Page 9 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

That’s a lie. I’ve just lied to her face.

I’ve written Jeannie’s prologue concept three times and deleted itcompletelythree times. I can’t be certain, but judging by word counts before I hit the Delete key, it was nearly the exact same each time. Each detail. Each memory. Seared into my brain. But as long as I keep deleting it, I keep protecting myself.

The biggest concern the publisher has about my manuscript is that it will be too close to the content of theNew York Timesessays. I’ve never written about Ben’s death, so using that for a prologue seems like a truly fresh idea. Bonus stress: after an underwhelming essay a few weeks ago, my editor at the paper has now voiced concerns that I’m leaving the good stuff for the book.

And today, a few days before I need to throw two camp trunks and tons of luggage into the back of my SUV and get myself and the kids to Canopy, I’m sitting here trying to convince Felicity that I’ve got the memoir fully handled (I don’t) and that I will be emotionally strong enough to write about the worst day of my life (I won’t be).

“To be clear, though, you do agree that it’s a strong and captivating way to start the book, right?” she asks with the tone of a rhetorical question. “There’s a reason Maisy tried to get you to sharethe story. It’s the type of emotional pull that will make someone buy the book if they pick it up in a store and read the first few pages. That matters, Gracie, because memoirs are a tough sell even with an online following like yours.”

My following. Felicity is referring to the nearly five hundred thousand people and counting who now follow me on Instagram. Every time an essay goes viral or I do a notable media appearance, my follower count grows by a few thousand more. Organic new followers trigger algorithmic magic that can, over the span of a few days, turn five thousand people who found me from my latest column into triple that number. One of the only good things to come out of the recent appearance onThe Maisy Showwas the nearly fifty thousand new followers in just a few days.

My followers are mostly women, almost exclusively between the ages of thirty and fifty years old, and people with expendable income to do fun things—like buy books. It’s impossible to truly quantify, but Jeannie believes that nearly all of my presales can be attributed to my social media following. When it comes to the book and prospective sales, my followers matter. A lot. But hopefully, they won’t be the only people who buy the book.

“I trust the experts,” I say. “I will write the version that Jeannie wants to see, but don’t be surprised if I deliver the manuscript with an alternate beginning in there as well.”

“Fair enough,” Felicity responds, although it’s obvious she also thinks the death scene will be money in the bank for all of us. It just doesn’t feel right.

“Are you going to ask me about the interview?” I jump in, knowing she won’t want to be the one to bring it up.

“Honestly? I’m not sure there is anything I could say that youhaven’t probably already heard,” she states matter-of-factly. “You must be sick of conversations where people tell you it wasn’t that bad—and you don’t believe them, obviously.”

“You’ve only known me for a year and yet you know me so well.”

“Maisy has always been one to go off script just a bit,” she reminds me. “There is a lot of pressure on her to figure out how to grow her audience. I’m not surprised they booked you—your readers are exactly the people they want. She certainly got their attention.”

“She sure did,” I respond, before adding, “You’ll be happy to know that, at my request, Lucia has lined up lots of small-time interviews for the summer. I need to work my way up to another big appearance like that.The Maisy Showwasa lotfor me. I want to be fully ready for the big time by next spring when the book comes out, and I need to get better at speaking off the cuff.”

“I will say this,” Felicity begins. “If there is one thing you know how to do, it’s capture the internet’s attention for a day. There are worse ways to sell books.”

“For my sake, let’s hope I don’t discover what any of those are.”

We both let out a laugh. If it had beenreallybad, Felicity would be honest with me. The fact that she’s being so casual about it makes me think that perhaps it really was justnormalbad.

With business out of the way, Felicity smiles and adeptly changes the subject to our favorite thing to commiserate about: our dating lives. She prods me for details on my latest blind date with the brother of a friend. It’s funny how everyone you know suddenly has single brothers and cousins the second you’re back on the market with the low standards of a woman on the ultimate emotional rebound. Also, everyone is trying to help me “get back out there.” Felicity is single after her divorce a few years back, and for everyhilarious story I have, she always has a way to one-up me. Dating in New York sounds incredibly entertaining and absolutely dreadful. I imagine she thinks the same thing about dating in the limited pool of a college town.

Dating is particularly hard for me because all of my friends are married and can’t relate to the modern dating scene. To be fair, until my first date late last year, I didn’t understand the current condition of the dating sceneat all. When my friends go right to deep questions after first dates, I recall every time that I did the same to them over the years. Karma will always get you. Conversations with Felicity are a breath of fresh air. I get to be lighthearted and unserious—she never asks me if I’ve met the future Mr. Gracie Harris. She’s the one who I can truly dish with. She reminds me a lot of Jenny before she met her husband.

Through giggles, we inappropriately and loudly discuss our body-hair preferences in men. I’m shocked to discover she likes the high-maintenance men who wax or shave their chests. Give me all natural, I respond, with a cackle that makes us both laugh so hard the old ladies sitting nearby shush us. Out comes my phone so I can show her a photo of Ben at the beach a few years ago. Some people share baby photos. I brag about how cute my dead husband was.

“Gracie, I get it,” she says with a knowing smile, before adding, “He really was a good-looking guy.”

After an hour and a half, Felicity pays the bill, and we share a big hug before she heads to meet a friend in Durham and I return to the house.

“You’ve got this,” she says to me, sensing my general anxiety. “And I don’t just mean the book, Gracie. I meanallof this. I was going to try to convince you to get away for a bit, but it sounds likeyour friends already took care of that. It’s the right choice, and I think it’s going to blow your mind how good it feels. Write a ton in the mountains, but girl, try to get some fresh air, too.”

“I’ll do my best, as always,” I respond with a smile. Fresh air sounds good right about now.

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Today’s theme ofconsulting with experts continues with my 3 p.m. therapy appointment. It’s my final to-do before heading out to get the kids from the last day of their after-school program.

Prior to Ben’s death, I had never seen a therapist or psychologist (confession: I didn’t know the difference), but it became clear to me very quickly that I needed an impartial third party in my life if I was going to get through this.

Everyone told me that I should see a local therapist. They wanted someone whose cushy armchair I could curl up in and share my innermost thoughts, but I hated the idea of dropping into the hippie grocery co-op down the road for an orange or some fancy cheese and running into the person I’d previously confessed deep secrets to. This project—me—requires distance.

A friend of a friend who I followed on social media lost her husband a few years before Ben died. She talked a lot about how important her therapist was to her “healing journey.” As much as the phrase made me want to gag, I still reached out for the recommendation.

I liked Dr. Lisa from the moment we met via little rectangular boxes on our laptop screens. I liked the safety and distance that virtual therapy offered. Me, in the comfort of my own home. Her, in her cozy home office somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.Portland, maybe? She told me once, but now I forget, and it feels rude to ask again.

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