Page 2 of Heartwood and Hardware (Zaftig Ever After #4)

CHAPTER ONE

RILEY

I click, squinting at the brightness of the new window against my dark-mode IDE.

But there's a note at the bottom that makes my stomach do that weird flippy thing:

For panelists requiring quiet time after sessions, we've designated a special decompression area in the outdoor vendor section.

Follow the blue "Quiet Zone" signs past the east exit doors.

This year's outdoor space features artisan demonstrations, including woodworking and sculpture.

We hope this will be a calming atmosphere away from the main convention floor.

They remembered. I mentioned my need for decompression time once (just once) in a pre-event questionnaire, and they actually accommodated it. Something warm and unexpected blooms in my chest.

Then the anxiety kicks in. They're making special arrangements for me. I'm being high-maintenance. Too much. Different. Again.

I close the email and force myself back to the code, but my concentration is fractured. The elegant solution I was building evaporates, leaving me staring at nested functions that suddenly look foreign.

My phone buzzes on the desk.

Mia

You still up coding, nerd? It's literally the middle of the night.

Riley

Sleep is for the weak,sis. And people who don't have bugs to fix.

Mia

Your panel's this weekend, right? You ready?

Riley

Define "ready."

Mia

Outfit picked out? Speech practiced? Emergency chocolate packed?

I glance at the dress hanging on my closet door. It's dark teal with subtle geometric patterns, professional enough for a panel but comfortable enough that I won't be tugging at it constantly. The matching cardigan hangs beside it because convention center air conditioning is always freezing.

Riley

Me: Yes to all three. But I'm still nervous. What if I info-dump and everyone's eyes glaze over?

Mia

Then they'll be getting exactly what they came for - your brilliant brain spilling code secrets. Besides, didn't you say this was a technical panel?

Riley

Me: Yeah, but there's still the networking part after. The mingling. The small talk. The "let me give you my card" dance.

Three dots appear as Mia types, disappear, then reappear.

Mia

You know what Mom would say.

I do know. I type it before she can:

Riley

"Just be yourself, Riley. The right people will appreciate you."

Mia

Exactly. And she was right. Look at your online community—they love you for your direct, no-BS approach.

She has a point. Online, I'm respected. My GitHub repositories have hundreds of stars. My technical blog has actual subscribers. In the digital world, my communication style is an asset—clear, precise, thorough. It's only in person that things get complicated.

Riley

Online is different. I can edit before I hit send.

Mia

You'll be fine. Talk about code like you always do. Let your passion show. And if anyone's weird about it, screw 'em.

Riley

Very helpful, thanks.

Mia

That's what big sisters are for. Now go to sleep, you gremlin.

Riley

Soon. One more bug to squash.

Mia

I set my phone down and turn back to my monitor, but the code still isn't cooperating. With a sigh, I open a new browser tab and search "Comic-Con artisan demonstrations." Maybe knowing what to expect in the decompression area will help with the anxiety.

Several links appear, including a feature on the convention's "Maker's Row", the outdoor section where artists will demonstrate their crafts. There's a glass blower, a blacksmith, and—I click on the next link—a chainsaw carver named Dean Evans.

The page loads with a photo of a man standing next to an enormous wooden bear.

He's tall, broad-shouldered, with a serious expression that softens around the eyes.

His bio mentions specialties in fantasy creatures and wildlife sculptures, with a note that he'll be demonstrating techniques throughout the weekend.

I find myself studying the image longer than necessary. There's something compelling about the contrast—this rugged man creating these intricate, almost delicate details in wood. The article mentions he also carves miniatures, showing a photo of tiny foxes that fit in the palm of a hand.

My alarm chimes—the one I set to remind myself to go to bed before sunrise. I close the browser, save my code, and shut down my computer. As I brush my teeth, my mind drifts between worry about the panel and curiosity about the wooden foxes.

By Friday night, I'm a mess of contradictions: excited about sharing my knowledge on the panel but dreading the social aspects, proud of my latest coding project but convinced I'll somehow mess up the explanation, wanting to make connections but terrified of saying the wrong thing.

I've been coding for hours, losing myself in the familiar comfort of logic and structure. Here, every problem has a solution. Every error can be fixed. Unlike conversation, where there's no debugger to tell you exactly where you went wrong.

My phone buzzes again. It's Jamie, my best friend since college.

Jamie

Final panel prep check-in! How's the anxiety level?

I consider lying, then remember Jamie can read me like clean code.

Riley

Currently at DEFCON 2. Contemplating "accidental" food poisoning.

Jamie

No way. You've been looking forward to this for months. Your talk on ethical algorithms is going to blow minds.

Riley

Or put everyone to sleep.

Jamie

Impossible. You literally made ME interested in data structures, and I'm a history teacher.

I smile, remembering Jamie's patient attempts to understand my thesis project.

Jamie

Have you packed your comfort items?

Riley

Yes. Noise-canceling headphones, fidget cube, emergency Kit Kat.

Jamie

Good. And remember, you don't have to stay for the whole thing if it gets overwhelming. Your only obligation is the panel itself.

This is why Jamie gets me. No "just push through it" or "you'll be fine once you're there." Just practical support and permission to protect my boundaries.

Riley

I know. I've already planned my escape routes.

Jamie

That's my girl. Text me when you're done tomorrow. I want a full report, including any cute nerds you meet.

Riley

The only relationship I'm looking for is with a properly normalized database.

Jamie

Sure, Jan. Get some sleep.

I set my phone on the nightstand and climb into bed, but sleep feels impossible.

My mind races through all the ways tomorrow could go wrong.

What if I freeze up? What if no one asks questions?

What if everyone asks questions I can't answer?

What if I say something inappropriate because I misread the room?

I grab my tablet and pull up my presentation notes, reviewing them for the hundredth time. The content is solid. I know this material inside and out. It's everything else that's uncertain.

Eventually, I set the tablet aside and try a grounding exercise, focusing on the weight of the blanket, the coolness of the pillow, the rhythm of my breathing.

As I finally drift toward sleep, my mind conjures a strange, comforting image: tiny wooden foxes arranged in a circle, standing guard against anxiety dreams.

Saturday morning arrives with unforgiving brightness.

I've slept poorly, waking every hour to check the time, afraid I'd somehow sleep through my alarm.

By the time I actually need to get up, I've been awake for an hour, scrolling through social media and fighting the urge to make last-minute changes to my presentation.

I follow my pre-event routine methodically: shower, breakfast (even though my stomach protests), outfit (the teal dress with black leggings underneath because convention center chairs are always uncomfortable), hair (simple ponytail to keep it out of my face), minimal makeup (just enough to not look washed out under the stage lights).

In the bathroom mirror, I practice my introduction. "Hi, I'm Riley Bennett. I'm a senior developer at Nexus Solutions, focusing on database optimization and ethical algorithm design." Simple. Direct. Professional.

I say it three more times, adjusting my tone until it sounds natural instead of rehearsed. Then I gather my things: laptop, backup slides on a USB drive, emergency kit with headphones and snacks, the lanyard with my speaker badge.

As I head for the door, my phone buzzes one more time.

Mia

Knock 'em dead, sis. Remember—you're the expert. That's why they invited you.

I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders.

"I'm Riley Bennett," I whisper to myself. "I know what I'm talking about. I belong on this panel."

The mantra feels shaky, but it's the best I can do. I lock my apartment door behind me and head toward the convention center, where thousands of people—and one chainsaw carver with his tiny foxes—are waiting.