The Cardigan in Question
Julie Murphy
Playlist: “Cardigan”
Missing
My Favorite Cardigan
Color: Ivory ★ Style: Cable Knit
Additional Details: Missing label, J stitched into the interior collar, thumb-sized hole along left arm inner seam, brown wooden buttons, third button down was replaced with a red star button.
Last Seen: October 3rd at Brew Beginnings. Midafternoon.
REWARD: $200.00
Please contact Betty Connors at cardiganSOS@ with any leads or information.
I tack the last of my posters onto the dorm bulletin board amongst advertisements for tutors, various club sign-ups, and a memo from building maintenance to stop flushing tampons down the archaic pipes.
(Archaic according to me, but the Office of Housing at South Pine University would simply refer to them as original.)
As I walk out of Kerr Dorm, prepared to brace myself against the wind, I’m greeted with an unseasonably warm fall day for north Washington state. I hug my arms around myself still, because without my cardigan, I feel naked. Like there’s a chill I can’t escape.
I’m used to people looking at me. The port-wine stain that bisects my face is something you can’t miss.
I follow other people online who also have vascular birthmarks.
People who are braver than me, I think. People who do incredibly creative makeup with the purpose of highlighting their birthmarks or recite meaningful poetry or speak out about loving the very thing that makes you different.
They bring awareness. Whatever that means.
Honestly, I feel plenty of awareness. In fact, it’s all I feel sometimes.
But today, without my cardigan, I find that I’m shrinking in on myself even more so than normal, and some little frayed wire in my head has me thinking that my missing cardigan makes me stand out more than usual.
I stretch out my day as far as it will go.
I read in every cozy nook of the library.
I order a latte at Brew Beginnings in a ceramic mug so that I have a reason to sit down and take my time sipping.
I ask the barista for the third time this week if my cardigan has been turned in.
I check the student union lost and found, and a couple of other buildings as well.
I double-check that my other flyers are still intact where I hung them.
By the time I head back to my dorm, it’s well after eight in the evening, and my roommate, Lyra, and her boyfriend are watching a movie on her laptop.
They make no effort to use headphones, so I gather up a few snacks and take my laptop out to the commons to work on an ethics paper that isn’t due for another six weeks.
Other students move in rotations all around me, completely oblivious to me until I look up and they happen to see the side of my face that carries my birthmark. They stare for a moment and then look away.
When I finally go to bed, Lyra and her boyfriend are under the covers. At least they’re attempting to be quiet. I fall asleep with my earbuds in, listening to the audiobook of The Hobbit for the millionth time.
Just as I’m about to fall asleep to Thorin Oakenshield talking about loyalty and honor and a willing heart, my phone vibrates with a notification, and I pull the covers over my head to read. My heart hiccups at the sight of the subject line.
Subject: The Cardigan in Question
Betty—I think I have something you might be interested in. If you’re able, meet me at Brew Beginnings tomorrow sometime between 2 and 3. I’ll be the one in the cardigan.
—A
“Um, hello?” The word comes out as a question even though I would recognize my cardigan anywhere.
The mystery girl, whose email I have open on my phone as I hover behind her, sits at the window looking out over the quad.
I pull out the stool beside her as I rifle through my messenger bag. “Uh, I’m Betty. I have your reward right here…”
“I didn’t say I agreed to your terms.”
My head snaps up, and I truly see her. She wears oxblood-red combat boots, and her shaggy dark hair curls at the collar of my sweater.
Her denim shorts are tiny and rolled at the seams like they’re constantly arguing with her thick thighs.
The olive-green tights she wears underneath are sheer and don’t appear to add much warmth.
Her white T-shirt is riddled with holes, and her absolutely perfectly clear round face is makeup-free except for a dark midnight lipstick that might as well be black.
She is stunning. The kind of beauty I want to study.
“Bold of you to just show up wearing it, by the way,” I mutter, which is probably the most confrontational thing I’ve ever said in my life.
“I can probably scrounge up another hundred bucks.” The reward money I had come up with was from some birthday money I received last month.
I could ask my mom, but then I’d have to explain to her why the cardigan is so important to me.
I settle down beside her, and she shrugs, studying my face, her gaze tracing my birthmark.
“You’re staring,” I tell her.
She laughs, a musical sound that makes my cheeks burn as I covertly check to see how much attention she’s drawn to us. “And you’re pretty.”
“You don’t have to say that just because I caught you looking at my—” I motion to my port-wine stain. “What do you want? I need to get my sweater back.”
She studies me for a minute, starting with my birthmark, but then her attention roams to my lips and down the length of my body. I’m wearing baggy jeans and a striped T-shirt. Nothing at all interesting.
“I like the sweater,” she says. “I like it so much that I really don’t want to let it go.”
My lips purse, and the backs of my eyes sting at the thought of not getting it back.
Even though, hell, it does look good on her.
Her figure is full and round, and the sweater conforms to it instead of just hanging like it does on me.
The thing is my most prized possession and I don’t even wear it well.
I scrounge up every bit of authority I can muster. “That’s not going to work for me.”
The light brown of her irises sparks with excitement. “How about shared custody?”
“No,” I blurt, and then, after a moment, “How would that even work? The sweater belongs to me, anyway!”
“Humor me. Three dates,” she says. “You go on three dates with me. You’re allowed to wear the cardigan for the duration of the date.”
“But what about after the three dates?” I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this.
Her head tilts to the side with a lazy grin. “Custody reverts back to the original owner.”
I feel like a toy. Like I’m being made fun of. Like I’m the girl who was invited to prom as a joke. “Just take my money, okay?”
She shakes her head and stands up, a half-finished iced matcha in hand. “No, I don’t think I will. Keep an eye on your email, Betty.”
“I don’t even know your name,” I call after her.
“Augustine,” she tells me. “But you can call me August. Like the month.”
August is wearing my cardigan again as she stands outside of the Singing Pine—a local karaoke bar that I have never considered setting foot inside of, because I can’t think of anything more likely to give me secondhand embarrassment than karaoke.
“I really thought you’d be way early,” she says as she shucks off the sweater and holds it out to me, letting it dangle from one finger. I’m a minute or two early today, but she’s right to assume. I am chronically early.
My whole body eases with relief as I slide the familiar garment on over my burgundy slip dress with a dizzy little pattern of flowers.
“I didn’t decide to actually show up until about ten minutes ago.
I don’t exactly appreciate being manipulated into a date, and I definitely have no love for karaoke. ”
My so-called date is wearing dark green knit thigh-highs and an oversized T-shirt that says Daddy Is a State of Mind. I don’t know if I should be impressed by the nerve it takes to wear something like that in public or embarrassed on her behalf. I’m such a prude.
She opens the door for me and waves me in. “Ladies first.”
It’s silly, but I blush. I lead us to a table near the wall and not in the direct traffic of the karaoke sign-up. If August has a problem with the secluded location, she doesn’t say so.
The small bistro table is cozy but becomes even more so when August pulls her chair around to sit beside me rather than across. Her leg brushes against mine as she sits, and my stomach plummets from the sheer shock of the accidental touch.
“That dress looks amazing on you,” she whispers after the waitress takes our order of cheesy Tots and Diet Coke for her and iced tea for me.
“Uh, thanks.” The sweater slips off my shoulder, and her eyes leave a trail of heat as she watches me slide it back up, like I’ve committed some sort of crime by covering up again. “I usually only wear it with the cardigan, so I’m glad you held up your end of the bargain.”
Her only response is a low hum.
“How did you know I was gay?” I ask her.
She grins. “I didn’t, but a girl can hope, right? So you are, then?”
I shrug. “I think so. The theory is a little untested.”
The waitress returns with our gooey plate of cheesy Tots and drinks.
“Betty Connors, do you mean to tell me this is your first date with a girl?”
I wave to my birthmark. “Not a lot of people can easily get past this.”
“I don’t see anything to get past, honestly.”
There’s no stopping the way my eyes roll. “What’s your deal?” I ask over the sound of the opening notes of “drivers license” by Olivia Rodrigo. “The flattery feels a lot like love bombing.”
She laughs. “Is it really so wrong to tell the girl you’re on a date with that she’s hot?”
My cheeks flare, and like always, I can feel the warmth more rapidly in my birthmark as it becomes more pigmented. “That!” I tell her. “It’s so—”
“If we’re going to make it through three dates, you’re going to have to get over this little complex you have. Now, tell me about the cardigan.”
“It’s just a sweater,” I tell her. “It’s nothing special. I just like it is all.”