Page 55 of Run to Me

Right. I’ll be there.

Javi

I’ll join you for lunch.

Trevor

No work, all reward for the yogi.

Javi

I’m not a yogi.

For an hour, I’ve been doodling on a stack of cardboard coasters stamped with a local brewery’s logo. With time to kill before the doors open for business today, I’m lost in my thoughts despite my long to-do list.

I can’t stop thinking about Lucy’s suggestion to show or tell Maisy what our future could look like. A speech is out of the question, but perhaps I could write down my fragmented thoughts. As long as I avoid viewing the effort as an assignment, I should be okay. My mind only becomes flustered when I’m put on the spot or being evaluated. Under pressure, I flounder, unable to convey coherent sentences and ideas.

In school, teachers awarded me low grades for essays or speeches, and I often failed the assignments. No one linked my communication struggles to performance anxiety, a self-diagnosis I made in my late twenties. By then, people had grown accustomed to my reserved nature and accepted that I’m a man of few words. Limiting my verbal communication is better than sounding stupid.

If I don’t think too hard about what I’m trying to say, words come easily. Like the other day when I delivered several truths to Maisy without becoming frazzled and tongue-tied. My thoughts and feelings poured out of me without conscious effort. If I could communicate eloquently all the time, I wouldn’t be doodling on this coaster, pondering the best way to tell a story.

My pencil halts mid-stroke as an idea forms. A genius idea. I’ll draw the future for her. How hard can it be to express through images what I could never succinctly describe with words?

“Knock! Knock!” Lydia shuffles into Bruno’s with a large bag hooked over her shoulder.

I set the coasters aside and give her my attention, adding extra pep to my voice. “What’s up?” I ask.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a folded piece of black fabric. “I brought the tablecloth you wanted.”

My mind draws a complete blank. “For?”

“Your setup at the festival.” My expression must be as vacant as my mind, prompting her to add, “For the table with sign-ups for stage time and the raffle.”

“Raffle,” I parrot.

“Yes.” She stretches the word, her eyebrows raised in question. “You agreed to man the raffle box this year, which is why you need a table.”

“Lydia, I⁠—”

She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t even worry about it. You can’t be expected to remember every conversation, especially one from over a month ago.”

Now that she mentions it, I recall a brief discussion about tables and raffles after we installed Tom’s muffin sign.

“I remember,” I say, taking the tablecloth from her and tucking it under my arm. “Anything else I may have forgotten?”

She chuckles, oblivious to the self-berating inside my head. “As long as you didn’t forget to sign up as a vendor, you should be good to go.”

I stare at her, grateful for the massive wood bar blocking her view of my clenched fists. My heart races, and my stomach twists into knots. By all appearances, I’m frozen solid and unresponsive, and her smile switches to a frown.

“If it slipped your mind, you better get over to the town hall. It’s April 1st. The sign-up deadline is today.”

Things don’t slip my mind. In fact, it’s the opposite. My mind does the slipping. But I can’t let Lydia or anyone else know, and I can’t get my damn mouth to form words.

What if the wrong thing comes out? I could snap at Lydia—misdirect my frustration with myself and aim it at her. Shit, she’s waiting for a response. This is lighthearted chit chat. But my head is not in a light place. Sweat gathers on my forehead, and I need her to leave.

“I’ll head over there now,” I say.

“Perfect! I better get back to work. Have a great day!” She waves over her shoulder on her way out.