Page 45 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

Josh’s reaction to this is a big, genuine smile I’ve not seen on him yet. The corners of his mouth go up particularly high, and he dips his head ever so slightly like he’s a little embarrassed by it and can’t quite make eye contact.

“I spent four years on autopilot,” he says, raising his head again so our eyes meet. “Working myself to the bone and ignoring most of the other parts of my life. It wasn’t until I slowed down over the past few months that I realized how lonely I was. It was a self-made emptiness that I filled up with work as a distraction. I was showing up to social stuff, but I wasn’t really present.”

The state of us. I could sense his emptiness like I’m sure he sensed my loneliness. Two sad sacks just trying to figure out what a happy, new normal should feel like. This is the first time it’s hit me that maybe these interviews are helping him as much as me.

“Okay, vibe shift,” I say with a smile, taking over the interview. “What’s your favorite city in the world?”

“You’re sittin’ in it,” he responds. “And before you ask, I’m not messing around. This is my favorite place on the planet. You?”

“It changes,” I answer honestly.

For years, my favorite place was Barcelona, the city I studied abroad in my junior year. The buzz of activity, the water, the eclectic architecture with a crazy Guadí building jumping out where you least expect it. The food, the siestas. All heaven.

Then, a decade ago, Ben and I went back for an anniversary trip, and it feltdifferent. I realized the idealized city in my mind was tied up with being twenty-one and who I was then, and what made that person happy. The city didn’t fit me like it used to. That was a major moment of growth for me because I gave myself permission to change my mind about things, while honoring the role something played in my past.

I explain all of this to Josh and share other places that have fit the favorite bill. Chicago, London, and even Chapel Hill.

“Right at this moment,” I say, “Canopy is pretty high up on the list. I’ve never felt as creatively energized as I have in this last month. It’s just working for me here.”

“Okay, back to another serious question. What’s the hardest thing about writing,” he asks, before pausing and adding, “about Ben?”

This question makes me sit back in my seat. Actually, a lot of Josh’s serious questions make me feel this way. It’s like they are designed to look into my heart—my soul, for that matter—and dig out the truth. In the few weeks we’ve been playing our interview game, he’s helped me workshop questions that I’ve been asked bythe real journalists. He’s preparing me to be strong whether he knows it or not.

“People want me to tell them about a martyr—not a man. Frankly, it’s mostly my fault because I’m the one who built up the illusion that he never got things wrong. Nobody wants to hear about how he wouldn’t go to the doctor, or how after twenty years together, he still put the lids on too tight for me to open, or how he would start a million home-improvement projects and never finish them. They don’t want to hear that he could disappear into his work and not hear me tell him something that was really important for the billionth time. He didn’t cheat, he didn’t do drugs, he had no crazy vices that I know of. It’s mostly all petty marriage stuff—the things any married couple can rattle off,” I answer at rapid speed. “But they—my editors, readers, friends, family—want this perfect person, and I feel obliged to give them that. Honestly, that’s what I wanted to remember for a long time.”

Josh listens intently and gives me a knowing look. “I kind of had the opposite happen when Katrina dumped me. Everyone wanted to talk about how terrible she was, how she was going to hell for hurting me. They nitpicked every time she had ever said the wrong thing or rubbed them the wrong way,” he starts, taking a few seconds before continuing on. “The problem was that I secretly thought she was brave for calling it the way she did. Don’t get me wrong—it was really hard at the time and was the catalyst for me nearly working myself to death, but I mean, her dad freaking loved me. He referred to me as his son-in-law for years. But she did it anyway, and she’s happy now, best that I can tell. I loved her so much, and I hated that people wanted me to destroy her. So, I played the mopey emo guy to get out of the trash talk. I said shitlike ‘I just really don’t want to talk about it.’ Because I didn’t talk about it, others sort of gave up.”

This is a good man, I think to myself. I wonder if he still thinks about her, hoping like I do that a lost love will magically walk through the door. It’s a real possibility for him, unlike for me. Something about the thought of her potentially being back in town to rekindle sparks with him gives me a brief but noticeable ache in my chest.

“I heard you in an interview last week and you said something about how grief tends to bring out the very best or worst in people—and how you felt lucky to be part of the former group,” he begins. “When I left the house that day, it was the first time I gave myself credit for showing my good side in all that grief when she left. I’m not even sure I realized it was grief before that moment.”

I take a quiet second to reflect. The intensity of today’s chat has caught us both off guard. It feels like this conversation wants more from us and is clawing for something that both of us aren’t quite ready to give. Josh swirls his drink around and seems on the verge of saying something when I jump in.

“Wow, that got serious. Um, okay—when did you get the most drunk in your life?”

We laugh and share truly ridiculous stories. Me, in the aforementioned favorite city of Barcelona as a twentysomething. Him, in Asheville for his bachelor party at around the same age. A few runner-up stories make the cut before Josh excuses himself to finish work. “You’re not paying me to talk,” he says with a smile, but he thanks me for the future blackmail fodder.

I grab my laptop and head outside to the squeaky porch swing, teasing out in my mind something that I said a few minutes ago.People want me to tell them about a martyr—not a man.This isn’t a totally new topic. In fact, it’s something strangers and I have discussed over coffee many times during the past year. How do you celebrate and honor the real person that you lost rather than remembering only their best qualities?

I’ve already sent an essay for next week’s column, but it wasn’t my best. This topic feels juicy, honest, and special. People are complicated—even when someone like Mother Teresa dies, there is a tangled legacy to reckon with. Regular people are no different. No one is perfect, but those of us who are left behind often have to grapple with the fact that nobody wants to hear about the imperfect pieces of our loved ones.

Sometimes I just want to tell friends that the refrigerator door hasn’t been left open once since Ben died—it really was him all along! It seems too silly and petty, but it’sreal life. I’m not complaining—this is all part of the banter that makes marriage hilarious and infuriating and joyful and honest.

Once the idea has marinated in my mind for a few more minutes, I open the laptop and start typing. I smile as I tap out sentences about all of the mildly infuriating habits Ben had and how annoying it is to realize how much I miss them. I share all the little things I’ve learned about myself, too, and how I imagine he would’ve missed these bits of me had the circumstances been flipped. This essay is a love letter to our imperfections.

I’m sending you something new. If you hate it, just use the one you have. If you love it, put the other one in the bank, I text Danny.

I paste in a link to my Google Doc and, as is my habit, type my preferred title into the subject line: I Need to Be Honest About My Dead Husband. Interestingly, the pull quote for the piece is moresentimental than usual, especially given the comical tone of the piece.

What version of our loved ones do we remember when they’re gone? Do we remember the martyrs or the men? I don’t know about you, but for me it’s the messy, perfectly imperfect real person who left the fridge door open all the time. I miss that guy.

I love it, Danny texts twenty minutes later.Makes me miss my mom so much. This is going to hit people right in the feels.

For the second time, a conversation with Josh has inspired a column. The last one was a smashing success, and this one feels just as strong. This thing he and I have? It works.

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A few hourslater, I’m deep into a late-afternoon session with Dr. Lisa. We spent the first thirty minutes of our hour together talking about the essay I wrote. I was floating on a high at the start of the session. The mix of how much I loved the new essay draft paired with Danny’s quick positive feedback after reading it made me feel invincible. Enter Dr. Lisa to quickly burst that bubble.

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