Page 41 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

We’re hiding out in the comically tiny break room at The Drip so that I can tell them both the story in private, at the same time. I cannot imagine telling this tale more than once. Jenny, of course, will convene the members of the group text as they’re available over the next few days and tell an increasingly ridiculous version of the story. That is, if it’s possible to be more ridiculous than reality.

“Let me get this straight. Josh had no shirt on, you were being asked about sex, everyone was sweating, and then Billy walked in?” Sunny asks, stifling her laughter to get the words out.

“Thankfully, the interview was over by the time repairman Billy showed up, but my goodness, you guys. It was a comedy oferrors,” I tell them. I’m not laughing, but I will admit that two nights of sleep have allowed me to seesomehumor in it.

“What does he look like without a shirt on?” Jenny asks once the laughter dies down a bit.

“Jenny! I literally employ this guy,” I say to her. “Well, I mean, under the table and with no official documentation, but he worksfor me!”

“Gracie, I’m at the point in pregnancy where I can’t cut my own toenails—my husband has to do it for me,” she says in a playful tone. “I need to hear something sexy, please.”

“I would like to state for the record that I’m a happily partnered woman to a lovely man,” Sunny cuts in to explain. “But I can tell you, Jenny, that Josh is very good-looking with and without his shirt. Total babe. Gracie has to be able to admit that.”

“He’s very attractive,” I say in a monotone voice to convey that I’m confirming a fact and not rendering an opinion.

“Gracie showed me photos of Ben,” Sunny chimes in. “They don’t look alike, but she definitely has a thing for tall guys with good smiles. I think this could work.”

“And he knows your whole romantic history now, so there are no secrets or surprises,” Jenny adds before howling with laughter once again.

“I think this conversation confirms it,” I joke. “I need to sell the house earlier than expected and skip town. Cut my losses. Thanks for the pep talk, ladies.”

We hang up with Jenny a few minutes later after even more playful teasing, and Sunny walks me back to the front of the café. Every time she looks at me for the rest of the morning, she bursts into a fit of giggles.

—

Josh was convenientlyout of town yesterday for a last-minute hiking trip with James, and it turns out that a little time away has removed any lingering discomfort—outwardly, at least—for both of us after the interview. We are adults, after all. Unlike Jenny and Sunny.

He walks in the door, spreads open his arms, and says, “It’s still cool in here!”

“Only because I’m here,” I say with a wink. “Heads up: today I have an interview at one instead of noon. It’s with a woman who writes a popular publishing-industry blog, so I’m hopeful it’s all about my writing process and not my dating life this time.”

“I’ll cross my fingers for you—actually, for us both—and run some errands so that I’m out of your hair,” he responds. “For the rest of the morning I’ll mostly be upstairs working in the kids’ bathroom, so the downstairs is all yours.”

It’s still borderline unbelievable to me that a man comes to my house every day and just starts tackling all of the to-dos on a list that I made for him. He’s managed to repair most of the older, charming aspects of the house and pulled me back from the ledge of making purchasing decisions that are too modern for the space. It’s annoying how he’s usually right, but the house does look amazing.

“Do you want me to hang those frames at some point today?” he asks, motioning to a handful of framed art prints that arrived yesterday.

“Don’t laugh at me, but I just need them to sit there for a littlelonger so that I can visualize the perfect place for them to go. I don’t have the right feeling about it just yet.”

“I thought you weren’t a feeler, Gracie Harris,” he says.

“When it comes to putting holes in these beautiful walls you’ve patched and painted, I want to make sure we get it right,” I say back, refusing to bite on the playful comment.

He gives me a classic Josh grin, grabs his tools, and makes the first of many trips up the stairs to bring his materials to the second bathroom. I give in to my work and don’t see him again until a few minutes before one when he waves and says he’ll see me in a couple of hours.

—

I’m confused whenJosh returns from his errands and comes through the door with grocery bags.

“I know we established that I’ve gone through a relatively long phase of not taking care of my own self, so I can recognize it in others. I can’t watch you eat another takeout from Lenny’s tonight, Gracie. I can’t do it,” he says. “Plus, I made a promise to your kids the morning they went to camp to feed you if you got stressed out.”

Morning and late at night are my most productive times—a brain trained over twelve years of being a mom. Mid to late afternoon has always been a creative wasteland for me. So far this summer, it means that my schedule is to work all morning, do interviews (the fun ones with Josh or the boring real ones with the real journalists) at noon, and then catch up on my reading or trash TV until an early dinner—which Josh usually catches me eatingbefore he leaves around 5:30. The blue-plate special leads into a few more hours of evening work, which is often my most productive time of the day.

I pretend to consider his offer, despite the fact that I haven’t had a proper home-cooked meal in weeks and would do anything for it.

“Only if I can interviewyouwhile you cook,” I finally answer.

“Wait—I offer to cook dinner and I have to pay a cost to do so?”

---