Page 28 of Safe With You

I glanced toward Rachel, offering what I hoped was a reassuring smile before looking back at the audience.

“My hope is that everyone who walks through these doors leaves feeling a little lighter than when they came in. So grab another cup of coffee, cheer a little louder than you normally would, and don’t be afraid to encourage the person standing behind this microphone. You never know how much they might need it.”

A ripple of applause filled the bookstore.

I stepped back from the microphone, my shoulders relaxing as I caught Naomi grinning at me from the front row.

Rachel sat a little straighter than she had ten minutes ago.

Mrs. Williams already had a tissue tucked into her sleeve.

She always cried during at least one poem.

Maya caught my eye from behind the counter and gave me a thumbs-up.

Everything was running smoothly.

For now.

Across the room, Ellis lifted his camera again.

The lens wasn’t pointed at the stage.

It was aimed at the audience, catching the smiles, the laughter, the quiet moments between people who’d arrived as strangers and were already beginning to feel like neighbors.

Maybe I’d been wrong.

Maybe the story wasn’t only happening at the microphone.

Maybe it had been happening all around us the entire time.

Click. Click.

The best photographs usually happened before people realized they were being watched.

I learned that years ago.

The second someone noticed a camera, shoulders straightened, smiles stiffened, and moments became performances. People wanted to be seen a certain way instead of simply existing.

That was never the story I was interested in telling.

The applause from Luna’s welcome faded through the bookstore as I adjusted the focus ring on my camera.

One by one, people took the stage after Luna’s welcome.

Some shared poetry. Others performed spoken word pieces that filled the bookstore with laughter, quiet nods, or the occasional tear. A few read excerpts from works-in-progress, their voices growing steadier with every page they turned. It was beautiful to watch. I’d never realized open mic nights could draw a crowd like this, and I definitely hadn’t expected something like it in a small town like Easton Grove. My late wife, Elena, would’ve loved nights like this. She never needed much of a reason to support local artists or spend an evening surrounded by books. More than likely, she would’ve had Mila curled up beside her in one of the front-row chairs, clapping after every performance whether she understood it or not.

A burst of applause pulled my attention back toward the stage.

Denise stepped up to the microphone, smiled at the crowd, and adjusted the stand a fraction of an inch.

“My name is Denise,” she said, “and this first piece is called ‘Home.’”

I lifted my camera again, letting the audience fill the frame instead of the stage. Anyone could photograph the person holding the microphone. I was more interested in the people who forgot they were listening.

Home

Home isn’t always four walls and a front porch.