Page 48 of In a Word, Yes

Crossing my arms, I lean back, let her words take root. Then I furiously write them all down.

“I’m having a hard time coming up with a working title, though,” Billie says. “It’s a quiet memoir, obviously. I haven’t scaled any mountains or anything. I’m no Cheryl Strayed. So if you have any ideas...”

A thoughtful silence descends.

I pet Louie and fire up the creative juices. Titling articles is one of my favorite tasks at theMessenger. The first thing that drops into my mind brings an irrepressible grin to my face, and without thinking—“Tame?” I say, tossing it out there with a playful shrug.

Oh no. Oh no-no-no-no-no. Where is my filter?

Immediately all eyes are on me, and I feel my face flush. Not only did I say exactly what I was thinking without premeditation, I wore a sly smile while at it. In other words, I was being myself. Which means I’ve officially unveiled my utter dorkiness and there’s no going back to merely beingthoughta fool.

A corner of Wyatt’s mouth quirks up.

Ian cocks his head. “Sorry, what did you say, Lucy? I didn’t catch that.”

I’m already red-faced. May as well own it. “Oh, I saidTame.” I shake my head dismissively. “Sorry. It was ... I was just joking.”

Wyatt blurts a laugh, then surveys the others’ nonplussed expressions. “It’s a joke,” he echoes. “Cheryl Strayed titled her memoirWild, so Lucy’s suggesting you call yoursTame. A little, you know, word humor.”

“Very little,” I say.

Bernard cries out, “Huzzah!”

“Ah, of course!” Ian says.

My eyes seek out Sunny’s. Huh. Humor dances there. And maybe, just maybe, an almost-smile. Enough to warm her whole face. For a fleeting moment, I glimpse a much younger version of Sunny, and it might be the most satisfying thing I’ve felt in a long time.

What can I say, I’m weird. I’m a weirdo. But if I pretend to be someone I’m not, how will I ever find the ones who appreciate my hidden weirdo?

“I’ll keep brainstorming, Billie,” I say. And I will. I’ll redeem myself if it’s the last thing I do.

Later, friendly chitchat continues as everyone gradually disbands for the night. I linger in my chair, petting Louie and feeling surprisingly unhurried. This was, dare I say it, fun. And I suppose the accountability is helping. At least I put my butt in the chair this week, spending some companionable hours with the vintage typewriter I’ve now nicknamed Smitty.

Even if all I did was type up recipe cards.

But if someone happened to peek in my window, they at least saw someone who looked like a writer. Maybe actual words will come in time.

Is it impostor syndrome if you’re an actual impostor?

All to say, I’m willing to stick this thing out for a bit and see where it goes.

When we hit the thrift stores this weekend in search of Halloween costume ingredients for Chase and a pair of squeakless shoes for me, who knows—maybe I’ll score a deal on some kind of desk for the west-facing corner of my bedroom, where the sunlingers the longest. And then I’ll bedeck Smitty’s new home with plants, and maybe even a—

“Are you planning to stay here all night, Lucy?” Nytasha drops into the chair next to me. I make a half-decent attempt to give her my full attention, but I’m trying to maintain a mental grip on this glorious vision of my new writing nook.

I call up a smile. “Oh. Well, I had a whole plan until a cat fell asleep on my lap.” Louie lifts his head long enough to glower at Nytasha.

“You know, Lucy,” she says, “I get you.”

“Oh?” For the desk, I’ll look for something that’s either white or a light wood to maximize the light reflection in there. And—

“You,” Nytasha says, poking my shoulder a little too aggressively for my liking with her long, orchid-like pointer finger, “are a scrubby little juniper who wants to be a ponderosa.”

Our knees touch. The corner of my left eye twitches. “I’m a—”

“Oh, don’t feel bad. You are simply a woman who hasn’t yet learned how tomanifest.”

“How to...?”