Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
"Mr. Adams, you absolutely crushed it today!"
I paste on my practiced smile as the event coordinator rushes toward me, clutching her clipboard. Her enthusiasm makes the hollow feeling in my chest worse.
"Thanks, Lisa. Just doing what I do." I loosen my tie, finally breathing now that I'm backstage.
Another speech delivered. Another ovation received. Another day as Meadowbrook's golden boy.
"The hospital foundation is thrilled. Three people committed to major donations! You connect with people so well."
If only she knew. I've perfected appearing connected while keeping everyone distant.
"Great news. The pediatric wing deserves it." I check my watch; it's a signal I'm busy. Better than directly asking for space.
"I won't keep you then!" Lisa steps back, beaming.
"My pleasure. Send my regards to the board."
Alone, I exhale, shoulders dropping. I yank my tie looser. These events drain me. Not the speaking, but performing as perpetually positive James Adams.
Outside, autumn air hits my face. My car waits in the reserved "GUEST SPEAKER" spot.
I slide in but don't start the engine. I close my eyes, letting silence wash over me. Three deep breaths: transitioning from Public James to whoever I am alone.
My phone buzzes. The screen lights up with a text from Mayor Pullman:
James! Another home run today. The hospital board is over the moon. Quick question. Any chance you could chair our town branding committee? We need someone with your leadership skills. Let me know!
I stare at the message, feeling that familiar tug of obligation. The responsible part of me—the part that's been making decisions since I was old enough to take care of my younger siblings when Mom got sick—immediately begins formulating a gracious acceptance.
But another voice, quieter but increasingly insistent lately, whispers: When was the last time you did something because you wanted to, not because everyone expected it of you?
I start the car, needing motion to think. Driving through downtown, I see my face on a banner from last month's business conference. That image feels like a stranger sometimes.
At a red light, I check my phone. The mayor waits for an answer. Everyone's always waiting for James Adams to say "yes."
The light changes. I pull over at Meadowbrook Brew instead of heading home. I need caffeine and anonymity.
Inside, coffee aroma surrounds me. The line gives me time to loosen my tie further. Small rebellions.
"Medium Americano," I tell the new barista who doesn't recognize me. The relief is immediate.
"Name?"
"James," just a name, not a brand.
I sit by the window. My phone buzzes. It's Caroline this time.
Caroline
Did you eat after your speech? You probably went straight to decompress.
I smile. She knows me well.
James
About to have coffee.
Caroline
Coffee isn't food. There's lasagna in your fridge. Heat 2 minutes, not 3.
My sister's been bringing meals since I returned three years ago. It's her thanks for putting her through college after Dad left. The Adams way.
"Americano for James!"
Back at my table, I consider the mayor's text. The branding committee sounds exactly like what people expect me to lead.
But what if I approached it differently? Not as perfect James Adams, but just James; as who sometimes doesn't know the answers and gets tired of being strong for everyone.
I pull up the mayor's text and begin typing:
James
Thanks for thinking of me. I'd be happy to chair the committee with one condition. I want this to be a true collaborative effort with real debate and diverse perspectives. Not just a rubber stamp on predetermined ideas.
I hit send before I can overthink it. It's a small boundary, but it feels significant.
The response comes quickly.
Mayor Pullman
Absolutely! That's exactly why we want you. Your ability to bring people together while respecting different viewpoints is unmatched. First meeting is next Thursday at 7. I'll have Margie send you the committee list.
I sip my coffee, feeling a flicker of genuine interest. Maybe this could be different. Maybe I could be different in this role.
My phone pings with an email from Margie Henderson, the town council secretary. The subject line reads: "Town Branding Committee - Member List and Meeting Schedule."
I scan the names quickly, recognizing most of them. Local business owners, a representative from the historical society, and Eva Miller, UX Designer.
The name isn't familiar, which is unusual in a town the size of Meadowbrook.
I google her quickly and find a sleek, professional website showcasing an impressive portfolio.
Her work has a distinctive style—bold but inviting, modern but with warmth.
I click through a few projects, genuinely impressed by the balance she strikes between functionality and character.
Intriguing. Someone new. Someone whose first impression of me won't be colored by years of local mythology about James Adams, the kid who held his family together, the high school valedictorian who came back to invest in his hometown.
My coffee is cooling as I browse through Eva Miller's portfolio. There's something refreshing about her designs—they're confident, unapologetic. They make statements rather than trying to please everyone.
I think about the committee, about the opportunity to rebrand the town I've called home for most of my life. If I'm honest, Meadowbrook's current branding is stale. It's all faded pastoral imagery and generic small-town slogans. It doesn't capture the vibrancy and complexity of the place.
For the first time all day, I feel a spark of genuine enthusiasm. This project could actually matter. And maybe it could be a chance to show a different side of myself. To work with people who challenge me rather than defer to me.
I finish my coffee and head back to my car. As I drive home to my too-quiet, too-tidy house, I think about Thursday's meeting. About how I'll introduce myself to Eva Miller and the others. About whether I can find the courage to be a little less perfect, a little more real.
My phone rings through the car's Bluetooth system. My assistant's name flashes on the dashboard screen.
"Hey, Diane."
"James, I've got three requests for you. The Lions Club wants you to MC their charity auction next month, Meadowbrook High would like you to judge the senior project showcase, and the Chamber of Commerce is hoping you'll present at their quarterly breakfast."
The familiar weight settles back onto my shoulders. "Can you send me the dates? I'll need to check my calendar."
"Of course. Oh, and congratulations on the hospital foundation event. I heard it was phenomenal."
"Thanks." The word comes out more hollow than I intend.
"Everything okay? You sound tired."
I hesitate. Diane has been my assistant for two years, efficiently managing the public side of my life. She's never seen the cracks in the facade. I've made sure of that.
"Just thinking about the town branding project," I say finally. "I want to take a different approach with this one."
"Different how?"
"Less... controlled. More collaborative. Real collaboration, not just the appearance of it."
There's a pause before she responds. "That sounds refreshing, actually. You're always at your best when you're genuinely engaged, not just going through the motions."
Her observation startles me. Have I been that transparent?
"Is it that obvious?" I ask before I can stop myself.
"Only to someone who schedules your life." Her tone is gentle. "You've been running on autopilot for months now."
The truth of her words hits me harder than expected. I have been going through the motions, giving people what they expect from James Adams while feeling increasingly disconnected from myself.
"Well, maybe this project will shake things up," I say, aiming for lightness.
"I hope so. I've blocked Thursday evening for the first meeting."
"Thanks, Diane. Have a good night."
"You too, James. And maybe try to relax a little before then?"
I chuckle. "I'll do my best."
The call ends as I pull into my driveway. My house stands alone at the end of a quiet street. It's a Craftsman-style home I spent a year renovating myself. It's beautiful, comfortable, and often feels like another stage set for the James Adams show rather than a home.
Inside, I loosen my tie completely and drape it over the back of a chair. My shoes come off next, then my jacket. Small steps toward shedding the day's performance.
In the kitchen, I find the lasagna Caroline mentioned, neatly labeled with heating instructions. My sister knows me too well—knows I'd forget to eat if left to my own devices. I follow her instructions precisely, setting the microwave for two minutes.
While waiting, I open my laptop and go back to Eva Miller's website. There's no photo of her, just her work, which is unusual in a field where personal branding matters. I find myself curious about the person behind these designs. Someone confident enough to let their work speak for itself.
The microwave beeps. I eat standing at the kitchen island, scrolling through more of Eva's portfolio. The food is good—Caroline is an excellent cook—but my mind is elsewhere.
Thursday's meeting feels like a crossroads somehow. A chance to step off the path I've been following automatically for years and try something new. Something real.
I close the laptop and bring my plate to the sink. Through the kitchen window, I can see the lights of Meadowbrook spread out below. My hometown, filled with people who think they know exactly who James Adams is.
But maybe it's time they met the real me. Maybe it's time I figured out who that is.