Page 37 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

Letters, I type as the chapter heading.

A month after Ben’s death, I asked his mom, Cecily, to take the kids for a weekend. It felt like if I didn’t write down everything that I remembered about Ben and his best advice, it might fly away without the kids ever hearing it. In a perfect world, Ben would’ve had time to write these letters himself. Now it was up to me.

I wrote the letters by hand so that I would labor over everyword, choosing each one with purpose and meaning. I wanted letters that the kids would treasure as they hit different stages of their lives. Words that would mean one thing to a teenager and another to a recent college grad and another to a new parent.

The contents of the letters will always remain private, so after describing them in broad strokes, I share a handful of the playful names I wrote on the outside of each envelope.

Your dad in college (and other things you should never do).

How to fall in love.

Our first year as parents.

How to stay in love.

Dad’s tips for being brave

(or how to scream like a girl when killing spiders).

How to be a good friend.

The full list went on and on. In less than forty-eight hours, I wrote twenty letters for the kids. They were ostensibly full of Ben’s advice, but looking back now, I realize it was all stuff he and I had talked about together. So, there it was again.Ben and Gracie. Gracie and Ben.

As I folded each piece of paper into an envelope and tucked it into a fancy oversize gift box, it felt overwhelmingly like a symbolic first step to wrapping upus. All advice from then on would come directly and solely from me.

Chapter 16

A few days later, Iwake up in a tangled mess of sweaty sheets. I’m a hot sleeper, so this is not a new sensation, but something isn’t right. Thanks to a heat wave, humidity was something out of hell’s kitchen overnight, but it should not be so hot in the house. Then it hits me. The weird noise outside last night—it was the stupid AC unit on the side of the house. Crap, the AC is broken. Glancing at the clock, I realize it’s also 7:55.

Not a moment later I hear Josh’s truck pull into the driveway. Of course this would be the one day he comes a little early. I throw my hair into a quick, messy bun. It had to happen at some point—Josh seeing me looking like a disaster.

I’m jogging down the stairs when he walks through the door. That’s when I remember I’m in tiny black cotton shorts and a tank top that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. He glances at me quickly and then immediately averts his eyes.

“Sorry, I just woke up,” I explain. “And I think something is wrong with the AC. It’s miserable in here.”

“That AC unit is crazy old, but the good news is that most of thetime they can be easily repaired, unlike some of the new ones,” he responds, grabbing his cell phone from his back pocket. “My buddy Billy owns an HVAC company. I’ll text him to see if he’ll be in the area this morning.”

He seems happy to have a task to divert his attention. I, on the other hand, realize that the temperature isn’t going to get any better here and decide to prioritize time at The Drip this morning. My new writer’s desk upstairs will have to wait.

“A quick bite to eat and I’ll be out of your hair,” I say as I move into the kitchen.

Never one for a big breakfast, I grab an apple out of the bowl on the counter, rinse it, and take a bite. I prop my phone on the counter against the fruit bowl and start reading news, bent over at the waist, happily eating the apple like no one else is in the house and I’m not dressed in a quarter yard of fabric, max.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Josh staring out the corner ofhis eye. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Damn Dr. Lisa and her ideas about this maybe being a potential romantic situation. Josh is hot; my butt looks fantastic in these shorts. Those two things can be true without two people being interested in one another. Right?

“What’s on the project list for today?” I inquire, attempting to free us from this unexpected eye-catching fiasco.

“Today I’m replacing all of the outlets and switch faceplates on the first floor,” he responds, all business. “Thankless, boring work.”

“Thank you,” I respond with a bit of sass. “So, life here is just boring now.”

With that, I grab my partially eaten breakfast and run upstairs for a change into a light, flowy sundress. After that, a quick stop tothrow my laptop in my bag and bolt out the front door before Josh and I stumble into another uncomfortable situation.

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I spend thefirst thirty minutes at The Drip procrastinating big-time in conversation with Sunny. Always on the lookout for things to tease Josh about, I prod her for stories about him in high school and college. It’s all pretty tame except for learning that he and his high school friends dressed up as the Backstreet Boys for Halloween one year. I practically beg her to find the photos, and she promises to try to dig through her old scrapbooks for proof.

We’re both firmly on the happy-to-be-distracted-from-work train when I decide to follow up on what I learned from Lenny. The conversation that Josh and I had during our hike earlier this week has only made me more curious, more desperate to find details.

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