Page 4 of Outspoken Hearts
My cursor hovers over the email again. Something about this feels important, like standing at a crossroads. Stay in my safe, quiet bubble, or step out into... what? Potential rejection? Potential connection?
"You know what?" I hear myself say. "I'll come to the first meeting."
"Wonderful!" Margie sounds genuinely delighted. "Thursday at seven, Town Hall conference room. We're so looking forward to having your creative input."
After we hang up, I stare at my phone for a long moment. What just happened? Did I really just volunteer for a six-week commitment with strangers?
I turn back to my blank document, but now, instead of anxiety, I feel a strange flutter of... anticipation? It's been a while since I've worked on something bigger than myself. Since I've had to present ideas to a group, defend my creative choices, collaborate.
Maybe this is what I need—a push out of my comfort zone.
Or maybe it'll be a complete disaster, and I'll be running out of the Town Hall in thirty minutes flat, vowing never to volunteer for anything ever again.
Either way, at least it's not another night alone with my laptop and wilting spinach.
I take a deep breath and start typing, suddenly inspired. The cursor no longer feels like a taunt but a challenge.
Thursday at seven.
I can do this.
Can't I?
The doubt creeps back in as quickly as it left. What if they hate my ideas? What if I'm too aggressive in my opinions? What if James Adams is one of those polished, corporate types who uses words like "synergy" and "circle back" without a trace of irony?
I grab my phone and text my sister.
Me
Just agreed to join a town committee. Am I insane?
Mia
Probably. But the good kind of insane. Proud of you! Details tonight.
I smile, then catch sight of myself in the reflection of my darkened second monitor. My hair is piled in a messy bun, I'm wearing a faded t-shirt with a coffee stain on the sleeve, and there are dark circles under my eyes from staying up too late working on projects.
God, I need to get it together before Thursday.
Which means I need to finish this mockup, invoice two clients, and somehow transform from a disheveled freelancer into a professional committee member in... I check the calendar. Four days.
"One thing at a time," I mutter, turning back to my work with renewed focus.
The cursor blinks, but this time I'm ready. My fingers fly over the keyboard, ideas suddenly flowing. Sometimes all it takes is a little pressure—the promise of something new—to break through creative blocks.
As I work, that strange flutter of anticipation returns. For the first time in months, I'm looking forward to something that isn't a deadline or a takeout delivery.
Thursday at seven.
Whatever happens, at least it won't be boring.
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.
