I am without words. Without the legitimate ability to speak. I feel everything and nothing. I forget where I am, who I’m supposed to be. I’m inside my body and completely separate from it.
I feel myself unspooling, and I know in a deep place that this is the great unravel Dr. Lisa tried to prepare me for. For a minute yesterday, I thought maybe the interview and my great spilling of secrets was the unraveling, but I know better now. It is here and I am gone. It’s like all of my grief has been living just below the surface and I’ve finally given myself permission to let it out. Minutes pass, maybe a lot of minutes, maybe hours. All I can do is fall to pieces.
When the pace of my tears calms slightly, when my body is no longer convulsing, Josh puts his hands on my cheeks again and lifts my head so we can finally see into each other’s eyes.
“Truly, all I’ve ever wanted since the day we met is to be the one who gets to check it off the list,” he says, repeating what he’s already told me.
I bite my lip and do the ugly-cry thing, gasping for air. Leave it to Ben to leave care instructions for me from the great beyond.
“This is so scary for me,” I let out. “It won’t be easy. Nothing about this will be easy. It’s going to be so, so hard for you. For me. For us.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m scared, too, but I’m in this. Gracie, all summer I’ve been fixing up this house, praying that it could be ours together down the road. I cried the night you told me you might sell it, and I hadn’t even admitted to myself at that point that I hadserious feelings for you. Do you know how crazy that made me feel? I’m so scared that you’ll wake up one day and realize you made a terrible mistake.”
“That won’t happen,” I whisper, while staring deeply into his eyes. “I need you.”
“I promise that I will work every day to be worthy of a life with you. With your kids,” he says, inhaling deeply. “I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.”
He scoops me up and takes me back to the guest room, which now feels like our bedroom. We taste each other’s tears as we fall onto the bed. He runs his strong hands through my hair and down my back, unzipping my dress. I tuck my hands under his shirt and peel it over his head. I have never needed someone more in my life.
There is an otherworldly intensity between us. It is not the forceful intensity of our first night, but a delicate one. I feel not just all of my own emotions, but his, too. Our bodies move together in perfect harmony through deep breaths and moans.
“I love you so much,” he says into my ear.
“I love you, too,” I say back, staring at him as my world expands and shrinks out of my control.
Chapter 31
Over the last two days,Josh has only left the house twice—first, to go to his place and grab clothes and toiletries and, second, to grab groceries for us. Otherwise, we’ve been holed up together in the Craftsman. We talk, make plans, he repairs, I edit my manuscript, and we simply spend time together trying to figure out this new world of ours.
This morning, for the first time ever, I hand him something of mine to read: the prologue for my memoir (Jeannie’s version). It was the last thing on the memoir to-do list before jumping into the final pieces of my personal editing process. In the spirit of radical honesty, I don’t hold back when I hand the printed pages over to him.
“This is the fourth time I’ve written these words, and it’s been brutal every time,” I tell him. “I really don’t want it to be how the book starts, but I haven’t figured out a better solution yet, and I need to email the manuscript in a few days. Before anyone else reads it, I want you to.”
I make myself comfortable on the other side of the sofa whilehe reads, our legs stretched long and intertwined. He is so engrossed in the pages that he doesn’t look up once. I study him in deep appreciation—amazed that this man is mine and that I feel strong enough to share the worst day of my life with him. Yes, everyone will eventually read it, but for a short period of time, the memory—and all of the pain that comes with it—is protected. When he finishes the last page, he takes a deep inhale and looks up at me.
“Gracie, this is devastatingly beautiful,” he says, not with sympathy or pity but instead with a mix of compassion and pride. “You are an amazing writer. I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to experience it for real.”
“Thanks. I know it’s good, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not right…that there is a better way to tell this story.”
“Aside from the fact that it shares the worst day of your life—very eloquently, I might add—what is the challenge?” he asks, and I can see the wheels in his brain turning, trying to help me solve this problem.
“Honestly? Exactly what I said on Maisy’s podcast. Yes, Ben died, but I hate for it to be the way people are introduced to him. I’m no longer opposed to it being in the book, but it’s the wrong first impression. It feels all wrong for who Ben was as a person—a real person—and what he meant to me.”
“A lot can happen in a few days, so don’t give up hope yet. Is there anyone you can call to try and get inspiration?”
I pause and smile at him. If there is anyone who can help me figure this out, it’s her. Plus, she’s really owed an update on my summer in Canopy.
“There is actually someone I can call, and I think that’s a goodidea,” I say, crawling over to give him a kiss before I hop off the sofa in search of answers.
—
I pick upmy cell phone and dial Ben’s mom, Cecily. Over the past year, she is the only person who I could truly share my feelings with. My own mom has been wonderful, but Cecily and I both lost a great love of our lives the day Ben died. We usually talk multiple times a week, but the calls have been few and far between this summer. I told her that this would happen with my busy writing schedule. I didn’t expect falling in love to be another reason I was so busy.
“Darling, it’s so lovely to see you,” she exclaims while her image bounces around the screen. I imagine she is attempting to balance her phone against something on her dining table.
“I’ve missed our conversations so much, Cecily. I’m sorry it’s been so long,” I say apologetically.
We make small talk for a little while. She shares about the crazy house projects that Ben’s dad, Charlie, is attempting to do on his own and how she sneakily calls professionals to swoop in and help. She tells me about my nieces and nephews, including the oldest, who is headed off to college in a month. He’s the first kid I’ve known from birth to college matriculation, and it makes me feel a million years old. I tell her as much.
