Chapter Seventeen
RONAN
Present Day
NEW YORK CITY
Everyone else’s favorite day was either Christmas, Thanksgiving, or their birthday, but mine was different.
My favorite day was today—May twenty-fifth.
Nina’s birthday. It was the one day each year when I’d have Rachel clear my schedule, and I’d spend the day at home crocheting.
I could almost feel her beside me, fingers deftly twisting yarn into shapes only she could see before they became real.
In a way, crocheting on her birthday kept her close, even if it was the memory of her laughter or the soft touch of yarn in my hands.
I tried my best, always succeeding in never missing her birthday, Christmas, or any holiday.
I made sure her flowers were delivered for her birthday, and if she had a milestone—one Avo never failed to tell me about—I made sure something special was sent.
Every Christmas, I saw to it she received her fruit cupcakes because she couldn’t stand a whole fruitcake.
I walked into the storage room and pulled out the box with her name carefully scrawled on top.
Inside were bits and pieces of a past I’d pieced together through fingers fumbling over yarn, a time when I hadn’t known a damn thing about crocheting but had signed up for a class anyway.
It was one of the only ways I could connect with her then, even if I’d only ever managed to send flowers or chocolate cake instead.
I wasn’t sure why, but sending her what I made felt more vulnerable than I could ever admit.
So each creation stayed here, gathering quiet memories like dust.
My first attempt? A pair of earmuffs. She always had cold ears in the winter, even with her thick, dark hair covering them.
I’d dropped stitches, lost count, started over more times than I cared to remember, but finally finished them.
She’d never get to wear them, but they were here, a reminder of the patience she’d unknowingly taught me.
Next was a pink scarf. She’d always been a “pink girl,” soft and warm in ways I’d never quite managed myself.
Then came the gloves. I’d gone for winter white, her favorite, but an entire spool ended up dunked in my scotch one morning, staining it a splotchy amber.
If she were there, she would have laughed and said they had “character.” So, I left them as they were.
The unfinished sweater was next. Needles still stuck in the fabric, waiting for hands that wouldn’t pick them up again.
That was the one piece I’d never managed to see through.
Maybe it was the thought of her wrapping herself in something I’d made, or perhaps it was because my stitches weren’t good enough for her, never quite even, never quite right. Never quite perfect as she was.
Then there were the smaller things, the ones that came with practice.
I’d made her a sunflower, one of her spring favorites, with petals curling up as if they’d been sun-soaked.
There was a small pillow shaped like a heart I thought she could use on her favorite sewing chair, and a bookmark for the fashion books she loved, always left open on the nightstand.
A simple headband came last, though it took me three tries to get the thickness right.
Now, here I was, on her birthday, with fresh supplies, a video tutorial playing softly in the background, and determination that this year, I’d do it. I’d make or attempt to make her something new: twenty-nine crocheted peonies, each petal sewn with the love I’d never been able to say.
But today was for her, so I picked up the needle, took a breath, and began.
It was her twenty-ninth birthday, and this year, I had settled for my usual—I’d sent flowers and a tres leches cake—the one from her favorite bakery, the kind she always saved for special occasions.
My phone buzzed on the table, and I leaned back, setting the yarn down as Rachel’s name lit up the screen. I answered, already knowing why she was calling.
“The flowers and the cake have been delivered,” Rachel said, her voice efficient but gentle, aware of the significance. “Anonymously, as you asked.”
I took a steady breath, the weight in my chest loosening enough. “Thanks, Rachel. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome. If you need anything else… well, you know where to find me.”
“I’ll be fine,” I replied softly, though I knew she’d keep her phone close, just in case.
I hung up, staring at my hands, marked by the tension of yarn and needle. I almost laughed at myself—so invested in something I’d been too afraid to send. Maybe this year I would, maybe I wouldn’t. I wasn’t sure yet, but each stitch brought her a little closer, and that was enough for now.
As I started another petal, a soft knock at the door startled me. Setting the yarn down, I pushed up my glasses and opened it to find Mikkel standing there.
Standing there, as composed as ever in a neat white shirt and matching linen, Mikkel exuded calm with his honey-brown eyes and smile that made you feel at ease without a word.
He’d always been the sweetest of us, the steady one whose presence spoke louder than the flashy displays our group was known for.
His company, Elite Rides, was expanding into every major city, but Mikkel was the kind of billionaire who kept a low profile—a man of few words and genuine kindness. Even his knock had been gentle, almost like he was checking if he could intrude.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, holding up a small gift bag.
He stepped in, his gaze lingering on the glass of wine, the half-melted ice cream, and the set of peony petals I’d already completed. He looked back at me, a slight frown creasing his usually calm features.
“I tried calling, but you didn’t pick up.” He set down the gift bag. “Thought I’d better check on you myself.”
“Sorry.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Just took the day off.”
Mikkel gave me a knowing look, one brow raised. “Ronan, you don’t take days off.”
I almost laughed. He was right. I was always at work, whether in the office or the hospital. “I make an exception once a year.”
He nodded slowly. “I stopped by your office before coming here. Rachel filled me in. She said you take the day every year.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, clearing my throat as he took a seat, glancing around at the yarn and supplies scattered on the table. “It’s a tradition.”
He watched me for a moment, and I could tell he was picking his words carefully. “So, this is what you do every year on her birthday?”
“Every year.”
He glanced at the nearly finished petals of the peonies. “You make these for her?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, fingers grazing over the delicate, unfinished flowers. “Never sent a single one. Just kept them. Don’t know if I ever planned to give them to her.”
Mikkel looked thoughtful, leaning back in his chair. “And the cake and flowers you send every year… anonymously?”
I nodded. “Always.”
“So, how are you holding up, really?”
“I’m good,” I said, a bit too quickly. Mikkel gave me a look that said he wasn’t buying it, so I sighed. “Alright, maybe not great. But I’ll be okay.”
He took that in, his brow furrowing. “How was seeing her?”
I shook my head. “As good as you’d expect. I don’t think our memories will be enough.”
“But memories don’t fade, do they?” Mikkel pointed out. “Not if they’re tied to someone that deeply.”
I swallowed, glancing down at the deep burgundy and dark purple yarn and the half-done flowers.
We sat there for a moment, the silence settling, until Mikkel broke it gently. “If you ever want someone to join you for this tradition, you know where to find me,” he said, his voice warm. “I mean it, Ronan. You don’t have to go through it all alone.”
I looked over at Mikkel, half-smiling. “You’d sit here and do this with me? Watch me fumble through yarn and stitches all night?”
He shrugged, laughing a little. “I’d keep you company. Crocheting is not my thing,” he admitted, the laugh growing. “But I can be here to make sure you don’t stab yourself with the needle or end up tying yourself in knots. The medical field needs you.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “That’s a fair job to take on.”
“Look, Ronan,” he began, voice softened. “I get it. The flowers, the peonies, and the cake every year. This all means something to you. But take it up a notch.”
“Meaning?”
“Send them,” he said. “Let her see them.”
I took in his words, letting them settle. “We’ll see,” I finally replied, the resolve I’d been missing taking root as I spoke.
She wasn’t worth letting go, and neither was this tradition.