Page 41 of In a Word, Yes

I give several of the plants on Dot’s windowsill a half-turn for even sunlight and consider this possibility. “You may be right.”

“But ... the Titans?”

“Eh. Chase couldn’t care less about football. He’ll wear it regardless of—”

“Montgomery!” Apparently I will nevernotbe rattled, at least a little, by my editor’s booming voice, especially when combined with his great looming presence filling Dot’s doorframe. “I was just reviewing your piece on Lieutenant Hayes. It’s...”

My body goes rigid. Here it comes. I knew it. “It’s not what you had in mind,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’ll—”

Sam’s leathered face visibly softens. “If you’ll allow me to finish?”

“Sorry.”

“I was going to say ... a breath of fresh air.”

Dot elbows me.

“But you buried the lede!” He juts his chin toward his office. “C’mere. Lemme show you.” I follow him, and he drops heavily into his chair, which squawks like a Canada goose. “Right here.” He points to his computer screen. “Paragraph four.” Sam reads aloud:

Public safety rideson regular dialogue between law enforcement and the community, and this is often more easily achieved on two wheels, accordingto newly appointed head of the Charity Falls Sheriff’s substation Lieutenant Wyatt Hayes.

“Lead with that,” he says.

“Will do.”

“Otherwise, Montgomery ... terrific piece.”

***

At quitting time, I pull the office door closed, throw my fists in the air, and mouth a silent “Woot!” to no one. Even so, the thought of going straight home to an empty house hollows me out. I’m not due to pick up Chase from after-school care at Parks and Rec for another forty-five minutes. The library beckons. You know what? I’m going to comply. May as well see if the hold I placed on a memoir Dot recommended has arrived.

I do hope it provides writing inspiration.

Overhead, the clouds are doing the boot-scootin’ boogie from one end of the sky to the other, driven by a tenacious wind that chills my ears. Despite this, I heel, toe, do-si-do down the sidewalk. And then again.

What is it about the smell of a library? Short of clean mountain air, there’s isn’t a purer, more revivifying scent. I complete my borrow at the checkout kiosk, once again lamenting the loss of the good ol’ days when you had to speak to an actual person, and a fellow booklover at that, while checking out. So instead I wave a thank-you to the librarian—today it’s Flora, the one with a pretty candy-pink stripe in her hair—but she’s too engrossed in doing something on her rolling computer station to notice.

Outside, I hitch my canvas bag higher on my shoulder. Yellow leaves rain sideways and stumble across the lawn. Evidently the birds have already called it a day. Now it’s my turn.

Which ushers back that hollow sensation.

Because the flip side of having a great day is a bitter reality: I have no one to share it with.

I plunk myself down on the cold concrete bench. And I sit with this ache for a bit.

What time is it in Nashville?

Fourteen

shambolic(adj.): obviously disorganized or confused

Carly

“Lord, send help,” I whisper into my rearview mirror. There’s an angry red dent in my forehead where I’ve been resting it against the steering wheel here in the farthest corner of the Macy’s parking lot for the last who-knows-how-long. I’m hot and I’m sticky. Not that I terribly mind a little extra dewiness. But just rain, already!

What Imind, after sitting through a two-hour meeting with my publishing team in which I not onlydidn’tpush back on any aspect of their proposed book tour as I’d planned but Ifeigned enthusiasm... what I mind is feeling as if I capsized my own ship in a brackish swamp. Overdramatic, I realize, but here we are.

What compels me to always be so agreeable? It’s a millstone, I tell you. A curse. I’ve no one to blame but myself.