Page 38 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“Can I ask you a random question about Josh?”

“Always,” she tells me, a big smile opening on her face. Just like Lenny, she seems to be on the hunt for any opportunity to discuss the emerging friendship between us.

“No surprise, but I spent lunch with Lenny the other day, and he was brimming with this news that Josh’s ex is in town or coming to town,” I share with her. “He overheard it from a group that came in for lunch. Honestly, I’m not even sure that he has any of the details right, but it seemed like a big deal.”

Sunny’s face makes a quick and uncharacteristic shift to an expression of concern—and for the first time since we’ve met, I see her face without a smile or hint of optimism. The last year of writinghas sharpened my observation skills, so even after she adjusts to a more neutral expression, I know there is something beneath the surface.

The next skill set I need, however, is a little deeper than simple observation. I need to pry. As much as I share about my own story with the world, digging into other people’s lives does not come naturally to me. Thankfully, I’ve had the opportunity to learn from the best. Nobody in my life can get to the heart of a story quite like Dr. Lisa, so I pivot into therapist mode.

“You seem awfully quiet,” I say, letting a silence fill the air, hoping Sunny will feel the pressure to fill it. “Anything you want to share?”

She takes the bait.

“It’s complicated,” she says, her eyes now darting around The Drip. I assume she’s looking for an unexpected chore or task that didn’t seem important until just this moment. I remain quiet. After a few seconds that feel like hours, she continues.

“The thing is, Gracie, as much as I love our fun small-town gossip, there are just some things I really don’t think are my business to talk about,” she tells me. “That was not a good situation.”

Sunny has been an open book since the moment we met. I know most of her life story, and she happily answers every little question I ask about people in town. This also makes me realize how little I’ve really learned about Josh outside of the bits I’ve known about his very recent life. This town and these people have their own history—and I simply don’t have a clear view to it.

“It’s not like you to be at a loss for words,” I say, trying to keep my best Dr. Lisa poker face but starting to freak out a bit that something is going on here I’m not privy to. I’m still an outsider, after all.Buying a house here clearly doesn’t automatically pull me into the fold.

“Josh really is a good guy,” she tells me, taking a deep inhale and clearly teeing up something that might lead me to think otherwise, “but he has a perpetually bad habit with his girlfriends.”

Good Lord. Bad habit? What does that even mean? Maybe my convict joke wasn’t that far off. I’ve obviously exhausted my poker face capabilities, and now Sunny can see the worry onmyface.

“You’re getting to know Josh on a real level,” she jumps in to say, putting her hand on mine, “without any of the baggage or nonsense. Whatever Katrina’s reasons are for being here or reaching out to Josh shouldn’t change your view of him.”

With that cryptic response, she gets up to go behind the counter and help a customer, having spotted a fair excuse to escape our conversation. The only new piece of information I’ve learned is her name—Katrina—everything else is just more mystery. When Lenny first told me the news, it didn’t have much impact, but every day Josh becomes more important to me. His friendship is maintaining my sanity. I don’t want a former flame to swoop in and take this from me. I need him, but it’s also clear that the self-proclaimed open book of a man that I share lunch with some days just might have a bad habit or two that I haven’t seen quite yet.

As if on cue, a message comes through from him.Not a lost cause, but he needs to pick up a special piece for your AC. He’ll be back after lunch and knows to wait for my all clear.

I’ve only been away from the house for an hour. I’m shocked his friend has been there and diagnosed the problem so quickly. It really is who you know in towns like these. Trust takes time to build. While Sunny and I are friendly, I’m still a newcomer. After aminute, I finally grab my laptop out of the bag, open it, and stare at the screen for another twenty minutes trying to look busy. Mostly, I’m turning over in my mind the conversation that I’ve just had with her. Why do I care so much? More importantly, why am I letting this impact my writing?

Thankfully, I’ve got coping mechanisms teed up specifically for times like these. I’ve learned to give myself prompts. The content can’t usually be repurposed, but it makes me feel productive.

Before things got serious, hearing Sunny talk about high school and college Josh made me smile. Isn’t it strange how far away younger versions of ourselves can feel? Yes, it was me who did shots off a friend’s belly in Barcelona. Yes, it was me who bungee jumped off a bridge. Yes, it was me who once passed a biology exam while still fully drunk from the night before. But really, who was that person? She doesn’t feel like me anymore.

I open up my brainstorming notebook and give myself today’s prompt: Remember the twenty-year-old version of Gracie. Write about her. This isn’t a note full of wild stories; instead, it’s about me. The things I liked to do, how I made big decisions, when I knew that Ben was the one for me. It’s a sweet, meandering journal entry on a previous version ofme.

Ava is owed a letter, and this will surely entertain her. I pull out the instant camera to snap a photo, taking an extra moment to get the composition just right. The stylish, moody wallpaper is sure to catch her attention. It seems like every girl her age loves things that are “aesthetic.” The Drip definitely has a vibe.

I tear out the pages and reach back into my packed laptop bag to grab a Post-it, envelope, and stamp. On the Post-it note, I scribbleHad writer’s block today, so I wrote this instead. Enjoy.The camp mailing address is committed to memory.

I might not have added any words to my manuscript, but I have successfully unblocked whatever I was feeling after my conversation with Sunny. Remembering the younger version of myself has also momentarily made me feel light as air.

There’s just one problem: I forget to set my alarm.

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I burst throughthe door and obviously scare Josh when I do so. He pulls his earbuds out of his ears and stares. It takes a second for me to register that he’s working without a shirt on. It’s hot as Hades in the house, so I can’t blame the man, but good Lord.

Unlike when he adeptly averted his eyes this morning, I can’t stop staring. He’s more fit than he looks with a shirt on, and his subtle six-pack is staring at me. Wisps of dark hair cover his upper chest. Over the past year I’ve claimed many times that I don’t really have a “type” as a newly single person in her forties. But in this moment, I realize if God has created a man who is physically more my type than Josh, I can’t imagine it.

“Sorry,” we say at the same time, then laugh.

“I forgot to text you that I’d be back to do an interview. The Drip was crowded, and I completely lost track of time,” I say, grabbing my wireless headphones from my bag.

“No worries,” he says while looking around for what I imagine is his shirt. “This is quiet work—you won’t know I’m here.”

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