Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
coterie (n.): an intimate group of persons with a unifying common interest or purpose
After Wyatt left last night, and in the sudden, cold absence of his nearness, I tried to bring my thoughts into alignment. But it was as if there was all this space junk floating around in my head.
As if every pragmatic thought I possessed had been thrown into a blender with dark chocolate syrup and caramel and rainbow sprinkles.
This isn’t friendship. It’s chemistry.
And my heart keeps spamming me.
Mark it as spam. Mark it as spam.
How is it that I could sit there afterward, snug inside my chunky-knit blanket and carefully curated, vine-cloaked life, and feel anything but safe?
I can’t distinguish whether it’s danger that frightens me so much as possibility.
Anyway, I decided to skip tonight’s meeting of the Charity Falls Writing Society, having made no new writing progress. And then, of course, there’s the whole Wyatt thing. The whole how-do-I-behave-in-public-with-Wyatt-now thing.
While Chase is at tae kwon do and I have a quiet house to myself, wouldn’t my time be better spent with Smitty, allowing for whatever kind of words might flow?
But when I settle in at my bedroom desk, I’m confounded. Already there’s a sheet of paper in the typewriter. And on it, two lines of type that didn’t exist before last night. Before Chase and I hosted a certain copper-eyed bike cop.
OBVIOUSLY hanging out with you tonight was superfun. What would you say to a hike? (just the two of us)
And there go all my great intentions of rendering deep thoughts onto the page. Out the window they fly. In flies an entire regiment of those devilish butterflies.
There’s no point denying the way I feel when I think about Wyatt or how often I replay snippets of our conversation. His mannerisms, now so familiar. His glances, infused with tender meaning.
I especially like that he thinks super fun is all one word.
Questions assail me. I type them out.
What am I so afraid of?
Can I trust in the work I’ve been doing to sink my roots ever deeper into the truth of who I am?
Am I ready to live a bolder story?
Sure, I’m now more willing to fall on my face at work. Willing to step into new levels of discomfort, such as the coffee date Jen Moncado and I have now calendared. But risking my heart? Risking my son’s? Let’s face it. I’m not there yet.
It’s not that simple, and it never will be. I don’t have the luxury of, say, someone who doesn’t have a child, to freefall into romance and just, you know, see what happens.
But of course, that’s not what Wyatt asks of me, is it? He invites me to go hiking. I’ve been challenged to an outdoor adventure, something the real Lucy, my truest self, wants more of.
It’s no good. I can’t just sit here. Can’t sit still a moment longer.
***
Within twenty minutes, I’m at Sweet Reads. Savannah insists I try her latest concoction, an Earl Grey latte with chocolate added.
“I’m game,” I say. “Let me just go set my things down.”
I devised a whole plan on the way over. It must not be thwarted.
Now that I think about it, chocolate is probably a prerequisite for said plan. The girl has got my back, and she doesn’t even know it.
My three-point tactical strategy? Number one: perform my best impression of a writer committed to her craft. Because I am.
Tactic number two—and I’m very proud that I thought of this—is to sit next to Wyatt rather than across from him.
Better to position myself where I can receive all the benefit of his shade tree–vibes than to descend into a stuttering, red-faced schoolgirl watching him watch me from across the circle.
And finally, should I bungle things and the night go down like a lead balloon, I’ll try to remember that failure isn’t fatal.
As I said, I gave tonight’s affair a great deal of thought. It was either that or continue replaying our moonlit one-on-one beneath the string lights, which would only serve to make the whole stuttering, red-faced-schoolgirl scenario a foregone conclusion.
The first snafu I face is a doozy. Thanks to the time I frittered away at home in indecision, the chairs on either side of Wyatt are already occupied.
The one to his left is filled by a certain statuesque blonde wearing a deep-green satiny jumpsuit (thereby resembling, to my eyes anyway, a snake plant).
The chair on his right is being enjoyed by Sunny. I do not begrudge her this. I love seeing the two of them so chatty. The fiddle-leaf fig effect wins again.
I do, however, begrudge Louie the bookshop cat for occupying Wyatt’s lap. Not that this location was ever an option for me, but still.
I spear the cat with a glare as I pass. “Traitor.”
Louie doesn’t respond. Not even a whisker twitch.
Wyatt smirks, though. Behind his eyes is a thousand-watt smile meant only for me. Can the others feel the electrical charge zipping between us?
Focus. Tactic number one.
Savannah delivers my tea latte in a ceramic mug the size of a cereal bowl, and I’m immediately sold on the combo of bergamot and chocolate.
Except there’s a nervous clatter when I attempt to place the mug onto the saucer with shaking hands.
I rest the tea on the table.
Bernard sets out to read, which still makes me somewhat squeamish.
It isn’t so much that his writing is excessively flowery—the group has been helping him tame that.
It’s that his work in progress contains more sexual innuendo than story.
Thankfully, Ian has taken to prescreening Bernard’s selections, so we should be safe from any borderline bodice-ripping. Let’s hope.
Bernard crosses one knee over the other and licks his lips.
“Last week,” he says, “the piece Lucy shared affected me quite deeply. Rather than working on my novel, this week I embarked on a new pilgrimage.” Bernard describes “letting it all hang loose” in his new daily freewriting routine.
“Quite without trying, I find myself journeying home to the self. What you have before you is the result,” he says, distributing copies.
“It’s different from anything I’ve written before. It’s . . . well, you’ll see.”
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’s Messenger.
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.