Page 29 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

Sunny is one of those free spirits who is magically both a good listener and someone who can talk forever. No topic is off-limits for her because she can introduce any subject in a smooth, honest fashion that never feels forced.

“As you know, I’m a big fan and I’ve read most of your essays,” she begins, “but I’m anti–social media, so I can’t look you up onInstagram. Do you have any photos of you and Ben? Now that I know you, I’d love to know what he really looked like.”

Looked like.The past tense is accurate but always so hard to hear. I do love sharing anything and everything about him when given the chance, however, so I grab my phone and open up an album of about fifty of my favorite photos of the two of us.

Sunny scrolls through a few photos, staring intently, before putting the phone down and looking me in the eyes.

“He was superhot,” she says with a straight face before we both erupt in giggles. She picks the phone back up. “Seriously, why do men look so good with salt-and-pepper hair? You look like two very down-to-earth movie stars together.”

She turns the phone around to show me a photo of us dressed up for a black-tie holiday party his company hosted a few years ago. The photo is framed on the mantel in our living room at home because it is objectively the best photo we took in our last few years together. We do look good.

“For the longest time, Ben was a tall, lanky guy,” I tell her. “In his late thirties, he put on some weight due to normal life stuff. He was sensitive about it, but obnoxiously, he somehow looked even better with extra pounds on his frame. He could be weird about the gray hair, too, but same thing—it just made him hotter.”

“Men are infuriating like that, aren’t they?” she says, before asking, “How did the two of you meet?”

“In college,” I begin. “I was in my very first semester taking an Intro to Anthropology class. He was a junior trying for the second time to pass the class after failing as a freshman while pledging a fraternity.”

She smiles and asks who made the first move.

“Ben, for sure. I’m way too shy,” I tell her. “I learned over time that he had slowly been moving down row by row in those first few weeks to get closer after he spotted me on day one. I clocked his accent to North Carolina right away, and I think we were both goners after that. Chicago felt like a long way from home, for both of us.”

A bit of sadness creeps into my voice. That happens a lot when thinking about Ben and remembering those carefree early days, months, and years. Sunny quickly pivots to keep things light and fun.

“Your hair was so short!” she says, turning the phone around again so we can admire a photo of Ben and me out with friends nearly a decade ago. “The bob is cute, but I like this longer flowy style you have now. No surprise, me being a hippie and all.”

“It’s grown extra long over the last year out of pure neglect,” I tell her. “But I kind of love it. I had to keep it short while Benji was young because he constantly pulled on it.”

“Is it possible you got younger over the last few years?” she asks.

“Bougie facials and Botox,” I respond. “They go a long way.”

I can tell the instant she reaches the one photo that she’s already seen before. It’s the one at the bar—me looking at Ben, him looking at me.

“I remember this from the first essay,” she says with a sweet but sad smile.

Lastly, she taps on a photo of us and the kids at a beachside restaurant. Ava and Benji look so little, even though the photo was only taken three years ago. We forgot the sunblock that day, so we’d all flown past sun-kissed and were turning slightly red. It’s aperfect family photo and one I look at a lot. We’re full of joy and completely in the moment.

“Josh told me your kids are adorable,” she relays. “You and Ben gave them good genes.”

She hands the phone back and turns to look at her screen. It seems we both have deadlines to work against.

“Thanks for sharing,” she says. “And if you’re looking for another tall and dashing leading man, there happens to be one working in your house every day.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” I tell her with a big smile, “but we’re just friends. Plus, I need to write, not date.”

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I’m not ashamedto admit that today marks my third lunch in a row at Lenny’s. I enjoy the food and equally enjoy chatting with him and the staff about everything and nothing. Today I’ve heard the updates about the new merchant moving into the empty storefront next door (a pottery shop), rumors of a torrid (but hilarious) affair in a nearby fifty-five-plus community, and the plans for the peach festival at the end of the summer. Lenny is not a fan of this year’s tagline: “Peach for the Stars.”

A buzz rattles against the bar and I look down at my phone. It’s another text from Josh. He keeps asking me questions about Ava’s room. He got three-quarters of the way through a project before he left town, and it’s clearly driving him crazy that it’s unfinished. I text backStop staring at your phone and hang out with your parentsand shake my head.

“Lenny, you’ve known Josh all of his life. Is he always this obsessive about his work?”

“My dear, you do realize the entire reason that guy is even available to renovate your house is because he burnt himself out at his regular job, right? He’s a workaholic through and through,” Lenny confesses.

“We haven’t spent a ton of time together, but it’s crazy to me because he’s so laid-back in conversation any time he’s not working.”

“So, y’all spending some time together outside of work, are you?” Lenny says with a playful look in his eye. Most of the last hour was spent with me listening to Lenny share the latest Canopy gossip, and this is the last thing I need in the rumor mill. Men like Lenny always make the best worst gossips. Yes, that’s a thing.

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