3. Flick
Flick
“You stay here. Got it?”
The kitten blinks up at me with her big blue eyes. “Me-ooh.”
“Play with your toys.” I pick up one of the crinkly, sparkly balls that were in the bag Sebastian gave me and toss it deeper into my bedroom. She chases after it, and I take the opportunity to close the door and hurry away.
I feel a little bad leaving her in the bedroom all by herself, but I have a new dye order to finish, and she’ll just be in the way if I keep her with me in the kitchen. As I walk down the staircase, though, she starts meowing loudly.
So, I walk faster. Even though there’s guilt winding through me and I’m half considering taking my cat and?—
No. She’s not my cat. She’s a cat. I’m only temporarily keeping her. Though it was pretty nice having her sleep on my bed last night. Her little purring noise was surprisingly soothing.
I had made her a spot in the corner of the room in her own little bed, but I guess she was lonely or scared, because she kept climbing the comforter onto my bed. By the third time, I gave up and let her stay. She snuggled in and made her own little bed next to me and went right to sleep.
The way she curled up, trusting and vulnerable, reminded me of something I can’t quite place. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve let anyone get that close. Five years, to be exact. Five years since David proved that trust was just another word for stupid.
I didn’t get as much done yesterday as I would have liked.
Between the unexpected vet visit and the kitten interrupting my day, I got a little behind.
I felt guilty just bringing Cat home and dumping her in a new place.
I was also worried about everything she could get into, so I had to spend some time moving stuff around to make it more pet-friendly.
My phone buzzes as I reach the kitchen. Another notification from my Twitch channel.
I’ve been getting more followers lately, which should make me happy.
This one, though—@WatchingYouCraft—joined at 2:47 AM and has already liked every video from the past two months.
My stomach does a little flip. Probably just an insomniac crafter. We’re a common breed.
Shaking my head, I get to work dyeing. I’ve had an uptick in orders lately, mostly through my Etsy storefront, and even though I’ve been working every day, I have nothing to complain about. It’s not the dream job I envisioned while growing up—designing video games—it’s even better.
Supplies arranged and wool ready to go, I lower the first skein into the cotton-candy pink bath, watching the white wool transform. There’s something meditative about the way color bleeds into fiber, how something plain becomes extraordinary with patience and the right touch.
It’s kind of crazy. Five years ago, working for a storytelling app in New York City, I never would have imagined moving to a sleepy island in Maine and spending my days dyeing yarn in my condo.
But then I walked into that yarn shop in Chelsea, and everything changed. When I met a yarn dyer for the first time, it was like something finally clicked. I saw my destiny laid out in front of me, a colorful road paved with wool and acrylic.
That day feels like a lifetime ago. I’d just discovered David with Melissa from accounting, their guilty faces burned into my memory. The yarn shop had been my escape route, a random turn to avoid going back to our apartment. Funny how the worst day of my life led me to my passion.
Yes, it’s a road made from textiles, which might seem insignificant to lots of people. For me, though, it’s my purpose. The thing that brings me calm and peace in the middle of the storm, in the middle of the uncertainty.
And boy, have I had a lot of uncertainty the last five years.
My hands already ache from the cold water, that familiar burn in my knuckles that’s been my constant companion.
I rotate the skein, ensuring even coverage, trying to ignore how stiff my fingers feel.
The YouTube comments on my last video mentioned how “graceful” my hands looked.
If they only knew the price of that grace.
Finished dyeing the wool yarn in various cotton-candy shades, I hang it all up to dry and wipe my hands. The kitten has been suspiciously quiet this whole time, so I walk back up the stairs and open my bedroom door.
And there she is—Cat—sleeping on a tangled mess of yarn like it’s the cover photo for a calendar featuring cute kittens.
My shoulders drop. “Shit.” I forgot all about the basket of chenille yarn under my bedside table!
The morning light catches on the mess, revealing the full extent of the damage. Soft green chenille twisted with buttery yellow, a custom order due by Friday. Hours of work, tangled beyond recognition.
And now I’ll have to wind the yarn back into skeins, which will take forever, and isn’t something my hands, dyed pink and aching from the cold water I used, are looking forward to.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I mutter to the kitten, for maybe the hundredth time since finding her under the bush.
I go to relocate her so I can get to work, but the doorbell rings, making me freeze. Wait a second… What time is it? Is Sebastian already here? He called earlier and verified it was still okay to stop by after work and bring the rest of the cat stuff.
My pulse picks up speed. Why am I nervous? It’s just the vet bringing cat supplies. Nothing more. The fact that I changed shirts three times this morning means nothing.
The bedside clock says five till six. The afternoon has flown by, and I’m a mess, dressed in a stained pair of overalls, my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and my living room covered in laundry waiting to be folded.
I was hoping I’d have a little more time to get myself together before he got here.
So much for the put-together yarn artist image. He’s about to see the reality—chaos barely contained.
“Damn it.” Sighing, I pick up Cat in one hand while stuffing the yarn back where it belongs with the other, and I carry her and the basket downstairs. My pulse quickens as I reach the door, memories of Sebastian’s sexy smile and his bright gaze making me walk faster.
I check through the peephole first—a habit from the city I’ve never shaken. It’s him, shifting his weight from foot to foot, checking his phone. Even nervous, he looks good. Too good.
I open the door, and there he is, the tall, fine piece of work I remember. “Hi,” I breathe.
“Hey.” His eyes go to the kitten and the basket. “Looks like she’s already causing mischief.” His gaze drops and lingers on my hands.
There’s something in the way he notices details—not judging, just observing. Like he’s cataloging information to understand better. It’s unsettling and comforting at the same time.
“It’s dye,” I explain. “Come on in.” I step back and prop the door open with my hip so he can enter.
“Right. I should have known that.” He walks past me, toting a cat carrier filled with supplies, and I catch a whiff of his cologne—cedar and vanilla. Mm, nice.
Nothing like David’s aggressive body spray that announced his presence three rooms away. Sebastian’s scent is subtle, something you have to be close to notice. Dangerous.
“Sorry about the chaos. Time got away from me,” I say, trying to collect myself and play it cool as I shut the door. “And I found Cat tangled up in yarn I forgot to put away in my bedroom.”
He chuckles. “It is her nature. Where would you like me to put these things?”
“In the kitchen is good. Thanks for bringing them by.” I lead him into the kitchen, where I put down the basket of yarn and grab the stool I was sitting on while dyeing.
As I move it out of the way, though, pain shoots through my hand. It’s impossible to hide my wince.
“What’s wrong?” Sebastian puts the carrier on the floor.
“Oh. It’s…”
Damn it. I usually avoid this explanation if at all possible. Especially when it comes to men I’m dating—or hope to date—I find it’s unnecessary.
The last guy I told about my RA ghosted me after googling “rheumatoid arthritis prognosis.” I found his search history on my laptop. Men hear “chronic illness” and see complications, not a person.
But he’s asked…and I don’t like to lie…and I might as well get it over with.
“It’s rheumatoid arthritis,” I say, forcing myself to look at him. “It’s chronic. I just had my hands in cold water to dye the yarn, and that can make it flare up. No big deal, though. Heat and CBD help.”
I search for a joke to add like I usually do, but I can’t find one. Instead, there’s just a heavy feeling in my stomach.
It used to be easy to give the spiel and move on, but since that doctor’s appointment last month, things have been different. It hasn’t been on my mind too much, but whenever I remember the sudden chest pain, followed by the pericarditis diagnosis, I feel as if I might faint.
The inflammation in my heart, a result of the chronic disease, had me taking two weeks off work—which is the last thing I have time or money for.
Unfortunately, it was a reminder that no matter how well I take care of myself, I can’t really control my health.
The clock is ticking. My cartilage and bones are taking bigger hits every year.
I’m on and off medicine that I almost always react badly to. Customers don’t wait. Bills don’t wait.
And life is zipping by. I haven’t done a fraction of the things I want to, and merely thinking about it is enough to cause a panic attack.
“I’m sorry,” Sebastian says. “What can I do to help?”
The words stop me cold. Not “That must be hard” or “My aunt has that” or any of the usual responses that make me feel like a medical curiosity. Just a simple offer of help.
“Oh. Uh.” I stumble over my words, taken aback by the sudden kindness. “Nothing, thank you. It’s fine.”
“How about I take care of this?” He picks up the yarn basket. “I’ll wind it back together.”
I arch an eyebrow. “It might take hours. It has to be untangled and then rewound.”