As I write, I’m aware of people coming and going from The Drip. The little bell on the door rings out every few minutes. Friends and neighbors greet one another and start up conversations. The youngbarista behind the counter who brought me my drink welcomes more than a few people by their first names. The quiet hum of the place turns into the background white noise that I need to get the closest I’ve been to a flow state with this memoir in a long time.
I spend the next few hours massaging a chapter about the beauty of mundanity. When you’ve had a year like mine, boring is a gift. Predictability feels like a warm hug. The everyday tasks that usually drive parents to insanity at the end of the school year? A welcome distraction. Returning to routine is essential—at least for me—to finding anything resembling equilibrium. It’s also what excites me so much about my summer here in Canopy. I get to dive into the deep end of a routine. Yes, it’s a new routine in new surroundings, but there is comfort in it.
It’s not my best writing, but even in the moment I know that this will be an important transition chapter that leads to the final portion of the book. The prose can be polished later. Morning number one has been perfectly adequate.
Chapter 10
I arrive back at thehouse with just a few minutes to spare before my interview. Today I’m chatting with a freelancer for a content factory focused on women’s lifestyle topics. Like I said, we’re using these early interviews to build my confidence back up. No glamour here.
Josh emerges from a back room wiping his hands on a towel, but some of the putty is clearly not budging.
“I got that big ugly dent on the wall patched in the guest room. Depending on how fast it dries, I may be able to prime it before I leave today.”
I thank him, remembering where the dent came from. Ben and I found a gorgeous four-poster bed at an antique mall one town over on our planning trip. We managed to get it into the truck bed and home without losing any pieces. Getting it into the house and room was another matter. The door frames are skinnier in older homes, and I have the upper-body strength of a fifth-grader. We bumped into the walls, and I had to pause every two feet to stop laughing or I was definitely going to pee my pants. The headboardwas the final piece, but my tired hands lost their grip, and it flew into the wall. Ben stared at me with fake annoyance. Then he took out the project list and a pencil from his back pocket and addedFix dent in guest room wall.
Josh interrupts my daydream. “I brought lunch today. Is it cool if I eat at the dining table while you do your interview? I’ll put earbuds in and a podcast on so you don’t think I’m eavesdropping.”
He’s worried about my privacy, but I’m more worried about embarrassing myself in front of this mostly stranger, so I tell him that would be great.
I pull myself onto a stool at the kitchen island and open my laptop for the second time today. With three minutes left before noon, I google the writer’s name and skim the headlines from her recent stories. Mostly fluff, I confirm. Instantly, I relax, and the tension melts a bit from my neck and shoulders. My calendar notification pops up with a virtual meeting link. I throw in my own earbuds and click on it.
We exchange the usual pleasantries before Maya jumps right into her questions—and immediately I realize this is going to be a nightmare. The questions are all over the place. Did she even go to journalism school? Stupid content farms—all quantity and zero quality.
My kids are my top priority, and their mental well-being is something I prioritize even over my own. I know the whole “put on your oxygen mask before others’ ” advice that people give, but they’re my focus.
Blush and mascara…Oh, favorites? I grew up on drugstore brands, so CoverGirl mostly.
I haven’t watched a lot of Netflix over the last year—most nights I useto write. Writing is sacred to me and really important to my healing. I’m sure it’s similar for you.
Sky blue? I guess that’s a paint color I use a lot.
I’m not sure I’m the best person to give dating advice, but I guess my top recommendation would be to be willing to go outside your comfort zone. Be willing to not have a type, or don’t be so attached to a type if you have one.
A cute spot called Regina’s Café.
Wow, um, well, my mortality is mostly tied to my kids’ well-being, to be honest. Confronting my own mortality means the potential that I leave them alone, and I just can’t let that be an option right now.
Interview one is utter fucking chaos. Very auspicious.
—
I spread myarms out clear across the kitchen island and put my forehead on the counter with just enough force to make a noise. A long, frustrated grunt-moan sound emerges from my chest. I won’t deny it—this is dramatic. Without looking up, I can tell my theatrics have stirred Josh’s curiosity. It’s confirmed a second later.
“Everything okay over there?” he calls from the dining room on the other side of the wall with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Why am I so bad at this?” I say to nobody in particular, not really answering his question.
“You’re bad at interviews? I thought you were this fancy writer from the big city,” he says with a mock twang as he walks into the room, trying to pull me from my brief fit of despair. Which, of course, makes me realize I’ll be spending every day this summerwith one of those people who tries to make everyone smile and laugh when things go a little sideways. This is clearly not a man who wallows.
How do I explain this to him?Well, person I just met two days ago, I’ve spent pretty much the entire last year avoiding doing interviews as a form of self-preservation to ensure that I wouldn’t lose my shit talking to a random journalist about my life, my struggles, and what an absolute mess things have been.I respond in a way that captures the spirit of honesty.
“I put off doing any sort of press for the better part of a year so that I could focus on my writing, my job, and my kids. Then I had a very tough public interview about a month ago, so I made a deal with my publicist that I would start doing press this summer to build my confidence and get better at thinking on my feet. I need more column readers so I’ll get more followers so I’ll sell more books,” I release at the speed of sound. “I’m going to dread every one of these. My confidence is a wreck.”
He stares and squints his eyes like he’s studying me to decide the right next thing to say. Like he’s deciding between a joke or something endearing. He opts for the latter and starts nodding his head like he’s figured out the final clue on a crossword.
“Gracie, I’m a person who likes to get to the root of a problem. Not to use a lame building analogy, but it works here—I can’t really make a house look nice until I fix all of the stuff underneath. The water stain will always reemerge if you don’t identify where the leak is coming from. So, what is it about interviews that you hate so much? You won’t be able to make it better—or at least make itsoundbetter—until you know that.”
He’s still staring at me, and I’m laser focused back on him. Hegenuinely wants to talk about this. Two days ago, I was stuck comparing him to James, so this is the first time I’ve let myself observe what he truly looks like. His short, thick brown hair looks a little crazy, which I assume is from wearing the alarmingly beat-up baseball hat that he’s holding in his left hand. There’s a tiny piece of putty stuck to his right temple. He’s got one of those permanently furrowed brows that comes from always being deep in thought, and his smile is both gracious and charming. He’s got the tiniest gap between his two front teeth, which gives him an instantly unique face. I consider how unpolished he looks and yet how relaxed his demeanor is. This is a guy totally comfortable in his skin.
