Page 88 of In a Word, Yes

How is it I can sense when Wyatt’s eyes are on me?

I twist and then retwist a tendril of hair around my finger.Work to appear nonchalant. But behind the scenes, there’s a whole lot of chalanting going on in this here chair.

At first, as Bernard reads, I’m tempted to question the authorship of this piece. Can it really be the same writer? These paragraphs are personal, conversational. Shockingly tender. There’s no sense of manipulating language to entertain, impress ... or tantalize.

Resoundingly, members of our group agree—Bernard has tapped into a new well of creative expression.

I keep catching Billie with her eyes trained on Ian and me, since we happened to land next to each other in the circle.Have fun with that, Billie.

What would Billie say to the fact that I spent the previous morning coaxing Steph Stoneback down from a one-hundred-foot ledge? We’ll find out soon enough. Meg’s article will be out for all to read in next Wednesday’sMessenger. I’d planned to ask Meg if I might team up with her on the piece. Instead, she asked me.

Nytasha reads next. There’s something different in her posture tonight—shoulders softly rounded. Tentatively, she says, “I, too, have been inspired by some of the things you all have shared. So, yeah, I thought I’d flex my creativity a little. Um. Here goes.”

Nytasha rearranges her hair, then reads a few paragraphs about growing up with an absentee father and a domineering mother who accepted nothing less than her daughter’s best effort in every area of life. More than once, Nytasha’s voice catches with emotion.

My throat tightens. I cradle my mug-bowl of tea, blinking back moisture. For sure, I wasn’t prepared for this heart tug. I feel ... honored. Are we the first to hear Nytasha express herself so vulnerably?

And to think I nearly stayed home. I’d have missed this. There’s something about our motley circle of novice word-slingers that inspires us to push through, to excavate deeper than we would if left to ourselves.

Who knew the artistic journey is better done in community? Here it is again, God’s design. The comingling of roots.

I see it now. Creativity requires faith. And faith requires surrendering control. Is that the reality of what’s taking place here among us?

This group isn’t about writing at all.

Funny, the person I want to discuss this with is Wyatt. The man who just returned with a handful of napkins for Sunny. Yes, I’m clocking his every move like my eyes have a mind of their own.

I force the thought to vanish before he reads it on my face.

“Lucy?”

“I’m sorry, yes?” Fiddlesticks. I was too checked out to notice Ian talking to me.

“You said you brought something to read?”

Right. The final part of my hastily assembled scheme.No turning back.

Instead of splitting the stack of copies I brought and passing half in either direction, I stand and distribute copies directly to each member, taking great care to give the right pages to the right members.

Everyone receives a single page that holds my four-stanza ode to autumn.

I’m counting on no one noticing that Wyatt receives two pages.

Retaking my seat, I suppress the urge to look his way, but I can feel a little smile coming off him.

By now he’s discovered page two. A blank sheet, with the exception of one typed word.

Yes.

Thirty-Three

harbinger(n.): something that foreshadows a future event

Carly

“Oh good, I’m glad you’re up and at ’em, babe,” I say, hugging the phone to an ear while I lace my boots.

Much as I try to be mindful of our one-hour time difference first thing in the morning, Roger’s voice soothes an ache I didn’t know I was nursing.