Page 58 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“You are totally welcome to,” I say back, watching her admire the desk.

She turns around with a somewhat serious look on her face.

“While we’re up here and have some privacy,” she begins, “I just want to say how happy it makes me to see you and Josh together. He’s like a little brother to me. I’ve known him since he was seventeen, and I’ve never seen him look this way before. He’s completely himself with you, and trust me—he’s had issues with that in past relationships. It says a lot about how good the two of you are together.”

I blush and think again how lucky Josh is to have such wonderful, caring people around him. I also wonder if this is a bit of what Sunny meant weeks ago when she told me about his bad habit. Still, I sense that there is more that Kendell wants to say.

“Gracie, I have read everything you’ve published over the last year. I admire you and your work so much. I know there will come a time in the next month when y’all will try to figure out if this can last past the summer. Please know that you can do it and that something great like this is worth fighting for.”

“We’re mostly taking it day by day at this point,” I say, because it’s true but also because I haven’t let myself think too far ahead, just in case disappointment might be on the horizon. “My life is so complicated. Sometimes I struggle when I think about draggingJosh into my mess, especially the boring mess—school calendars, soccer games, report cards, preteen drama. Can you imagine him signing up for that after all this time on his own?”

She quietly leans on the desk and takes a deep breath. Her eyes turn soft and watery.

“Josh would be great at that mess,” she says with a slight wobble in her voice. “He should’ve been a dad by now. A husband. The parent who sneaks in Kool-Aid for the kids at the end-of-year party instead of the organic juice boxes the room mom put on the sign-up list. The guy who claims he’s definitely not volunteering to coach a team but is on the sideline by the first game. The one who takes his kid for ice cream after a rough math test. Gracie, he’d be absolutely perfect for your mess. I think he longs for it.”

“I take it he’s been a great uncle?” I ask, because right now I can’t imagine someone else being a perfect fit who isn’t Ben. My mind knows Kendell is telling the truth that Josh would be a natural, but my heart doesn’t want to picture it just yet.

“The best,” she says. “He and James share the same core goodness and love for family. James has been the best dad—I would’ve never had five kids if that weren’t the case. I’m sure it’s not always been easy for Josh to see his brother get this full family life when things didn’t work out the same for him, but he’s never let it change how he is with us. My kids adore him.”

I realize that Kendell is trying to make a strong pitch for Josh—letting me know that this accidental bachelor might just be able to handle stepping into the complicated world of a widowed mom of two. I fight the urge to let out a nervous chuckle, because I’m quite convinced that I’m the one who needs to make the sales pitch, and it won’t be easy.

“We should get back down and take that photo,” I say, reaching out my hand to Kendell. “Thanks for this.”

We walk downstairs and catch the Anderson brothers goofing off in the kitchen as they load the last of the plates into the dishwasher. Together, in this lighthearted moment, their distinct personalities meld into a moment of pure joy. I instinctively see the goodness that Kendell just described radiating from them both.

And in this one moment, I let myself believe that maybe my mess is indeed a perfect fit. But just as quickly as I let the thought in, I then let it fly away—leaving the future as something to worry about on another day.

Chapter 23

I’ve only let myself shopin Canopy Books one time this summer—to buy the stacks that I needed to populate the bookshelves at the house. Books are both my sanctuary and top procrastination technique. It’s a slippery slope. It starts with just one book before I get back into writing, and then the next thing you know, I’m four books deep and haven’t opened my laptop in weeks. How do I know this will happen? Because it was the story of my January.

So, I haven’t let myself in the bookstore for nondecorative purposes out of sheer principle until now. I’m only a few days of work (and an annoying prologue) from wrapping up the memoir. Today, I’m buying a reward book to entice myself to write faster so that I can finally read prose again that isn’t based on my own sad life or that isn’t another memoir (also usually sad). I just want to read a low-impact, mostly-wine-club book-club selection.

I wander down the fiction aisles and head for the “beach reads.” I feel an immediate release. The bright colors, the punchy titles. This is my home. Ben used to tease me about my book choices, but the truth was he never made it through many of his yawn-inducingseven-hundred-page nonfiction books. In a year, I could read twenty or thirty books while he struggled to finish a few. I haven’t read much of my usual fare lately; life has been too heavy to disappear into the romantic dramedies of fictional characters. As I stand here, I hope I can find joy in this all again. There are two books in my hands to choose between. Both promise the sweet nectar of a juicy romance.

Then suddenly, I see her. What. The. Actual. Hell. It’s the horrible, nasty woman who ruined my date in Chapel Hill. Why is the world so small? What twisted joke is this? I duck before I can be spotted over the shelf and practically crawl on my hands and knees to the counter at the front of the store.

The woman at the register is someone that I don’t recognize, but there isn’t time for an introduction. I slink back behind the counter and sit flat against it with my legs crossed. “Please hide me,” I whisper to the woman with a tiny smile so she won’t be alarmed. A perplexed and mildly amused look crosses her face. “I’ll explain in a few minutes,” I add, as if that will make me seem any less crazy.

The counter is deep, so I feel confident that the horrible woman won’t see me. Not a minute later, she is up at the register to check out.

“Did you find everything you’re looking for?”

“I did; thank you for asking.”

“Are you staying in town or just passing through?”

Whoever this woman at the register is, I love her. She’s asking the right questions to get me the good intel.

“Just passing through. We live in Durham and are coming back from a week in the Smokies. Dollywood and all! Just beautiful.”

“That’s lovely. Grabbing reading material for the rest of the drive today?”

“You got it. We thought about staying the night, but there doesn’t seem to be all that much here to see.”

“Your total is $27.65.”

Horrible Woman has hit a nerve because the tone of the lady at the register shifts.Nothing much here to see? Canopy has everything. I am sure the cashier is thinking the same thing.

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