When it comes to his offer of assistance, the rational part of my brain is telling me to say,Don’t worry about it, but the Jenny-on-the-shoulder side of things is reminding me that I need to ask for help more often. People want to be helpful. I take a deep breath and opt for the spirit of honesty again. Not the whole truth, but enough of it.
“The answer is twofold. First, I’m terrible at small talk.”
“Should’ve grown up in a small town,” he says before I can finish the thought. “We’re great at it.”
“And second,” I continue, undeterred, “interviews are absolutely wild. The questions are everywhere. Some journalists do it to throw you off your game, and others are just naturally all over the place.”
“How so?” he asks as he slides onto the kitchen stool beside me.
“The interviewer just now asked me my favorite place to get coffee in Chapel Hill in one breath, and then her follow-up was ‘How has Ben’s death caused you to confront your own mortality?’ ”
Josh lets out a bolt of laughter. It’s one of those loud, honestlaughs that naturally gregarious people have. The type of laugh that belongs to someone who isn’t afraid to be the center of attention. He apologizes for laughing.
“If this were happening to anyone else, I would have about ten jokes right now,” I say so that he won’t feel bad. “What article is she even writing with that collection of information?”
It’s a strange feeling to be in such an honest, intimate conversation with someone I just met. At home, I’m so focused on making sure everyone knows that I’m definitely okay. This business of blurting out my misery to someone besides Jenny or Dr. Lisa isn’t my style.
“Well, I can’t really help with the crazy stuff the journalists ask you,” he says bluntly. “But I do have an idea to help with the rest of it.”
I sit up straight and correct the depressed slouch I’ve held since the interview wrapped. My home-improvement contractor has a solution to my existential crisis? A solution to the creativity-sucking nonsense that these interviews are shaping up to be three times a week for the foreseeable future? I turn my head to the side, indicating that I’m waiting without saying it out loud. A hint of a smile emerges from the corner of his mouth.
“Number one, every day, you need to get out and make small talk with someone in town. Coffee shop, lunch place, post office,” he instructs. “In fact, tomorrow I need you to go set up an account at the hardware store for project supplies. While you’re there, try to get to know Br— Nope, not gonna tell you his name. The guy behind the counter. Same thing at The Drip.”
“Small-talk practice,” I say. “That’s your advice?”
“Absolutely. You’ll be a pro before you know it,” he responds,then pauses. “You might get a reputation for being friendly, but that’s a problem you can worry about down the road.”
He laughs again, clearly proud of the joke he just made. I let a smile creep across my face and realize that small-talk practice is probably a good idea. It’ll help me get better about thinking on my feet. “Okay, done,” I respond.
“Second thing,” he starts but hesitates, like he’s really trying to decide if this is going to be a good idea. He raises his arms to run his hands through his hair before putting his hat back on, and I notice a tattoo peeking out from the bottom of his T-shirt sleeve. “I don’t mind learning things about people, and I’ve been known to be awkward at times. So, I can help with interview practice during lunch hours when you don’t have time booked with the professionals. Off the clock.”
It’s a sweet gesture, and he’s probably on to something with the concept of interview practice. I make a mental note to ask my publicist, Lucia, for a media trainer to help take the edge off my obviously terrible interview etiquette and sound bites. Practice won’t make me perfect, but it will make me acceptably mediocre at this part of the job.
When I don’t respond right away, Josh takes matters into his own hands.
“Anyway, let’s take your mind off the train-wreck interview. What’s your favorite cocktail and why?” he asks innocently.
I cradle my chin with my hand and put my elbow on the counter, mocking a good “thinker” face, even though this is the easiest question I can be asked. Before Ben died, there was no happy-hour invitation that I would turn down. It’s one of the few guaranteed social events that I will attend.
“A freshly made margarita. It’s heavenly on a hot day and never gives me a hangover.”
Without missing a beat, he follows up with, “Have you ever considered that you’ll never find love again after the sudden death of your husband?”
My eyes go wide, and my mouth opens. You see it happen in movies—someone’s jaw drops—but there are so few moments in real life that shock us this way. This is one of those times.
“Well played,” I say in a tone that makes no mistake that I’m legitimately impressed.
“Would you like to reconsider my offer?” he responds with a smugI told you sogrin on his face.
“Interview hour starts tomorrow at noon,” I state without hesitation. “Don’t be late.”
He smiles big, puts his earbuds in, and walks back to the guest room to tackle the next repair.
Chapter 11
I’m a woman who hasalways loved a good homework assignment, so it’s no surprise that I’m at The Drip right at 8 a.m. to start my morning of small-talk practice. I’ve decided to begin here, write for a bit, and then move on to the hardware store on the way home.
“Good morning. It’s nice to see you again,” the petite blonde behind the counter says. “What can we make for you?”
