Page 57 of In a Word, Yes

I’m so in my head I almost forget that sitting alone in a public place is supposed to make me uncomfortable. See this, people? It’s not that I’m antisocial.

Go ahead and attempt to label me, folks, but get it right. I am and will ever be, undeniably, abooktrovert.

“Lucy?” At the low rumble of a familiar voice, I jump.

“Oh, hey ... Wyatt.” I straighten out my scraggly-juniper posture.Ponderosa!I must have fully succeeded in transporting myself, in dangling my toes in quiet waters, because the suddenness, the solidness of Wyatt standing before me, helmet in hand, stuns me. I attempt a casual smile.

“Well, what do you know,” he says. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen you here before.” Today he’s fully uniformed—if you can call it that when the khaki fabric stops mid-thigh.

“Oh, I...” I cast another glance toward the entrance. It’s safe to say at this point that Ian’s a no-show. Probably got his days mixedup—at least this is the explanation that offers the largest measure of comfort. “I thought I’d try something new today.”

Something I thought was one thing but turned into something altogether different.

He tracks my gaze to the door. “Good for you! Don’t let me interrupt. You looked so deep in thought, I only meant to say hello. Besides, seems like you’re expecting someone.”

I set down my pen and close the notebook. “Not at all. One of us must’ve got the wrong day. So. Now I’m just ... goin’ with the flow.”

Wyatt tentatively grips the back of a chair—the one meant for Ian. “In that case, do you mind? Although, I probably shouldn’t barge in on whatever you were—”

I slip a napkin into the Amy Carmichael book, stack it on top of my notebook, and slide the whole pile to a corner of the table.Learn to accept everything as it comes. “Please, barge. Barge away.” I wave an open hand toward the empty chair. “I’ve been self-conscious about monopolizing a whole table when the place is so busy.”

There’s a scraping sound as Wyatt spins the chair. He straddles it to face me. “Thanks. You know,” he says with a low chuckle, “I’m still getting used to all this small-town stuff. Like how you keep running into people you know.” He leans forward slightly. “But this is a nice surprise.”

“Good luck keeping a low profile in your line of work.”

“I don’t really mind. I’m not one for hiding. In fact, ever since your article, a bunch of folks have come up and introduced themselves. Guess you made me sound approachable. So thanks again for that. Was it an interview, your meeting?”

I disconnect my gaze from his, which again invites nothing but honesty. Shaking my head, I focus on sipping my tea.

“Cool. A friend then. Sorry it didn’t work out.” He shrugs. “Their loss.”

I swallow down a too-big gulp of tea.

“You’re not a coffee drinker?” The tea bag now puddles on my saucer.

I huff a laugh. “Tea has its charms, for sure. Besides, I’m always detoxing. Drink way too much coffee at work just because it’s there. You?”

He lifts two hands in surrender. “I’m a cop. So I refuse to answer on the grounds that you might pigeonhole me as a cliché.”

Nope. Very little about this man is cliché. Last week he read one of his poems to our hodgepodge assembly of writers, and his style is like Bob Dylan meets Saint Augustine.

“On the ...grounds?” I say.

“Ha. You’re pretty quick.”

Up close like this, I’m aware of the lack of symmetry in his eyes. One is slightly winkier than the other. Also, he’s got a tiny scar on his upper lip. For some reason I find these things endearing. I like that the real Wyatt, the one beneath the clean shave and uniform, is a little bit rumpled.

Commotion behind Wyatt draws our attention. Chairs screech. Voices escalate.

“And don’t come back until you’re man enough to drink coffee!” roars Zeke Watkins, the cantankerous patriarch of the family that owns this establishment, herding two slouchy middle school boys out the door.

I wouldn’t normally rubberneck, but old Zeke never minds an audience. Zeke Van Winkel, folks call him behind his back, given his grizzled beard and perpetual scowl. He’s small-town famous for making to-die-for cinnamon rolls and an occasional spectacle of himself.

“You really oughta do something about those hoodlums, Officer,” Zeke says, standing before our table. “Always moochin’ the Wi-Fi, never buying nothin’. Not even a doggonecookie. It’s unconscionable. At their age I hadtwojobs.”

“Now, Zeke,” Wyatt says, “I hear your frustration, and—”

“Darn straight.” For emphasis, Zeke punches the air with the to-go cup he’s carrying, launching a dribble of foam.