Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Why, why, did I pick last night of all nights to have sex for the first time in two years? And not just sex. Sex with someone who isn’t Owen. Sex with his best friend.
Yep. I’m going to widow hell.
What was I thinking?
I cannot do an interview today. My body is still confused, and my brain feels like it's been lightly scrambled. I should cancel. Would it be rude to back out with only two hours’ notice?
I can already hear Viv’s voice in my head lecturing me about self-sabotage and my dare: Don’t talk yourself out of the interview.
I’ve changed my outfit four times. First, a blazer that makes me look like I manage a dental office.
Then a dress I wore to a PTA fundraiser last year.
Then a floral blouse that whispers “Pinterest mom,” followed by the same floral blouse with a black cardigan to tone down the whisper.
Now I’ve settled on a pair of high-waisted black, dress pants that may or may not be back in style, a tucked-in boat neck top that keeps trying to untuck itself, and a pair of nude pumps.
I stare in the mirror. I look like a woman who is trying really, really hard not to look like she hasn’t worked in two decades.
Viv pops her head in the bedroom door. “You good?”
“Nope.”
Marin’s head pops in under Viv’s. “Too bad. You’re gonna be great.”
I pull at the hem of my top. “You don’t think this screams ‘please give me a job, I swear I’m still relevant’?”
“Nope.” Marin shakes her head. “But even if it does, you are. Now go. Be dazzling.”
“Do I look like I know how to use Google Docs? Is that even something you can convey with an outfit?” I’m panicking, and Viv sees it.
Crossing the room, Viv rests her hand on my arm. “Woman, you survived the PTA elections in 2009 and the HOA statue debacle in 2012. You could take Google in a cage match.”
Then Viv reaches down to lift my leather briefcase. Technically Owen’s lucky leather briefcase, the one I found in the back of the closet and tried very hard not to cry over.
“Good God, what do you have in here? A small anvil?”
“Just the essentials.” I straighten my blazer. “A few copies of my résumé, backup hairbrush, gum, tissues, granola bars.”
Viv sets the case on the bed and pops it open with the suspicion of someone diffusing a bomb.
“A few résumés?” She rifles through the stack. “Birdie, there have to be at least twenty in here. Are you planning to hand them out to tourists on your way through the lobby?”
She pulls something else out: two enamel pins.
One says, “Van Gogh Hard or Go Home.”
The other: “I Was Framed!” with a tiny gilded frame illustration.
She holds them up like she’s caught me trying to smuggle contraband.
“Birdie. Please tell me you were not going to pin one to each boob and stroll into your interview like a walking Etsy cart.”
“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 mean all of 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 maché 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. ”
Callie looks up from her notes. “You know, curating isn’t only about the art. It’s about framing a story people can step into. Making them feel something. What you described, that’s the heart of exhibition work.”
I blink. “Oh.”
“I mean it. It’s important to bring life experiences and perspective. It’s something we don’t always see enough of in candidates. You’ve lived things. That matters here.”
Greg nods. “There really is no substitute for life.”
I nod too, mostly to stop myself from crying.
They shift in their chairs, smiling politely, then Callie leans forward. “Okay, a few rapid-fire questions, if that’s alright?”
“Only if I can give rapid-chaotic answers,” I try for a joke, and Greg smiles again.
“What’s your favorite art period and why?”
“If I had to choose? Late 19th-century Impressionism. The women were finally painting the inside of life—the domestic, the quiet, the overlooked. Mary Cassatt made me feel seen before I even knew I needed that.”
They nod, and Greg adjusts his tortoiseshell glasses before scribbling something down on his own notes.
“What would you do if we gave you a weekend pop-up gallery to highlight local artists?”
“I’d turn it into a community night.” I don’t hesitate. “Local wine, coffee, cheese, and chocolates, local musicians, maybe a kids’ table with coloring pages of the art on display. I want people to feel like art is for them, not something they have to whisper around.”
“Love that.” Callie smiles.
The rest of the interview is a blur of questions and what I’m convinced are awkward answers. At one point, I’m pretty sure I hummed my response.
There's a beat of silence. “Thanks for coming in, Birdie. We’ll be in touch.”
I nod, grip Owen’s lucky briefcase a little tighter, shake each of their hands, and beeline toward the door.
By the time I leave, I’m convinced I bombed it.
I made a weird joke about hashtags, overshared about my obsession with symmetrical desk setups, and probably came off like a walking Pinterest board with anxiety issues.
I even admitted I can’t focus if my office chair isn’t perfectly centered on the rug.
I probably talked too much about dead husbands.
Still, I was real and candid.
That’s new.
___________
I’m halfway through stress-eating popcorn and dissecting every awkward thing I said (Why did I bring up the importance of a good leavening agent in cupcakes? Why did I say ‘moons ago’ like I’m a Middle Ages wizard?) when the phone rings.
Unknown number.
I freeze.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Birdie? This is Callie from the Seattle Art Museum again.”
My heart dives straight into my stomach.
“We’d love to offer you the internship position, if you're still interested.”
There’s a pause.
I forget how to speak.
“Birdie?”
“I’m here,” I finally manage to squeeze out past the lump of emotions in my throat. “I really gave it my all.”
“We know and we loved you. Your experience, your presence, your humor, it’s exactly what we’re looking for. You’re going to be an incredible addition to the team.”
I blink back tears.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you so much.”
“You’ll be receiving an email in the next few days with details about your start day, hours for the week, and an orientation. Do you have any questions I can answer for you?”
Viv walks in mid-call, sees my face, and mouths, “Well?”
I nod, unable to speak.
She lets out a whoop loud enough to shake the spice rack.