“I’m trying out some new things this summer,” I respond.
Josh might be the fastest eater I’ve ever seen, because he’s done with his entire sandwich before I’m even halfway through mine.
“We shouldn’t lose track of our other goal for the summer: interview practice,” he says while walking his container to the trash. “Finish up your sandwich because it’s time to get down to business. Should I ask a question?”
“Let’s do it,” I respond confidently.
“I tried to think of questions that you might actually get asked. First up, what’s the hardest thing about writing a memoir?” he inquires while keeping those brown eyes on mine.
The fact that he’s put thought into these questions makes me feel unexpectedly warm in my chest. The tender kindness of it catches me off guard.
“Without a doubt the hardest thing so far has been including stories that I would prefer to keep private,” I respond, “but knowing that those stories enrich the bigger narrative and will ultimately make the book better.”
“Any examples?” he follows up.
Deep breath. The obvious story is the one from April where the horrible woman ruined a perfectly good first date. I stare at Josh. He stares at me, and I sigh deeply. He starts to indicate that I don’t need to share, but I put my hand up to interrupt him. “You’re doing me a favor,” I tell him. “I have three interviews in the coming weeks with journalists that are particularly interested in my process. This question is bound to come up eventually.”
So I dive into the story. Because it’s Josh and we’ve got this great mix of a new friendship and no baggage, I go into detail in a way that I certainly won’t with journalists and, honestly, even some of my friends at home. My friends are always quick to worry intensely about everything. So I leave no sordid detail untold. As the story progresses, I see Josh switch into a defensive posture; his shoulders tighten, and he sits up bolt straight. As someone who carries tension in my neck, it’s like I can see stress travel up his body just from hearing the story. He tries to keep a poker face, but it’s morphing just like his body language.
When I finish the story, he quietly tells me he’s sorry that happened and that part of my job means sharing it with the world.
“Maybe you don’t have to share that?” he asks. His body loosens slightly, but it’s just obvious he’s had a physical reaction to my experience.
“It’s an important piece of my lived experience from the first year after Ben died. And the truth is, I was starting to get cold feet about being away from Chapel Hill all summer before that happened. Between that date and a particularly bad interview situation, I knew that I really needed to get away for a bit,” I add quietly.
We exist in silence for a minute while I gather my own empty container and take it to the bin under the sink. Josh breaks the quiet.
“Okay, one more question before I get back to work. I’ve decided just now that every interview session should end with a fun question so that we don’t have to be so serious. What is your least favorite movie of all time?”
“So easy. This terribly long movie with Russell Crowe where he’s on a ship for, like, three hours and the dialogue goes on forever and your brain wants to explode from boredom.”
Once again, those brown eyes home in on me like laser beams.
“For real? That is easily one of my top three favorite movies of all time,” he says, hand to his heart like I’ve just broken it.
Then he immediately bursts out laughing and tells the truth. “James made me watch that movie, like, ten years ago, and yes, my brain almost exploded. I’m pretty sure I disassociated for the last hour. That’s a solid terrible-movie choice.”
We have a moment of shared giggles over our dislike of the same film, and then he thanks me for lunch before disappearingupstairs to work on the next project. With the sounds of his hammering in the background, I flip open my laptop to do some furniture shopping online and realize this has been one of the best mornings of my post-Ben life—filled with small talk and new friends. Who am I?
Chapter 12
There’s no denying it: I’mslowly learning to like the interview process. The days I get to chat with Josh are, by far, my favorite days, and thanks to our practice sessions, I’m even learning to like the real interviews just a little bit. It’s been a solid week of our new repertoire, and it’s adding a bit of fun and unexpected joy to my day-to-day routine. The first few days he was tentative, asking just two or three questions. Now we spend the entire lunch hour together.
“Josh, you’ll never guess,” I say, barging into Benji’s room, where he’s working after my lunchtime interview with a journalist for a women’s magazine. “She asked me the same question you asked a few days ago. The one about ‘What’s one thing you wish you said but never did?’ In your exact words. You should write fluff articles for a living!”
Josh smiles and gives me what I now know is his trademarkI told you solook. Initially, I refused to answer the question when he asked it. My argument was, and continues to be, that people just love to ask me these revisionist history–type questions. If youcould change one thing. If you could do one thing differently. If you could go back in time and say something different. Peoplelovehypotheticals based on time-traveling powers.
He pushed the issue, so I answered with the most honest thing that came to mind: “Ben, I’m not sleeping with you until you go to the doctor.”
“Really, that’s the one thing you’d go back in time and tell your husband?” he asked, incredulous.
“Yes, one threat of withholding sex and he would’ve been at the doctor’s office like this,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Men are not as complicated as you guys like to think you are.”
Now he’s asking me, “What was her response?”
“Very similar to yours. She laughed, but then I explainedwhyI would go back and say that. So many women and wives are tired of being the nags in their families and work lives. It’s like we’re the human reminder list for everything and everyone. I had countless days where I felt like I only nagged—my kids, my colleagues, my husband. Sometimes we just give up. I honestly just wish I forced the issue with the doctor’s visit. I torture myself wondering if maybe he would still be here if I had. It led to a great conversation about the expectations of women in modern relationships.”
“Well, I’m glad that my practice interviews are useful,” he says with a sad smile, given what I just shared.
