Page 2 of In a Word, Yes

So what’s this toxin gnawing at my insides?

When realization finally dawns, it clocks me. Like someone has, in fact, punched me low in the gut. My lungs constrict.October twenty-first.A sealed vault of unwelcome memories clicks open.

It’ll be five years on October twenty-first.

Oxygen. I need more oxygen. No, that’s not it—pine-scented fresh air extends as far as the eye can travel, and today that means clear to the last ribbons of snow glistening on the Cascades. I try to sink into the audiobook narrator’s tranquilizing voice. Because none of that matters.

The events of five years ago bear no resemblance to my life today. Chase and I are living, breathing,thrivingproof of the psalm I’ve so often rehearsed. Godhassheltered me with his wings. His faithful promiseshave beenmy armor and protection.

This funky disembodied sensation will pass.

Across the street, the butter-yellow Western facade of Sweet Reads Used Books & Tea beckons me like a friend.Yes.A million times yes. My feet knew to carry me here. Chocolate chai. That’s the antidote.

I step off the curb.

“Heads up!” A thundering voice. A blur of khaki. On two wheels.

“Sorry!” I yell, hopping back to the curb. After all, I wasn’t using the crosswalk.

And then, in slo-mo, comprehension dawns.

The broad-shouldered man on the bike, the one I nearly encountered quite violently just now, wears a stiff black vest with SHERIFF emblazoned across the back. In all caps! As in, someone deputized to maintain law and order.

To keep our streets safe from disoriented proofreaders who jaywalk.

The brown-haired officer arm-signals a left turn at the nearbyintersection and glides out of sight—but not before tucking his chin and throwing a glance over his shoulder. What was that look? A raised brow. And was that a half-sneer? Or half-smile? Inscrutable. It all happened so fast.

With my luck, he’s circling the block for a return visit with his ticket book.

In line at Sweet Reads, I lay a hand over my heart. It prances all over the place like one of those fawns. The doorbell jangles behind me. Heat creeps up my neck. I’m about to be publicly interrogated by an official in uniform, I just know it. I turn, but it’s only one of the Grumblies arriving.

The Grumblies is what I privately call the coterie of balding gents who gather at the same table most mornings to sip hot beverages and air their grievances loud enough for all to hear. Seems to me, whenever they run out of enough hell-in-a-handbasket current events to sustain their daily habit, they just scratch their chins and start over again.

I hitch my canvas tote bag higher on my shoulder. Since when do our local sheriffs don Bermuda shorts and patrol the town on bikes, anyway? Not that it isn’t a perfect fit for Charity Falls’ small-town neighborly vibe. Charming, really.

“Dang, Lucy,” my friend Savannah says, greeting me at the counter with her whitening-strip smile. “Lavender’s a good color on you. Missed you at church yesterday.”

I stare at her. Blink.I expected her to comment on my addled appearance, not my new thrifted top. How could she miss the telltale eye twitch? But it’s better this way. At least, this is what I tell myself. I’m a lot of things, but a pity-seeking missile isn’t one of them. Besides, I see no need to divulge my misstep with the cop. Savannah knows all too well how checked out I get when I’m shook.

“Actually, I was there,” I say, pushing my glasses higher up on my nose. Sure, I can afford contacts now. But I stick with glasses, if only so I don’t look twelve years old. “Chase got off to a bumpy start. We came late.”

“Oh, boo!” she pouts. “Sorry. Sounds rough. But you should’ve come sit with me and Lucas.”

“It was fine. I needed to sit in back so we could leave early. I’d made a deal with Chase.”

True, and also not true. Some days I’m not entirely up for peopling. Plus, who wants to be a third wheel? Savannah’s new husband is great, but for his sake I need to bow out sometimes.

Don’t mistake me. It’s not that I feel sorry for myself.

But sometimes ... well, sometimes I sense others do. Still, I came away from the service with a C.S. Lewis quote that bears contemplating. I’ll get around to it eventually.

What I’d never tell Savannah—and it pains me to even say it—is that, from my end of things, the minute she got serious with Lucas, our friendship became healthier. She’s one of those people drawn to me, the ant to my sugar, someone who drains my emotional tank. Thanks to the help of a wonderful therapist, I’ve finally learned to guard my boundaries.

Lately, though, I wonder if I’m so good at saying no that my mouth no longer remembers how to form a yes.

Savannah flicks a glance behind me. A line must be forming there. She helicopters her fingers over the register. “So, what can we get started for ya?”

Before I can answer, Ian Witherspoon materializes beside her. “I got ya, Lucy,” the owner says, raising a steam pitcher in salute. “Chocolate chai, extra chocolatey.” The oat milk container sits open on his counter. He even remembers my milk preference? “Oh, and don’t run off. I have something for you.”