Page 14 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

I arrive back at the house 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 headboard was 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 added Fix 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 use to 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 my arms 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 summer with 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 it sound better—until you know that. ”

He’s still staring at me, and I’m laser focused back on him.

He genuinely 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.

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, honest laughs 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 smug I told you so grin 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.