Page 37 of In a Word, Yes

“Do you write for them?” Billie asks.

Opening my mouth to downplay my role, I suddenly remember Wyatt’s close presence. The man I interviewed only today. A conversation that not only took unexpected turns but also unfolded super easily. Maybe Ihavesold myself somewhat short. Truth is, I enjoy asking questions and the process of discovery. People are endlessly fascinating.

A side-glance reveals Wyatt grinning encouragingly, and this puts me strangely at ease. The man is like a ginormous fiddle-leaf fig, anchoring the room, exchanging tension for fresh air.

So I say, “Occasionally,” then attempt to abort center stage. “Anyway, I’m happy to meet you all tonight and to ... have the chance to learn from you.” Whatever I can glean in one night, that is, since the odds of my returning are slim. I see no purposein unveiling my attempt at writing a memoir, especially when I’m not prepared to answer the inevitable follow-up question:What is your memoir about?

Introduction behind me, my pulse begins returning to baseline.

Billie raises her hand. “Are you married, Lucy?”

“Oh. No. I’m ... not married.”

The woman wears a self-satisfied little smile as she draws a line with her gaze between Ian and me.

“Do you journal, Lucy?” This, from Bernard.

“Sure, I’ve always journaled.”

Heads nod. It’s as if I’ve revealed something telling. As if I’min. Although it’s far too soon to say whether I want to be in with this group.

“What aboutpoetry?” Bernard asks, accompanying the final word with a graceful flourish of his hand. When he crosses one knee over the other, his loose-fitting slacks flow like river water. I can easily picture him relaxing in his home with Pavarotti and a glass of merlot.

“Well, yes. I mean, it’s been a while. Back in high school, I was involved with the poetry club.” Fact is, I served as editor for our school’s poetry anthology, but I don’t mention this. Weird. Dusting off this memory leaves me wondering at how few poems I’ve written in the years since.

Happily, the attention shifts to Wyatt. At some point he removed his hoodie, exposing a black T-shirt. Well-fitted, it bears acknowledging. (I am nothing if not observant.) In thick whiteStar Warsfont across his chest are the words METAPHORS BE WITH YOU.

I can’t help grinning.

“My uncle was a butcher,” Wyatt says, crossing his well-toned arms and smiling at the recollection. “I worked for him through high school and college. So I don’t know if this is a superpower, exactly, but I could probably spatchcock a chicken with my eyes closed.”

Nytasha’s eyes grow huge. “I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds impressive!”

Wyatt chuckles, a little nervously it seems to me, and the tips of his ears go pink. “I ... I, too, like to write poetry,” he says, with a slow nod in my direction. His pale autumn-gold eyes contain dashes of olive. And also a hint of whimsy, as if, like me, he’s calling up the other commonalities we discovered in our interview. It puts me in mind of that guy, the one—ugh, I’m yet again terrible at movie star stuff. The guy, the guy.

“Lately, though,” he continues, “I’ve been experimenting with flash fiction. But what I’ve always wanted to do is write for kids. Middle-grade fiction. Adventure stories.”

Nytasha leans in. “Nice to meet you, Wyatt,” she practically purrs in a low, buttery Scarlett Johansson voice. In fact, I get the feeling she wouldn’t mind being the crust to his pie. “What do you mean by flash fiction?”

“Supershort stories. Complete stories told in only a few paragraphs or pages. I like the challenge of incorporating all four elements of a story in so few words.”

“Four elements?” she asks. “I’m sorry, I don’t know much about writing fiction.”

“Well,” Wyatt says, “every good story needs a plot and characters. And then you need a hook and hopefully a strong finish. What genres of fiction do you usually read, Nytasha?”

“Me?” She tenses, then shrugs. “Well, to be honest, I’ve never understood how people find time to read novels.”

Um. Just stab me in the heart, Orchid Lady.Judging by the stunned silence around the circle, I’m not the only one who feels the offense.

“I mean, I’m sure they have their place,” she adds hurriedly.

Sounds to me like she envisions their place as the compost bin.

“Oh, my dear, what an understatement you have set forth,” Bernard says with surprising ferocity and no small amount of spittle. “If novels had no place in society, our mutual friend Ianhere would be conducting his business in a much smaller space, don’t you think?” Bernard gestures to the rows and rows of books encircling us, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling. “If everyone thought as you, he might have no business at all. And yet, Sweet Reads is central to town life.”

I nearly applaud. Might even give him a standing ovation if it weren’t for my snugly burrowed bottom. Good to know Bernard is on the job, ready to defend against the slightest threat of literary insensibility, even if it comes from a nearly six-foot-tall woman hauling around a mountain or three on the inside.

Nytasha’s eyes flash. She opens her mouth to respond, but one glance at Ian appears to make her rethink it. “Touché,” she says, moving her golden cascade back to the other shoulder. “And that would of course be a tragedy. I take it, then, you’re a novelist, Bernard?”