Sneak Peek of Ewe Complete Me by Susannah Nix
Slow walkers were a scourge upon the city streets.
It was all very well to live a leisurely, low-stress life, taking plenty of time to stop and smell the roses—so long as you did it off to one side so those of us with somewhere to be could get past you.
“Pardon me!” I chirped politely as I zipped around a young man strolling down the dead center of the sidewalk with his phone pressed to his ear.
He was too engrossed in his conversation to hear me, and as I drew abreast, his arm shot out to gesticulate at the person on the other end of the phone.
Fortunately, I had ninja-like reflexes when it came to navigating Chicago sidewalks, and I managed to avoid taking a forearm to the face by ducking under the offending appendage. I threw a glance over my shoulder as I hurried past, but the man hadn’t even noticed me—or how close he’d come to breaking my nose.
Unsurprising, really. I’d found as I progressed through my forties that men didn’t seem to see me anymore. It was as if age had rendered me invisible to them, no matter how faithfully I dyed my gray roots copper brown, or how many steps I added to my skincare regimen. (Nine, if you’re wondering. I was up to nine steps, and seriously considering adding two more.)
Never mind Mr. Forearm Tattoo, I had more important things to worry about. The store was supposed to open—I glanced down at my watch—five minutes ago. Fudgsicles!
I picked up the pace, dodging around obstacles and pedestrians like a high-speed Ms. Pac-Man, breaking into a sweat despite the chilly spring weather. Chloe had been scheduled to open this morning, but she’d called in sick an hour ago. I’d still been in my pajamas, unwashed and unshampooed, enjoying a rare late morning in, when she’d phoned to tell me she’d woken with a sore throat and fever.
Sidestepping a yawning young woman in scrubs headed for the hospital a few blocks away, I skipped over the leash of an old man’s wayward dog while giving a wide berth to a deliveryman balancing a stack of boxes. I was moving at a solid clip and making good time until I came up behind a pair of spandex-clad women walking two abreast down the sidewalk ahead of me.
“Excuse me,” I said to the back of their matching Lululemon outfits and bouncy ponytails.
No response. They continued chattering at one another, as oblivious to me as the young man on the phone had been. Apparently, my invisibility wasn’t limited to men.
I’d simply have to go around. If I made myself smaller, I could just squeeze by on one side?—
“Excuse you,” one of the women said when my handbag bumped her elbow as I squeezed between her and a parked SUV.
“Sorry,” I answered reflexively, feeling my face flush with a mix of anger and embarrassment.
It wasn’t my fault Ms. Lululemon had been rudely blocking the sidewalk, yet I couldn’t help the sense of shame that clawed its way out of the pit of my stomach over a small correction from a stranger. My dearly departed mother’s voice rang in my head, admonishing me from beyond the grave: Be polite, Dawn. Say you’re sorry, Dawn. Don’t get in the way, Dawn.
I grimaced and picked up the pace, knowing the sour feeling left by that one insignificant encounter would likely hang over my mood for hours. On the bright side, the sidewalk was mostly clear ahead, and I was able to make the final stretch of my journey down East Randolph without further mishap. I felt a small surge of happiness as I caught sight of the yarn store I’d opened last year.
Mad About Ewe was my pride and joy. Of course I was also proud of my two children, and of course they also gave me joy, but they were both grown, independent humans who made their own decisions these days. There was only so much credit I could take for them anymore. Mad About Ewe, on the other hand, was all mine. The first thing I’d done entirely on my own in my whole adult life.
I’d written up the business plan, picked out the property, furnished the interior (with some guidance from my artist best friend, Angie), and selected the inventory with painstaking care. Although some of the start-up capital had come from my divorce settlement, I considered it fairly earned compensation after twenty-four years of marriage to a world-renowned pulmonologist who’d spent more time at the hospital than at home helping me raise our children and keep our household running.
To be honest, I’d felt more like a personal assistant than a wife for a lot of my marriage. Two years after signing my divorce papers, I was still relishing my freedom. My younger son was off at college and the older one, a recent graduate, was living on his own. Which meant I had the house all to myself, and my time was my own to devote to my new career as an independent businesswoman.
As I drew nearer to the shop, I spied Linda, my most faithful customer, waiting on the sidewalk outside and looking rightfully impatient. Fudgsicles .
“Good morning, Dawn,” she said with a judgmental eyebrow arch. “You’re four minutes late.”
“Yes, I know, Linda. I’m sorry. Chloe called in sick this morning.” I unlocked the door and held it for her to follow me inside.
As I moved around the store turning on the lights and readying things for a new day’s business, Linda made a beeline for her favorite chair. There was a grouping of cozy couches and chairs by the front window where people were welcome to sit and knit for a spell, when the space wasn’t in use by one of the knitting or crochet groups that held their regular meetups at the store.
Linda came in almost every morning to sit and visit for a few hours over her knitting. She was retired and lived alone, and I had the sense she didn’t talk to many people outside the time she spent in the store.
“What do you think, crème br?lée or southern pecan this morning?” I asked as I moved to the coffee maker. I always kept a carafe of coffee on hand, as well as a selection of teas and powdered hot chocolate, so customers could enjoy a warm beverage while they knit or shopped for yarn. It encouraged them to stay longer, and the longer they stayed, the more likely they were to buy something. It also made the store feel more homey, which was part of my business mission statement: Create a comfortable home for fiber arts lovers to gather and shop.
“Feels like a crème br?lée day to me,” Linda answered as she unfolded the Joji Locatelli Odyssey shawl she’d been working on for the last several weeks. It was knitting up so beautifully I’d been considering starting one of my own with some of the new Malabrigo Dos Tierras I’d gotten in last week.
The bell on the shop door rang, and I glanced over my shoulder as I counted out scoops of flavored coffee grounds. It was a man who’d just entered, which was unusual but not unheard of. He stood with his back to me, gazing at the window display Angie had created for the store. It was an eye-catching installation, with sagging clotheslines full of colorful hand-knit hats, scarves, and socks suspended over a pair of giant knitting needles supporting a swatch of rainbow-striped garter stitch. It had enticed quite a few curious onlookers into the store.
“Let me know if you need any help,” I called to the newcomer. He didn’t respond, so I finished setting the coffee to brew before I went to properly greet my first customer of the day.
He’d drifted over to the section of shelves stuffed with a spectrum of Cascade 220 colors. As I approached, I noted that he was roughly my age—or a bit younger perhaps—with an attractive salt-and-pepper beard and silver-threaded hair.
“Is there anything in particular I can help you find?” I offered, affecting my cheerful customer service smile.
He turned to look at me, our eyes met, and my stomach dropped onto the floor next to my sensible dressy flats.
It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.
But it was.
I’d know those piercing brown eyes anywhere, even thirty years later when they were surrounded by deep crinkles and a silvery beard. They belonged to Mike Pilota, my former high school crush. Varsity football player, student council president, and homecoming king Mike Pilota. The best-looking guy in my graduating class.
In other words, someone who’d been totally out of my league, and whom I’d nonetheless pined over for four long and miserable years.
He’d changed over the last three decades, but not that much. Miraculously, he still had all his hair and his athletic physique. In fact, he was extraordinarily muscular for a man in his late forties. One might even go so far as to call him jacked.
His face sported quite a few more wrinkles these days—in that way that looked so unfairly handsome on older men—and he was more hirsute than I was used to seeing him. In high school, he’d been clean-shaven and had worn his hair in one of those unfortunate brush cuts that had been so popular in the eighties. Now, in addition to the beard, which lent him a pleasantly lumberjacky appearance, his hair was thick and wavy on top, brushed back from his forehead and trimmed shorter on the sides.
But those eyes. They were exactly the same: deep-set, dark, and intense. The giddy feeling they inspired in my loins plunged me right back into high school.
Mike and I hadn’t moved in the same circles back then. I doubt he ever would have known I existed if it hadn’t been for Pizza My Heart, the pizza parlor where we both worked in the evenings and on the weekends. From the time I turned sixteen to the day he left for college, Mike and I spent ten to twenty hours a week slinging pizza, garlic bread, and soda pop together.
Yes, as a matter of fact, I had applied for the job at Pizza My Heart because Mike worked there. What can I say? I was a teenager ruled by my hormones.
The job had allowed me to spend time with Mike, even talk to him a little. I wouldn’t exactly say we were friends, but we were friendly. We were acquaintances, which was more than we’d been the two years prior.
Therein lay the problem: I was not what you’d call a smooth operator in my teenage years. Oh, I’d tried to play it cool, but cool wasn’t exactly in my wheelhouse back then. These days I liked to think I’d adopted a classic style that complemented my natural features and personality. But in 1988? I looked like the inside of a Contempo Casuals had vomited all over me—and my fashion sense was by far my best feature.
In addition to braces, acne-prone skin, and a haircut better suited to a Golden Girl than a teenager, I was not socially adept. My best conversational overtures consisted of awkward attempts to repeat jokes I’d heard on Who’s the Boss? the night before. I was, in summary, a massive dork.
Nevertheless, I remained ever hopeful that one day Mike would look past the metal mouth and bad skin to realize his undying attraction to me. I was so optimistic, in fact, that in the summer after graduation—our last summer together at Pizza My Heart before Mike went off to college in Ohio—I screwed up my courage to ask him out on a date.
It did not go well.
His expression in response to my proposal that we catch a showing of Turner & Hooch was not unlike that of Janet Leigh when Norman Bates pulled back the shower curtain. The sight of Mike’s face frozen in shocked surprise still haunted me occasionally in my anxiety dreams.
“Oh. Um. Uhhhh…” Mike had dragged that last syllable out for what felt like an eternity, his mouth hanging open like a hooked walleye as he struggled to verbalize a response. “I can’t. I’ve got…stuff. To do. Stuff to do. So I can’t. But, um, thanks?” Then he’d turned on his heel and speed-walked out of my presence as fast as his muscular legs would take him.
Like I said, it did not go well.
That was what I got for shooting my shot. But I didn’t bear Mike any ill will. If anything, I was grateful for the lesson. It had taught me not to aim for the stars. I was more of a middle-distance girl, and that was fine. Somewhere between the ground at my feet and the visible horizon was where I belonged. It was useful information, and it had saved me a lot of unnecessary embarrassment over the intervening years.
And now Mike was standing in front of me, thirty years after crushing my hopes, looking just as dreamy as he’d been at eighteen. Dreamier, even. It was easy to be attractive at the age of eighteen, but attractive men in their late forties were rare unicorns indeed.
My eyes drank him in. All six-plus feet of him. A solid hunk of a man at any age.
He didn’t remember me. That much was clear from his blank expression. I’d spent the last three decades reliving the humiliation of his rejection, and he didn’t remember it at all. He didn’t remember me at all. Typical.
But then something changed in his expression. I could actually see the moment his memory kicked in. “Dawn…Dawn Czworniak, right?”
Dreamy .
I couldn’t help grinning. At least I’d made an impression, even if it wasn’t a good one. I hadn’t been completely forgettable.
“That’s right,” I said, before correcting myself. “Well, Dawn Botstein these days. I haven’t been Czworniak for twenty-six years.”
“You’re married, then?” He betrayed no reaction to this information. It was simply a fact, utterly unrelated to him.
“I was until two years ago. I’m divorced now.” I felt it important to put that out there. Not that I really thought there was a chance…but if there was, I wanted Mike to know I was currently unattached.
He looked faintly embarrassed, as one does when they realize they’ve stepped into uncomfortable conversational territory. “Sorry.”
I shrugged to show it wasn’t a sore spot for me. “I used the divorce settlement to open this place, so you could say I made my lemons into lemonade. What about you?” I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity. If Mike was a married man, I needed to get my lustful feelings in check, pronto.
His forehead creases deepened fetchingly— damn men and the attractiveness of their wrinkles . “What about me?”
“Are you married?”
He affected a faint grimace. “Twice—and divorced twice too.”
I nodded in sympathetic commiseration while trying not to look happy to hear that. “So what have you been up to all these years? Last I heard you were in Ohio.”
“I was, yeah. I just moved back to Chicago in February after my dad died, to be around more for my mom.”
“I’m so sorry.” This time my sympathy was genuine and profound. I’d lost both my parents in the last ten years and knew how difficult it could be. “My condolences for your loss.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, dropping his eyes to his feet.
I took pity on him and changed the subject. “What brings you into the shop today?” I asked, reverting back to my customer service persona. “Are you a knitter?” It wasn’t common for men to knit, but it wasn’t unheard of either. I counted several men among my regular customers—including a famous television star who was an avid crocheter—so I never made presumptions based on gender.
Mike shook his head. “No, it’s for my mom, actually. She used to knit, and I was thinking it might be good for her if I could get her to take it up again. Give her something to focus on other than…” He trailed off with a grimace.
“Sitting around the house missing your dad?” I offered gently.
“Yeah. Exactly that.” Mike’s eyes met mine with a grateful look that was so unexpectedly soft and tinged with sadness, I felt guilty for the way it made my toes curl and my stomach flutter.
The man was mourning one parent while caring for the other, and here I was internally squealing over a little eye contact like I was sixteen again. Shame on you, Dawn .
I pulled myself together and refocused on the matter at hand. “What kinds of things did your mother used to knit when she was knitting regularly? Can you remember?”
Mike rubbed a hand over his face while he thought about it, and I looked away, lest the sight of his thick fingers stroking that luscious beard send my hormones into carnal overdrive.
“She knit me and my dad a few sweaters,” he answered as I moved to straighten a perfectly straight display of hand-painted yarns.
“Anything else?” A sweater project could be tricky to pick out for someone if you didn’t know their tastes or skill level.
“Blankets,” he said. “There’s a few around the house she made.”
I dared a glance at him. “Knit or crocheted?”
“What’s the difference?” he asked with another of those damnably attractive frowns.
“Get her one of those nice afghan kits!” Linda called out from her seat by the front window. In my preoccupation, I’d completely forgotten she was in the store and near enough to hear every word of my conversation with Mike.
“Good suggestion,” I called back to Linda. “Follow me,” I said to Mike and set off for the display of afghan kits by the register. “These can either be knit or crocheted,” I explained as I showed him some of the different patterns and colorways available. “They’re a bit pricey though,” I warned, not wanting to make assumptions about his budget. Good quality yarn was a luxury item, and a blanket required a lot of it.
“That’s no problem,” he said as he flipped through the selection.
While Mike was busy studying the afghan kits, I surreptitiously leaned toward him and—god help me—I sniffed. That’s right, I was sniffing the man right there in the middle of my store. And he smelled… scrumptious was the first word that came to mind. Like he’d just finished rolling in a pile of autumn leaves and then walked past an oven full of baking bread. For real. He smelled like warm yeast rolls and fresh air. I could have eaten him up on the spot.
“What about this one?” he asked, turning toward me. “Are these good colors?”
I felt my face heat and quickly looked down at the kit in his hand to hide my flush. I didn’t know what had come over me. I hadn’t felt this way around a man in—I couldn’t even remember the last time, to be honest. Probably sometime in the Pliocene Epoch.
Since my divorce, I’d made only two cursory attempts at dating, but the results had been so awkward and unsatisfying in both cases that I’d given up the endeavor entirely. I’d begun to suspect that part of my life might be over. I was nearing fifty, and menopause was just around the corner. Perhaps my libido was waning, or maybe I was just tired of men. The prospect of dating one certainly seemed like more trouble than it was worth when I had a satisfying substitute in my nightstand drawer that boasted a rechargeable battery and a lifetime guarantee—which was more than any man I was likely to meet could offer.
Until now.
Until Mike Pilota walked back into my life, and I found myself blushing like a schoolgirl as my insides quivered with an excitement I hadn’t felt in years.
I cleared my throat as I pretended to examine the afghan he’d selected. “I think it’s lovely.”
“Really?”
I looked into his deep brown eyes, which seemed to glimmer at me as his face crinkled into a smile. It was the first time he’d smiled since he’d entered the shop, and it turned my knees to jelly and my stomach to a roiling kaleidoscope of butterflies. There were dimples under that beard somewhere, I remembered. Two of them, one on either side of his beautiful, perfect mouth.
He was gazing at me expectantly, waiting for me to respond, but my tongue suddenly felt too large for my mouth. All I could manage was a weak nod.
“Good.” His smile got a little wider as his eyes remained on mine for what felt like a long time.
Too long.
My chest prickled as I felt the flush creep down my whole body, making me unbearably hot all over. I was dying. Trapped in that too-long moment like a fly caught in a spider’s web. I couldn’t look away, not when Mike Pilota was gazing into my eyes, but I wasn’t sure I could stand to stay that way for another second without literally combusting in front of him.
“I’ll take it,” he said, finally breaking the spell as he held his purchase out to me.
I grabbed it and practically sprinted behind the register, grateful to put some space between us. Slipping on my reading glasses, I rang up his purchase as quickly as my shaking hands could manage and endeavored to ignore the way my blood pressure spiked when his fingers grazed mine as he passed me his credit card.
Down, girl. Don’t make a fool of yourself—again .
“I hope she enjoys it,” I said as I bagged up the afghan kit and handed it across the counter. So what if I’d dropped one of my business cards into the bag? I did that with most new customers—when I remembered.
“Me too,” Mike said, and his eyes latched on to mine again. “Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.”
The butterflies in my stomach ramped up to a flapping vortex. “That’s what we’re here for,” I replied with an awkward chuckle. Very smooth, Dawn. Well played .
“It was really good to see you again.”
“Same,” I answered weakly. Then added, ever pathetic and hopeful, “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
The corner of Mike’s mouth tugged upward. “I hope so.”
My brain shorted out. All I could do was stand frozen in place as his words bounced around in my head like a game of Pong.
Mike Pilota hoped he’d see me again. Holy crap!
He’d already turned to go. He was moving toward the door. Soon he’d be gone, possibly forever.
“Mike!” I called out.
He stopped and turned back.
I hurried over to him, stopping just in front of his broad chest. I had to crane my neck to look up into his face, which was open and curious as he watched me.
“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” I blurted before I could chicken out.
With a mortifying sense of déjà vu, I watched his expression cloud. His mouth fell open briefly before his lips pressed together in a grimace. He looked deeply uncomfortable. I knew what he was going to say before he said it.
“I can’t.” He eyes skated away, looking everywhere but at me. “I’m busy.”
Of course he was. Why had I thought he’d want to go out with me? What madness had possessed me to repeat my mistake of thirty years ago?
Fortunately, in times of crisis my brain went into autopilot mode. I felt a mechanical smile tweak my lips. “No worries,” I heard myself say as I waved my hand to show how little I cared. “Forget I asked.”
Mike opened his mouth as if to speak, but at that moment the bell on the shop door rang as a pair of customers came in. My false smile got even wider as I turned to greet them, then froze on my face. It was my nemesis in Lululemon and her companion from the sidewalk earlier.
The two women smiled at me warmly and asked if I had any Miss Babs yarns. It was clear from their expressions they didn’t remember me. Why would they?
As I pointed them toward the stock of Miss Babs, I heard the bell on the door ring again. Glancing that way, I saw Mike walk past the window outside and disappear down the sidewalk.
That was that. He was gone. Out of my store and out of my life.
I’d humiliated myself in front of him twice, but there would not be a third time.
You’ve had two chances to date me, Mike Pilota, and that’s all you get.
I mentally shook my fist at him to drive home just how done I was with him.
That would teach me to fantasize. I’d forgotten for a moment, but now I remembered. I was a middle-distance sort of person, and I always would be. There was no use in shooting for the stars.
“Men,” Linda harrumphed from her chair by the window. “Can’t live with them, can’t tip the lot of them into a volcano and start society over without ’em.”
“Amen,” I murmured as I went to pour us each a cup of coffee.