45. Grey
Chapter 45
Grey
W e stroll past several more storefronts, including a personalized Christmas ornament stand, a photography print shop, and a face painting booth, before Aspen’s interest is piqued again, this time by a tent selling yarn. I follow her as she enters the space, her head on a swivel as she admires all of the yarn.
She goes to a large rainbow display first, feeling the skeins.
“Grey, feel how soft this is,” she awes.
I oblige and feel the yarn. “Pretty soft, yeah.”
“Wearing a sweater made of this would feel like wearing a cloud. I have to buy some. Which color do you think would look best?”
I pick up a skein of a light blue color and hold it up next to Aspen’s head.
She laughs. “What are you doing?”
I set it down and pick up the one next to it, this one still light blue but with a tinge of green, making it an aqua-y shade. “Finding one that matches your eyes,” I reply. “This one is almost perfect.”
“Need any help?” the shopkeeper asks.
“We’re just browsing,” Aspen replies. “Trying to pick out a color for a sweater. It’s difficult when you have this many gorgeous shades.”
The shopkeeper beams. “I dyed and spun all of them myself. Every ball on this display here is made of alpaca wool, sourced responsibly and directly from Peruvian alpaca farms. So they make very lightweight garments, while still being durable and warm.”
“That explains why they’re so soft.”
“Totally,” I echo, even though I don’t think I’ve ever felt alpaca wool in my life before now.
“If I’m making a sweater for myself, do you think five balls is enough?” she asks.
“I’d get six, just to be safe. Once these batches are sold, there won’t be any more exactly like it, since color-matching is so hard.”
Aspen nods knowingly. “Got it. Okay, well, I think I’ll get six of these blue ones,” she says, pointing at the skein I’m still holding. “And two each of the pale yellow, neon orange, crimson, fuchsia, navy blue, flecked gray, and light green.”
“Perfect. Let me get you a bag, you’re going to need one. They’re thirty-six dollars each so that’ll add to”—she pulls a calculator from her back pocket and types some digits in—“seven hundred and twenty dollars.”
My eyes almost bulge out of my head. “For yarn?” I hiss to Aspen once the lady retreats behind the tent to fetch us a bag.
“It’s hand-spun, hand-dyed alpaca wool,” Aspen retorts, as though in that case the price is reasonable.
“I don’t care if it's spun by Rumpelstiltskin himself, that’s insane. No way you’re paying almost a thousand dollars for yarn right now.”
The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Oh, I’m not. You are.”
“Is this some kind of hazing thing you do to all your boyfriends?”
“Last I checked, you’re my only one.”
“You’re killing me.”
“Oh, relax. You’ll get some great handmade socks out of this deal.”
“Affordably priced too.”
“Hey, I haven’t even worked in labor costs. Last I checked, my going rate—judging by my film contract for Golden Hour —was about seven thousand per hour. And making a pair of socks usually takes me about eight hours of active knitting time.”
“Jesus Christ, Jordan.”
“Fine, I’ll give you the friends and family discount. That means you don’t have to pay for labor costs.”
“Just the seven hundred dollars-worth of yarn.”
“Exactly. Really, you should be thanking me.”
“You’re right, thank you, darling. What color did you pick for me?”
“Gray, duh.”
I laugh. “So predictable.”
“Hey, you picked the same color as my eyes for me, so that’s predictable too.”
The shopkeeper returns with a massive bag and helps Aspen fill it with all the yarn she purchased. I feel myself shed an ounce of self-respect as the lady slides my card through her iPad-attached card-reader and then has the gall to flip the screen for a tip. Aspen clicks on the twenty-percent option, so the lady gets another one hundred and fifty dollars.
“I thought dating a girl who has old lady hobbies would be cheap,” I whisper to Aspen as we leave the yarn tent.
“You must know the wrong kind of old ladies,” she quips back. “I’d expect better from you, especially since you’re practically an old man yourself.”
I chuckle. “Oh, shut it.”
“Excuse me,” I hear someone call behind us.
“Odds they’re talking to us?” Aspen asks me, neither of us turning around.
“Aspen? Grey? Excuse me?” they repeat.
“High,” I tell Aspen as the person—a teenage girl—catches up to us.
“Hi,” the girl responds. “Wow, it really is you two. I’m such a huge fan, I can’t believe you’re here, like, right in front of me.”
Aspen smiles graciously. “It’s so nice to meet you. Would you like a photo?”
“I would love one. I mean, if it's not overstepping or anything.”
“Not at all,” I say, motioning her to step between us for a selfie.
We snap the photo and the girl thanks us again. But before we can continue walking, another teenage girl approaches us, asking for the same thing. And then a twenty-something-year old man. And then someone’s mom who has to ask us who we are and why she’s getting a picture with us.
On about the twentieth fan photo, Aspen leans into me and squeezes my side. I take this as a hint that she’s getting anxious and wants to leave, which is perfectly fine by me. I don’t know how much more craft shopping I can do before I get an “unusual spending” call from my credit card company.
“I’m so sorry, guys, but this is the last photo,” I say, so Aspen doesn’t have to. “I have to get going, I have a meeting to get to.”
The gathered crowd issues a few groans as our bodyguards step in to clear a path for Aspen and I, but ultimately back up to give us space to pass.
Aspen’s longtime guard, Edgar, takes a place on my side, making sure Aspen and I can get to the car safely. Once we’ve passed the perimeter of the craft fair and the crowd has slimmed down significantly, he leans in to whisper to me.
“Good job, Mr. Grey,” he says. “I haven’t seen Aspen smile this much in a long time.”
I shrug. “She loves crafts.”
“Not just today. Every day.”
I look at him in surprise but all he does is pat me on the back and turn away, acting as though he never said anything at all. But damn, his comment makes me feel good. If I can make Aspen happy, even just for a minute here and there, I’ll consider myself a very successful man. That’s what success boils down to, after all. Brightening the lives of those around you, especially those who mean the most.