Page 87 of In a Word, Yes

I especially like that he thinkssuper funis all one word.

Questions assail me. I type them out.

What am I so afraid of?

Can I trust in the work I’ve been doing to sink my roots ever deeper into the truth of who I am?

Am I ready to live a bolder story?

Sure, I’m now more willing to fall on my face at work. Willing to step into new levels of discomfort, such as the coffee date Jen Moncado and I have now calendared. But risking my heart? Risking my son’s? Let’s face it. I’m not there yet.

It’s not that simple, and it never will be. I don’t have the luxuryof, say,someone who doesn’t have a child, to freefall into romance and just, you know, see what happens.

But of course, that’s not what Wyatt asks of me, is it? He invites me to go hiking. I’ve been challenged to an outdoor adventure, something the real Lucy, my truest self, wants more of.

It’s no good. I can’t just sit here. Can’t sit still a moment longer.

***

Within twenty minutes, I’m at Sweet Reads. Savannah insists I try her latest concoction, an Earl Grey latte with chocolate added.

“I’m game,” I say. “Let me just go set my things down.”

I devised a whole plan on the way over. It must not be thwarted.

Now that I think about it, chocolate is probably a prerequisite for said plan. The girl has got my back, and she doesn’t even know it.

My three-point tactical strategy? Number one: perform my best impression of a writer committed to her craft. Because I am.

Tactic number two—and I’m very proud that I thought of this—is to sit next to Wyatt rather than across from him. Better to position myself where I can receive all the benefit of his shade tree–vibes than to descend into a stuttering, red-faced schoolgirl watching him watch me from across the circle.

And finally, should I bungle things and the night go down like a lead balloon, I’ll try to remember that failure isn’t fatal.

As I said, I gave tonight’s affair a great deal of thought. It was either that or continue replaying our moonlit one-on-one beneath the string lights, which would only serve to make the whole stuttering, red-faced-schoolgirl scenario a foregone conclusion.

The first snafu I face is a doozy. Thanks to the time I frittered away at home in indecision, the chairs on either side of Wyatt are already occupied. The one to his left is filled by a certain statuesque blonde wearing a deep-green satiny jumpsuit (thereby resembling, to my eyes anyway, a snake plant).

The chair on his right is being enjoyed by Sunny. I do not begrudgeher this. I love seeing the two of them so chatty. The fiddle-leaf fig effect wins again.

I do, however, begrudge Louie the bookshop cat for occupying Wyatt’s lap. Not that this location was ever an option for me, but still.

I spear the cat with a glare as I pass. “Traitor.”

Louie doesn’t respond. Not even a whisker twitch.

Wyatt smirks, though. Behind his eyes is a thousand-watt smile meant only for me. Can the others feel the electrical charge zipping between us?

Focus. Tactic number one.

Savannah delivers my tea latte in a ceramic mug the size of a cereal bowl, and I’m immediately sold on the combo of bergamot and chocolate.

Except there’s a nervous clatter when I attempt to place the mug onto the saucer with shaking hands.

I rest the tea on the table.

Bernard sets out to read, which still makes me somewhat squeamish. It isn’t so much that his writing is excessively flowery—the group has been helping him tame that. It’s that his work in progress contains more sexual innuendo than story. Thankfully, Ian has taken to prescreening Bernard’s selections, so weshouldbe safe from any borderline bodice-ripping. Let’s hope.

Bernard crosses one knee over the other and licks his lips. “Last week,” he says, “the piece Lucy shared affected me quite deeply. Rather than working on my novel, this week I embarked on a new pilgrimage.” Bernard describes “letting it all hang loose” in his new daily freewriting routine. “Quite without trying, I find myself journeying home to the self. What you have before you is the result,” he says, distributing copies. “It’s different from anything I’ve written before. It’s ... well, you’ll see.”