Page 14 of Heartwood and Hardware
"Really? How so?"
"It's about what you leave intact as much as what you carve away." His eyes light up as he explains. "Creating depth through absence rather than addition."
We continue through Artist Alley, eventually emerging near the food truck area. The aroma of various cuisines fills the air, and my stomach reminds me again of its emptiness.
Dean guides me to a truck with a colorful mural of a taco wearing a superhero cape. "Best carnitas in the city," he promises.
After ordering, we find a relatively quiet table at the edge of the seating area. The first bite of my taco nearly makes me moan.
"Okay, you weren't kidding," I say after swallowing. "This is amazing."
Dean looks satisfied. "Food trucks are underrated. Some of the best meals I've had came from wheels."
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment. I'm struck by how easy it is to be with Dean. There's no pressure to fill every second with conversation, no anxiety about saying the wrong thing. He seems content to just exist in the same space, sharing food and occasional observations.
"So," he says finally, wiping his hands on a napkin, "how did you get into the panel circuit? Public speaking doesn't seem like it would be your first choice of activities."
The question is perceptive, and I appreciate that he doesn't dance around my obvious discomfort with crowds.
"It wasn't," I admit. "But I'm passionate about making tech more inclusive, and sometimes that means pushing outside my comfort zone." I take a sip of my drink. "Plus, I'm different when I'm talking about code. It's like... I forget to be nervous because I'm too busy being excited about the topic."
Dean nods. "I get that. When I'm carving, especially during demonstrations, I forget anyone's watching. It's just me and the wood."
"Exactly!" I lean forward, energized by his understanding. "But the mingling afterward—that's the hard part. All those unwritten social rules that everyone else seems to know instinctively."
"I've always found it easier to communicate through my work," Dean confesses, rolling his empty taco wrapper between his fingers. "Wood doesn't care if you make eye contact or say the right thing at the right time. It just responds to your hands, your intentions."
"That's how I feel about tech," I say softly. "It's honest. Logical. If something doesn't work, there's a definite reason why."
Our eyes meet across the table, and something passes between us—a recognition, a shared understanding that goes beyond words. For a moment, I feel completely seen.
"People always told me I'd 'grow out of' being socially awkward," I continue, emboldened by his acceptance. "Like it was a phase, not just how my brain works."
"As if being different is something to fix," Dean says, his voice low. "I got that too. 'You just need to open up more, Dean.' 'Why are you so serious all the time, Dean?'" He mimics the well-meaning but clueless advice. "Never understanding that this is just... me."
"Yes! And then when you try to explain, they think you're making excuses."
"Or they assume you're arrogant because you don't join in the small talk."
"Or that you're not interested because you don't make the right facial expressions at the right times."
We're both leaning forward now, the connection between us almost electric. It's like finding someone who speaks your native language after years of struggling with phrasebooks and translators.
"My ex used to say I was 'emotionally unavailable,'" Dean says, his expression darkening slightly. "Because I didn't express feelings the way she thought I should."
"That's not fair," I protest. "Different doesn't mean deficient."
"Try telling her that." He shrugs, but I can see the hurt beneath his casual demeanor. "Three years together, and she never really saw me. Just the version of me she thought I should be."
The vulnerability in his admission touches something deep in me. I reach across the table without thinking, placing my hand over his.
"Her loss," I say simply.
His eyes widen slightly, then soften. He turns his hand beneath mine, our palms meeting. His skin is warm, calloused from years of working with tools and wood. The contact sends a pleasant shiver up my arm.
"What about you?" he asks. "Anyone try to 'fix' you recently?"
I laugh, though there's little humor in it. "My last relationship ended because I was 'too intense.' Apparently, I talked about my projects too much and didn't pay enough attention to his fantasy football league."
