Page 180 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

My impact. My presence. My imprint.

I did that.

Or I inspired it.

And the thought humbles me so hard it almost hurts.

Greyson moves through the gallery like a man being reborn.

Not the hermit lumberjack.

Not the guarded mountain myth.

Tonight he’s himself.

Tall. Broad.

Powerful in a suit that fits him like it was tailored by someone who’s been dreaming about him.

His hair is pushed back neatly, his beard trimmed, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

But it’s his eyes that make him look different.

They’re not avoiding.

They’re not bracing.

They’re meeting people head-on.

Claiming the attention he used to run from.

I stand apart from him and watch as strangers light up when they speak to him.

How they lean closer.

How they laugh at something he says.

How they look at his hands like they want to shake them just for the privilege.

And for one fleeting second—I feel out of place.

I’m Clara Belle, the blogger who writes honest, messy essays about life and love and finding yourself when the whole world expects you to be someone else.

I’m not a trophy.

I’m not polished like these women in sleek dresses and diamonds that could pay a mortgage.

I’m not the kind of arm candy men bring to openings like this.

I’m just me.

And the insecurity hits fast and sharp, like an old reflex.

Like Manhattan reaching out and trying to put me back in my assigned role.

But then I really look around.

Not at the people.