Chapter 9 #2
He leads me to his living room. I can tell he’s put in at least a little effort to clean up for me.
There are no stray items lying around on the table or the couch.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he keeps it like this all the time.
Not messy, but lived in. I’m sure his closets would tell a different tale.
“I brought my yarn with me,” I say, motioning toward the small tote bag I brought. I only have one pack of each color, but I figure that’s enough for a first lesson.
“Oh, you won’t need that today.”
My confusion must be written all over my face, because Oliver is holding back a laugh. Poorly.
“I have a piece started, so you can learn some of the stitches you’ll need. We’ll work on that today, then next time we can start on the pattern you chose.”
I’m disappointed. In my head, I pictured going home today with something that at least resembles the final project.
That’s not happening. I suppose I should probably take my own advice.
Find patience and joy in the process rather than focusing on the result.
Oliver’s not going to run three miles today; I’m not going to make a blanket.
“It’s a good thing,” he assures me. “This way, any mistakes you make won’t be on your final version.”
It’s a good point, but it doesn’t assuage any of my disappointment.
I tuck my tote bag away next to the edge of the sofa and find a seat. A minute later, my lap is full of hot pink yarn. It’s… bright.
“Okay, watch me for a few rounds.”
I stare at Oliver’s hands, attempting to get a sense of how he’s turning the yarn into… well, yarn in a shape. It looks easy enough, but I know better. Anything that seems that easy when an expert does it is bound to be complicated.
“Okay, you try.”
It takes a few seconds for me to get a grip on my hook that Oliver approves of.
It’s almost like holding a pen, but not quite.
In my first attempt, I completely lost the yarn that Oliver had placed on the hook for me.
Fortunately, he doesn’t seem fazed by it.
He sticks it back on and tells me to try again.
It only goes slightly better this time. “Good, now do that until you hit the end of the row.”
While I work, Oliver picks up another project and does his own, stopping often to peer over at me and make sure I’m still moving along. I am, but it’s slow as fuck. I swear he gets a whole scarf done in the time it takes me to do one row.
“Okay. Done.” I hold up the piece, a little proud of my ability to get through it.
“Great, let’s take a look.” Oliver inspects my work thoroughly, turning it over in his hands a few times.
“That’s great. See here?” He points to a spot where it looks a little wonky.
“You only got the front loop of the stitch. You want to make sure you’re hitting both, unless the pattern specifically calls for something else. ”
“How do I fix it?”
“Eh. Don’t worry about it for this. Let’s get you to the next row.”
It kills me to let it go, but I try to focus on Oliver’s calm voice as he shows me how to start the next row of the piece. Then he hands it back and tells me to do the same, slowly stitching across the row.
It’s slow going, at best, but I manage to get five rows done before Oliver calls it quits for the night.
The tiny piece that I started with has doubled in size while we were together, clear evidence of the work that I’ve put in.
I didn’t expect to feel anything, especially once I learned I wouldn’t be working on my pattern tonight, but there’s a strange sense of pride bubbling up over my work. It’s uneven and flawed, but it’s mine.
“Next time, we’ll start on your pattern. There are a few different stitches involved, but it’s mostly the same.”
Given how big the blanket looked in photos, I’m concerned about how long it will take to put together. I spent an hour doing those few short rows. Maybe I should pick something smaller, like a scarf or a washcloth?
“Don’t worry. It’ll go faster once you get used to it.”
Oliver has a knack for reading my mind. Something that should bother me. Normally, I school my expressions pretty well. It’s a good thing to have in my field so that when someone’s explaining why some piece of equipment suddenly stopped working, I don’t look at them like the idiot that they are.
At least most of the time. So how does Oliver always seem to know what I’m thinking? How does he always know the right thing to say?
“I believe you.” Once all my stuff is gathered, there’s no reason for me to hang out here any longer.
“I’ll send you what you should do for your next runs.”
“Wait.” Oliver grabs my arm. “What do you mean by my next runs? You aren’t going to be with me?”
“You need to run three days a week. I’ll try to make sure I do one of them with you, but it would be hard for us to get together that often.
” The little pout he’s put on is adorable.
While I managed to put aside most of my attraction while focused on crocheting, it’s coming back to me now that I’m looking into his dark eyes. “You’ll be fine. Try to slow down.”
“I guess,” he says, clearly not convinced. “I’ll probably collapse and die, though. Plus, I don’t even have one of those ridiculous watches to time things for me.” Oliver waves his hands wildly.
“You can use an app for it. I’ll send you a link.” Seeing him panic sends a shockwave through my system. I didn’t expect it to matter so much to him. “I’ll check in, too. Make sure you understand the workout and how to make it all work together.”
“Okay. But if I die, I’m coming back as a ghost to haunt you.”
“You won’t die,” I assure him. “It just might feel like it for a while.” It’s a lie.
I routinely feel like I’m going to die during workouts.
Not every time, but often enough to remind me I’m not invincible.
Or getting any younger. I figure I’ve got a few more years to hit personal bests before age starts to catch up with me.
“Fine. I’m still going to haunt you.”
I don’t doubt it for a second. I pull him into my arms to hug him before I leave.
I’m not sure what compels me to do it. I didn’t even think about it.
Having him in my arms like this feels right.
I let him go before I’m ready, not wanting to give him the wrong idea.
If I’m not willing to turn this into more than friendship, then my lines in the sand need to be clear.
“I’ll see you next week,” he says. “If I make it.”
“Next week.”