Page 70 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“It works for the summer, Josh. It works for the couple of months we find ourselves in these exact conditions,” I tell him. “Where do we even go from here?”

“We’re adults, Gracie,” he tells me. “I just assumed we’d figure it out.”

Ben and I rarely fought, but when we did, both of us refused to give up or give in. Both stubborn to our core. I realize in this moment that even this new version of me that everyone keeps claiming exists still won’t let things go without a fight. I dig in.

“I don’t even live here, Josh. I live three hundred miles away,” I press on. “What happens the first time we’re supposed to see each other for a weekend and my childcare cancels on me? The first time you’ve got an important event and one of the kids gets sick? When the book tour next spring eats into the few precious weeks of potential ‘us time’ we have? What happens as our parents get older and need us to be in all of these different places? What happens?”

“I don’t know, and maybe it will be hard,” he says with a changed, worried expression. “But, Gracie, I’m crazy about you.”

“That’s the thing, Josh,” I say, making eye contact and immediately fighting the urge to fall into him for a hug. “I’m so tired of things being hard. You probably are, too.”

“The hardest thingfor meis that all this happiness that I feel is the result of you losing the love of your life,” he says, his voice cracking with those last few words. “And knowing I would giveaway everything we have if there were a way to let you go back to your old life—to who you were before—if it meant you were happy again.”

“That’s not how life works,” I say, feeling inexplicable ire rising in response to one of the most truly moving things anyone has ever said to me. My instant regret causes my head to throb and my leg to shake.

“I know,” he responds. “Which is why I thought you might settle for a chance to be happy with me.”

Settle. It’s a ludicrous thought because every inch of me thinks it’s impossible that he would ultimately settle for the emotional dumpster fire thatI am. It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m still in this for the win, not for the reasonable adult conversation.

“Listen, I need to be up at, like, five a.m. for this flight, and I just can’t do this tonight,” I say back, now unable to look him in the eye.

“Gracie, please. I don’t want to leave you angry.”

“I just need the night to myself to think about things.”

“Things?”

“Us.”

“Gracie, please tell me you don’t mean that.”

“Just give me a day or two, Josh—please.”

With that, he does exactly what I’ve asked and opens the door and walks back down the path to his truck instead of doing what I really want him to do—hug me while I cry. But I do—cry. For the next hour, I’m inconsolable, and I don’t know who the tears are for: Ben, Josh, or me. Maybe all of us? My leg is shaking, but so is the rest of my body.

In the span of a few minutes, I’ve managed to ruin—or, best-case scenario, taint—the only thing besides my kids that has broughtme sustained joy over the last year. This whole time, I was worried about Katrina swooping in to take Josh from me, but she didn’t have to take anything. I lost it for myself by not being able to figure out who I am. And what I want. What I need.

“Josh deserves better than me,” I say to no one but myself. I put my head on my pillow and somehow fall asleep.

Chapter 28

A few days ago, Icalled Dr. Lisa and asked her to listen to the live stream of the podcast. If I do end up “going deep” in any unexpected ways, a debrief and maybe even a double session will be required, so why not skip the part where I download what happened? It’s better if she just listens to it live and charges me for her time. I look down at my phone as I take my seat and text her a reminder.

Don’t forget. 1 p.m. CST today.

She immediately gives the text a thumbs-up, and I swipe my phone into airplane mode. Maybe it’s the stress of the last day or the last year, but I angle my head against the plane window, and the next thing I know, we’re landing in Nashville. As if I wasn’t disoriented enough, the feeling of having traveled nearly 250 miles without realizing it startles me.

As I reach the arrivals hallway, I see a driver is waiting with my name on a sign. Beside him stands Lucia, my publicist. She got toNashville yesterday to meet with another client and insisted on ridesharing to the airport to greet me. This is only the second time we’ve met in person, and we greet one another with a great big hug.

Maisy is hosting the podcast sessions from a new small recording studio she had built at her TV show headquarters downtown. I have to give her credit: the concept of the podcast—calledSame Stories—is actually quite clever. She pairs together two people from different industries, experiences, or walks of life who have experienced a common event or feeling. Unsurprisingly, the theme of today’s podcast is grief.

On the forty-five-minute journey to the studio, Lucia briefs me on my interview partner for the day. I’ve been paired with Darrell Jenkins, a former professional football player in his late twenties who had his career ended earlier last year in the playoffs by a serious spinal injury. One day, he was one of the best running backs of his generation, and the next, he was lucky to be alive. Even luckier to be able to walk. Football, however, is done. Darrell and I both share really shitty canon events for our superhero origin stories, that’s for sure. Broken bodies and broken hearts aren’t all that different, I know instinctively.

“Is this for real?” I say, staring at the briefing sheet she’s just given me when I should be listening to her. The second bulleted item says that we’re going to watch alongside Darrell as he views the video of his injury for the first time ever.Damn, I think.

“It’s going to be intense,” Lucia says, basically reading my mind. “That’s the type of raw honesty and emotion that Maisy is looking for. If listeners aren’t bawling their eyes out by the end of your hour together, we won’t consider it a success.”

We review the list of potential questions that Maisy’s team sentover and go through some preplanned answers, but Lucia is clearly phoning it in. She looks me straight in the eyes and gets serious.

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