She’s uncharacteristically quiet for a split second, and it’s clear I’ve given her a useful nugget to work with.

“Listen, Gracie, I’m not going to pretend that the book and the column aren’t a big damn deal, because it still blows my mind what my best friend has achieved,” she says in her no-nonsense voice so that I know she’s serious. “But I’ve also never been more sure of or more confident in someone’s ability to get a job done. You’ve totally got this. Ben would be so proud—of the column, of the book, of everything you managed to make happen this last year.”

“A year ago, when I agreed to all of this, I thought it would make me feel closer to him, you know?” I share. “I thought that writing about Ben all of the time would be this invisible tether to keep him right here where he belongs. It’s all just so much more complicated than that.”

“I get that; I do,” she says. “Don’t get mad at me for asking, but are you getting out enough? You know that I would never tell you that you need to ‘move on,’ but sometimes an escape is a good thing.”

“Both my and Ben’s parents watched the kids a bunch last month,” I answer. “I went on three dates and two girls’ nights out. Getting out is not my problem.”

“Three dates?” she responds in a curious voice, jumping on the one non-bummer detail that I’ve offered her. “Any potential?”

“All very nice. Two doctors and a lawyer. Nothing special.”

“Anyone special…enough?” she asks with a giggle, clearly trying to lighten the mood and genuinely wondering if I slept with any of them. Jenny found her husband in her late thirties, so she spent most of her adult life dating. As such, she has a very different view of casual hookups than I do. She’s always telling me not to take things so seriously. I try to embrace that, I really do, but it’s not easy.

“I’m not sure my intimacy-starved need for attention makes someone truly special, but you could say they were enough of something.”

“I’ll take that as a humble yes that you got lucky,” she says with a subtle smile. “I’ll also say this to my humble friend: you are smart and funny, curious, and immensely talented. I know dating is hardand feels meaningless right now, but you are a catch and there is someone else out there for you. I know it.”

“I just keep hoping Ben will walk back through the door and tell me there’s been a big mistake or he just wanted the life insurance money,” I say wistfully. “I wouldn’t even be mad.”

“Gracie, that breaks my heart. I wish that were possible, but you know it’s not,” she says, injecting that jolt of reality I know is right but that makes my chest ache. “Have you talked to your therapist about this?”

“She could drop all her other clients and I’m pretty sure I could keep her in business,” I answer. “I’m embarrassed how much I still need you all—you, the girls, Dr. Lisa—to keep me from sinking,” I say.

“Sweetie, when’s the last time you cried?” she asks me with genuine concern, acknowledging the dry eyes staring back at her. This seems more like a Keke question, and it makes me wonder what conversations they’ve had without me.

“Three months ago,” I respond.

“What about Chicago?” she inquires with an incredulous tone that isn’t judging but is genuinely curious.

Ben and I kept saying for years that we needed to take the kids to the city where we met. Chicago held so many wonderful memories for us. But as happens with life, things got busy. Holidays were usually spent with family, spring break meant trips to warm locations, and we never got around to Chicago as a family of four.

So a month and a half ago, the kids and I spent the one-year anniversary of Ben’s death in the city where we’d met two decades ago. The place that started it all. I needed to be away from theendlessly well-meaning friends, family, neighbors, and strangers who would certainly check in. I needed the phone on silent and just to be with my earthside reminders of the man I loved. Still love.

I booked three plane tickets on a whim a week before the anniversary and texted everyone our plans. I asked for privacy on the day.I know you’ll be thinking of us, I told them.

We stayed in a fancy hotel downtown, visited museums, and ate endless amounts of food. On the day of his death, we took a cab to campus. Benji still talks about the cab ride being his favorite part of the trip. He loved watching the city pass by through the windows of the car.

I walked the kids into the building where we met, pointing to the long-since-replaced row of lecture-hall seating where Ben first introduced himself to me. We ate a deep-dish for dinner at a mediocre place near campus that we used to go to when we were broke.

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