“No…” I stretch out the word because that’s exactly what I was going to do. “They’re for luck.”
Viv narrows her eyes. “How about they stay here for luck, far, far away from your top.”
She sets them gently on the dresser like they’re cursed amulets and buckles the case shut.
I smooth my pants, glance at the mirror, and give myself a shaky nod before heading towards the door.
Right before I push out into the hall, my hand stills on the doorknob. “I got this?”
“No question. You got this.”
Viv and Marin both raise their fists triumphantly at me.
Yep. I got this.
Right as I pump myself up enough to walk out the door, Viv calls, “Don’t you think that we’ve forgotten about this morning! Once the interview is over, we want all the details. And I do meanallof them!”
_____________
I’m ten minutes early, which feels both responsible and tragic. I’ve been sitting in the lobby trying to pretend I’m not sweating through my teal blue shirt. The museum is all sleek lines and clean light. Everyone passing by looks like they’ve never spilled coffee on themselves. Or cried in the Target parking lot.
I’m led into a conference room with big windows and mid-century chairs, and I try not to feel like I’m deflating as I lower myself into its embrace. A young woman rocking a cropped green blazer and a chic blonde bob greets me with a smile. Callie, the program coordinator, I think. She’s wearing loafers without socks, which feels bold.
Next to her is an older man with a beard that says “jazz playlist” and a sweater vest that makes me miss Owen in the worst way.
“Thanks so much for coming in, Birdie.” Callie gestures to one of the chairs opposite her and the older man. “This is Greg.He’s one of our art exhibition curators and will be sitting in on our interview.”
“Wonderful. Pleasure to meet you both.” I put on my sunniest smile, even though my mouth is dry and I’m fairly certain my voice is doing something weird and squeaky.
“So, tell us what drew you to apply for this internship.”
I take a breath, mentally reciting all the answers I’d prepared.
“Well. I majored in art history. Years ago, I actually dreamed about working here, at SAM, back in college.”
They nod, so I keep rattling off my script.
“I used to imagine myself writing the little wall placards next to the exhibits and pretending I knew everything about 18th-century brushwork. It was a fantasy version of me.”
Wait, that last bit wasn’t on script. What am I doing?
“Then I got married. And pregnant. Not necessarily in that order. And I blinked and twenty-something years went by in a blur of juice boxes and paper mâché volcanoes.”
Now we’re entirely off script, and I’m having a weird out-of-body experience where I can’t seem to get my mouth to stop moving.
“And then my husband died. Which is not what this interview is about, I promise, but it sort of cracked my life open. And I’m trying to figure out who I am now. I mean, I know who I was. I was excellent at running PTA fundraisers. And crafting centerpieces. And convincing local businesses to donate baskets for silent auctions. I can also plan an event on a dime, set up a gallery wall with no budget, and redirect a room of sugar-high children without crying.”
What happened to sticking with the basics? Nope. Here’s the highlight reel of my personal life.
Callie is writing something down, which somehow makes me more nervous, and when no one answers for half a second, my nerves go into overdrive, so I keep talking. The rational part of my brain is holding up a large stop sign and dramatically falling to its knees going, “why?”
“I guess what I’m saying is, I may not know all the right terms anymore. Or be fluent in Excel. But I know how to tell a story. I know how to make people care about things. And I know what it’s like to love art so much it kind of saves you.”
Callie’s smile softens. Greg leans forward.
“On your resume here, I see you mention you run a grief support group?”
“Yes.” I straighten up. Why did Viv insist I add that? “It's, um, small. Informal. We call it the Dead Husbands Society.” Greg’s eyebrows shoot up. Stop talking. Stop talking. “Terrible name, I know. But it’s kind of become this sacred space. For women to be messy and honest and lost together. We started challenging each other to reclaim our lives with these weekly dares.”
