Epilogue
Flick
The late afternoon sun catches the blue and purple skeins as I hang them on the drying racks, transforming them into something that looks almost edible—like cotton candy spun from twilight.
My hands protest the repetitive motion, joints still tender from the flare that knocked me sideways earlier this week.
But there’s satisfaction in seeing a day’s work displayed like this, each skein a small victory.
“All done for today.” I step back, wiping my hands on my apron.
Cat doesn’t acknowledge me from her perch on the windowsill. She’s too busy tracking the chickadees at the feeder, her tail twitching with predatory interest. The way the light hits her gray fur reminds me of pewter, of storm clouds, of all the shades I’ve been trying to capture in wool.
I navigate around the drying rack and scratch behind her ear. She leans into my touch, purring like a tiny motor that needs a tune-up.
“Ready for your walk?”
The drawer sticks when I pull it open—humidity from the dye pots, probably. But the jingle of her harness is all Cat needs to hear. She launches off the windowsill with the grace of a furry missile, already circling my ankles.
Who would’ve thought? My former street cat has become a leash enthusiast. Maybe that’s what drove her to escape through my bathroom window that night. Maybe that’s why I found her under that bush in the first place—she was an explorer trapped in a survivor’s body.
The first walk was a disaster. She’d sprawled on the sidewalk like a dramatic starfish, refusing to budge.
Twenty walks later, she was still treating the leash like a particularly interesting toy.
But somewhere between attempt thirty and forty, something clicked.
Now these walks are the highlight of our day—well, one of them.
My fingers fumble with the harness buckles. The cold snap we’ve been having has my joints staging a rebellion, making simple tasks feel like I’m working through molasses. But the pericarditis is gone. That’s what matters. The inflammation around my heart has finally, blessedly, resolved.
For now , my doctor likes to remind me. These things can recur.
I push that thought away, focusing on threading the buckle. Can’t control everything. But I can control this moment, this walk, this day.
“Hold still, you wiggle worm.” Cat’s practically vibrating with anticipation.
The flares still come—this last one had me curled on the couch for three days straight.
But there are compensations. Sebastian’s homemade edibles that actually taste good.
Movie marathons with him and Cat sprawled across us like a living blanket.
Those ridiculous heated gloves he bought me that make me look like a cartoon character but feel like heaven.
And between flares? There’s my weekly therapy appointment with Dr. Martinez, who doesn’t let me get away with deflection. Morning walks when my body cooperates. Real conversations with Hannah that don’t involve me dancing around the truth.
The therapy is hard. Some days I want to quit, to go back to my comfortable isolation.
But I’m seeing changes. Hannah and I grab coffee twice a week now, and I actually tell her things.
Real things. Sebastian and I have had conversations that would’ve sent me running six months ago, and I’ve stayed. Sat with the discomfort. Let it pass.
The people in your life are there because they want to be , Dr. Martinez keeps telling me. Let them.
So I’m trying.
The harness finally cooperates, and I clip on Cat’s leash—pale blue with little fish printed on it, because Sebastian has no chill when it comes to pet accessories.
I’ve cut back on everything. My Knit Happens shifts are down to twice a week.
Custom orders are by appointment only. My streaming schedule is whenever I feel like it, not the rigid timetable I used to maintain.
The bank account has noticed, but my body has too.
The pericarditis resolved two months after I slowed down.
Coincidence? Maybe. But I’m not willing to test it.
Success looks different now. Smaller. Quieter. But it’s mine.
“Ready?” I open the door to autumn sunshine that makes me squint.
We’ve barely made it three steps before Sebastian’s car pulls up. My stomach does that flutter thing it still does every time I see him. Eight months together, and that hasn’t faded.
He unfolds from the driver’s seat, all long limbs and that crooked smile that undoes me.
Before I can say anything, his hands are framing my face and his mouth is on mine.
Right there on the sidewalk, where Mrs. Patterson can see from her window and will definitely report to the Pine Island gossip network.
I don’t care.
“Hi,” I breathe when we finally separate.
His hands slide to my waist, keeping me close.
We have plans tonight—dinner at my place, because we always end up at my place.
Cat has made her preferences clear. The few times we’ve tried staying at Sebastian’s, she spent the entire night yowling at the door.
She’s a homebody, my girl. Her condo, her street, her rules.
“Taking Cat for her daily walk, I see.”
“That’s the plan.” I glance down where Cat has already abandoned said plan, stretched out in a patch of sun on the grass, eyes closed in feline bliss. “Or not.”
His thumb traces circles on my hip through my sweater. “I was thinking about ordering from China Garden. And I want to finish that bird I’m crocheting for her.”
“That’s sweet.” I bite back a laugh because his ‘bird’ looks more like a lumpy potato with wings. But Cat will love it anyway—she loves everything Sebastian makes for her, even the catnip mouse that resembled a diseased banana.
It’s endearing, watching him learn to crochet. His big hands that can perform delicate surgery struggling with a size G hook. He’s terrible at it, but he keeps trying. Last week he presented me with a lopsided pot holder that I’ll treasure forever.
He pulls me closer, and his lips find that spot where my neck meets my shoulder. For a moment, the world narrows to just this—his warmth, his scent, the way my whole body leans into him like a plant toward sun.
“Should I get your usual?” His breath tickles my ear.
“Mm-hmm.” I’m already imagining us inside, curtains drawn, the afternoon dissolving into evening...
Cat chooses that moment to remember she has legs. She tugs on the leash, impatient now that she’s decided walking is back on the agenda.
“Duty calls.” I reluctantly step back from Sebastian’s embrace.
His hands trail down my arms before letting go completely. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
The words are simple, but something in his tone makes them feel bigger. A promise. A certainty.
“I know.” My voice comes out softer than intended.
And I do know. He’ll be here in my little condo with its too-small kitchen and temperamental hot water heater. He’ll be sprawled on my couch that’s covered in cat hair no amount of lint rolling can conquer. He’ll be here tonight, tomorrow, next week.
Someday we’ll have a house. We’ve started looking, casually, at places with room for a proper dye studio and Sebastian’s home office. Somewhere with a yard for Cat to supervise from the window. Nothing fancy—just ours.
But for now, this is enough. More than enough.
He’ll be here. Always.
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Thank you for reading WE CAN STAY. The Silent Journey series continues with Alexis and Noah’s passionate story in WE CAN DO.