“Why does everyone feel inclined to browse through my personal belongings?”
Her thin lips curve into a grin.“Because, dear sister, we so rarely have the opportunity.Lighten up.I won’t hold any of your secrets against you, and—bonus—I’ll keep them, too.Now, let’s go.”
She drives us to a boutique in Mayfair, specializing in coastal decor, artisan gifts, and, as she puts it, “Boho beautiful.”It’s a quaint shop that reminds me of similar boutiques I’ve patronized in coastal towns in England and France.
“Here’s how this should go,” she says, as we circle the store.“Point out anything that catches your eye, that youreallylike, and I’ll build the outfits around your favs.Deal?”
“That sounds reasonable,” I say, perusing a rack of tops.
“How do you feel about starting the job tomorrow?”
I hold out a sage green t-shirt with cuffed sleeves and hand it to her.“Anxious.I don’t like classrooms.”
“Well, whenever you feel butterflies, just practice your Ins and Outs.Don’t think of it as a classroom.Visualize something more comfortable, like a coffee shop or campfire.Imagine you’re talking to me or Henry.”
I roll my eyes, wondering if she and Dad conspired with their teaching advice, too.
“Dad says you’ll have office hours,” she goes on, as I hand her cargo shorts that she quickly returns to the rack.“Are you worried about interactions?”
I huff, handing her a silk scarf with a blue and white French floral print.She smiles approvingly and matches it with a long denim skirt.“I’m always worried about interactions.”
“Want some pointers?”
I consider her expertise in breathing exercises and say, “Yes.”
“Okay, so, the first thing to do is smile,” she says, demonstrating as if I don’t know what a smile looks like.“Then, make conversation.”
“About what?”
She shrugs.“It depends on the situation.If a student comes to Dad’s office, then ask, ‘How may I help you?’If it’s in a more casual setting, ask ‘What are you studying?’or ‘What’s your interest in botany?’or… better yet… point out something you like about the person.‘That’s a lovely shirt,’ for example.”
I groan.This is too much already.“What if I don’t like their shirt?”
“Then, find something you do like.Or forget looks.Try to connect personally.Let’s practice,” Ivy says, facing me.“Ask me something personal, something that shows you’re interested inme.”
“How many milliliters of morphine would it take to kill someone?”
She groans.“That’s not personal.It’s weird.I wouldn’t answer such a question for multiple reasons.”
I think again, scanning through our conversations for information.“Um, has Gil told you about his anxiety disorder yet?”
She lights up and slaps me playfully on the arm.“Much better.That ticks the box for a personal question and, double bonus, tells me you were listening the other day.Excellent.”
“Listening is loving,” I smirk.
“Alright, Dad!”She teases with a laugh.
I can’t help but flash a short grin.“Well?”
“No, he hasn’t,” she sighs, as the store clerk appears to take her selections to a dressing room.“It’d be so much easier, but he’s embarrassed, I suppose.”
“Yes, he’s embarrassed.”
“I don’t see why!”she retorts.“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, and I’m a nurse.I’m trained in handling anxious patients.”
“He’s not a patient, and he doesn’t want to be handled.It’s not his anxiety that worries him.It’syou.You’re entirely perfect in every conceivable way.He fears that you knowing about his perceived deficiencies might alter your opinion of him.You should be patient and let him come to you in his own time.”
She gapes over a rack of summer dresses, seemingly stunned.But then, she smiles.“Careful, Venus.That almost sounded like sisterly advice.”
