Chapter 5 #3
The thought stabbed, sudden and sharp. She exhaled, dropping her gaze to her lap.
The yarn slipped slightly, pulling too tight on the stitch, and she had to unravel it, correcting her mistake with practiced hands.
Tate had been the thorn in her side from the very beginning.
His careless looks, his deliberate obstacles, the way he always seemed to know just how to unnerve her.
Even now, just the memory of him made her stomach knot.
She remembered the M&M’s. He thought he was being clever, sneaky, leaving them where she’d find them, teasing her, mocking her sweet tooth. She ate them anyway. Because for one silly, desperate moment, she had told herself it meant he thought of her. Even if it was to laugh at her expense.
And then she’d gone and told him he was cute, that she liked him.
Her needles stilled in her lap.
The memory rose, unbidden, vivid as the day it happened.
She had been fourteen, brimming with restless nerves, her heart drumming with the certainty that Tate's leaving for college would change everything.
He was eighteen, on the cusp of the world—handsome in that careless, infuriating way that made him seem untouchable.
She had feared he would disappear, or worse, return with someone else on his arm. So she had done the unthinkable.
She had waited until Gina disappeared to the bathroom, then crept down the hall to Tate’s room.
He was packing, boxing up his life into brown cardboard for California and that full-ride scholarship everyone bragged about.
She remembered the smell of his cologne, the faint dust of cardboard in the air, the way her hand shook on the doorknob before she pushed it open, allowing it to close behind her.
Tate had straightened, lifting his head. His eyes—dark and sharp, always unreadable—landed on her. His face shuttered instantly, a mask snapping into place.
“No,” he said. One word. Flat. Final.
“I just wanted to—”
“Nettie,” he cut her off, his tone clipped. “Whatever you’re going to say—just no.”
Her throat went dry. Her fragile heart aching with longing and hope. Still, she whispered bravely, “But I think you’re cute…”
The silence afterward had burned hotter than fire. His expression hardened, his voice cool as ice. “And you’re not. You need to get out of my room before my parents see you in here. We’re not doing this. I’m leaving for college, and you’re still a teenager. Gina’s friend. A kid.”
She had tried again, trembling, “But—”
“Get. Out.” His voice had risen, heat spilling into the words. He stepped closer, tall, lanky, broad-shouldered in a way that was almost too much for his frame. His fierce eyes cut through her, the sharp edge of rejection piercing deeper than anything she’d ever felt.
The memory played in her mind like it was happening again, and she could feel the sting behind her eyes, the drop in her chest. She had left his room that night with her heart crushed into a thousand fragile shards. Later, she had cried herself empty in her grandmother’s lap.
She had never told anyone—not Gina, not Shannon. It became her own private scar, hidden deep but always there. A mark on her soul, the everlasting sting of rejection. Her first crush - crushed. After that, she never really dated. Not that many people asked anyway…
She buried herself in books, in hobbies, in her studies.
Child development, because she wanted to help kids, to be the kind of anchor she herself had needed once.
But the irony was cruel—working with children also isolated her from other adults.
The men who came around were married fathers.
The women became her circle of friends. Gina.
Shannon. Her grandmother. Safe. Familiar. Not threatening.
And after Tate?
Well, her spirit couldn’t handle another blow like that.
She didn’t believe in casual flings. She didn’t believe in divorce.
She believed in a love that was forever—soulmates, happily ever afters, and fairy tales.
The problem was that no one seemed to believe along with her.
The world, society, didn’t seem to foster those same dreams either…
but children believed in magic, mystery, fairytales, and happily ever afters.
So she found her peace in smaller joys that brought happiness to her heart.
A blooming flower in her garden. The weight of a novel on her lap.
The steady, soothing rhythm of her knitting needles.
Coffee with Gina. Dinner with both Gina and Shannon…
before Shannon had thrown herself into a bad relationships, before Gina jumped into hockey of all things— and she knew why now.
Because Gina’s brother was back. Suddenly hockey was interesting to her friend. Hockey was now always on her friend’s mind, which was why Nettie was sure that was the reasoning behind Gina’s casually tossed ‘handsome Goalie’ comment.
And Nettie? Nettie was still here. Still alone. Still herself.
Until today.
Because today Tate had smiled at her.
Her heart fluttered at the thought, betraying her, even as her brain told her not to hope. She shook her head, tugging at her yarn. A knock shattered the quiet like a hammer through glass. Hard. Loud. Unmistakable.
Nettie jerked upright, her heart lodging somewhere near her throat.
Her knitting needles slipped from her fingers, clattering into her lap, tangling themselves hopelessly in the half-formed knit cap.
She sat frozen, ears straining. The sound came again—this time not just a knock, but a thud that carried weight. Purpose.
Someone was banging at her front door.
And then a low roar a few moments later. Not a human sound exactly, more like the faint rumble of distant thunder—or a truck muffler—or maybe just her imagination.
Her body tensed.
Slowly, carefully, she unfurled her legs, grimacing at the stiff pull of muscles that had been cross-legged too long.
She slid off the couch, toes curling into the worn rug, and crouched low.
Her hand reached blindly under the couch cushion until her fingers brushed against cold metal.
The small pistol her grandmother had insisted she keep there.
Not her idea.
Never her idea.
She hated guns. It was heavy when she pulled it free, the weight alien and wrong in her palm.
Her chest tightened. She’d never fired it, not once.
She doubted she could even aim it straight, let alone pull the trigger.
If someone broke in, she’d be more likely to drop it and sob pathetically than to play hero.
Maybe she’d beg them not to take her yarn stash.
Maybe even offer them cookies if they’d just go away.
Her breath came shallow, shaky. She strained her ears. Nothing. The roar was gone, and what followed was silence. A silence so absolute she could hear the tick of the clock on the far wall.
With trembling fingers, Nettie shoved the gun back under the couch where it belonged. Safe and out of her reach. She wasn’t a gun person. She was… well, a hide-in-the-linen-closet-with-her-teddy-bear type of person.
Creeping toward the front door, she pressed her back to the wall and moved in awkward bursts, like a child playing hide-and-seek, and convinced her enemy couldn’t see her if she moved slow enough.
Her heart pounded in her ears. She edged to the window and carefully pulled at the curtain sheers just enough to peer outside.
Her breath snagged.
Nothing.
No masked intruder. No shadowy figure lurking in the hedges.
Just… a bag?
A brown paper bag, sitting square in the middle of her welcome mat. Ordinary— except for the bow tied neatly to one of the handles. A bright pink and cheerful bow that looked so out of place in the fluorescent porch light at nine at night.
Her mouth dropped open.
Startled, she hesitated, wondering if this was some sort of sick and twisted joke. Maybe the bag was on fire and she just couldn’t see it yet? That would be her luck, someone would deposit a flaming bag of dog poo onto her porch after everything… and wait.
Nothing.
She waited – and watched.
No smoke, no sirens, no flames— zilch. No suspicious rustling.
The bag just sat there, smug and silent.
The street beyond her yard was empty. The occasional lamppost buzzed faintly, but no cars cruised past, no neighbors walked their dogs.
The entire block looked asleep, wrapped in shadows as the world faded away for an evening to rest before greeting the dawn.
Her eyes darted to the clock. Too late for solicitors. Too early for drunk pranksters.
Slowly, Nettie reached for the deadbolt and turned it. Metal scraped against metal, a sound far too loud in the silence. She hesitated, every instinct screaming she was about to be tackled the second the door opened.
She cracked it.
Still nothing.
The night air drifted in, carrying with it the faint scent of cut grass and remnants of a distant barbecue. She held her breath, bracing. The bag hadn’t moved – but did she expect it to?
She could almost hear the news report already.
Local woman meets tragic end in bizarre gift-bag bombing. Neighbors describe her as quiet. Shy. The kind of woman who really should have known better, but alas had a heckuva stupid moment...
Except they would be more eloquent, naturally.
She hoped.
Grimacing, she pushed the door wider and stepped out onto the porch. The wooden planks creaked beneath her bare feet.
“Hello?” Her voice was soft, hesitant. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder.
“Hello?” Her fingers paused over the twine handles, almost like her hands were second-guessing herself too – and lifted it, closing her eyes against the potential blast, the bottom breaking out, the incendiary dog poo, whatever.
She waited, cracking one eye, and braced herself… for nothing.
It was just a bag.
A brown craft paper bag that had a little something inside that wasn’t very heavy. As she lifted it closer, her heart skipped a beat wildly as her brain said, ‘Don’t! It’s not for you!’… and she plucked open the handles, the staple giving immediately.
And held her breath.
Peering slowly inside, she hesitated, angled her head to the side in confusion and looked up, glancing down the street as she took in the pale skeins of angora wool yarn inside the bag.
The fuzzy skeins were practically glowing with almost a fairy-like luminescence as they sparkled from the fragile silver threads shot through the pale pink yarn, and then saw the note.
Her breath caught as she touched the small envelope and slid it open, bracing herself as she expected to see someone else's name on the card. As she pulled it free, her throat worked, words failed her, as she stared at the heavy script on the paper trembling in her hand.
Impress me again – Tate
Mind spinning, knees sagging, Nettie braced a hand on the door frame as she stared to the left, in the direction of his parents’ house before turning to the right, curious if she would see taillights in the distance.
Had he dropped this off on his way there, or on the way leaving from their place? And why? This meant that he’d gone back to the store after running into her, had picked it out based on what she’d told him, and put thought into this gift— for her.
Wait – did he go back?
Or had she interrupted him shopping for her secretly?
Her fingers touched the fragile and expensive yarn, almost in a wistful caress, and hesitated. There, on the side, was the mangled skein he’d had in his hand. He’d gone back and purchased it - along with three others – for her.
Walking slowly inside, she collapsed on the couch in her spot, holding the skeins in her trembling hands as she tried to put this together.
Why in the world would Tate have done this?