I stare at those words until my eyes burn. She’s hurting too. Every instinct screams to text back, to call, to show up at her door with solutions and promises.
But for once, I don’t.
Instead, I do what she asked. I give her space.
And in that space, maybe I’ll finally figure out how to be the man she deserves—not the one who fixes everything, but the one who knows how to simply be present.
Even if it’s too late.
CHAPTER 24
Flick
My feet drag across the sidewalk like they’re weighted with yarn-soaked wool. The familiar storefront of Knit Happens looms before me, its cheerful window display of autumn-colored skeins mocking my mood. I reach for the doorknob and freeze.
Is this something I really want to do? See people? Expose myself when I feel like I’m being held together with cheap glue and Scotch tape?
One hard wind, and I’ll fly into pieces. The kind that can’t be put back together.
The late afternoon sun warms my back, but I’m cold all the way through. My chest aches—not from the pericarditis this time, but from the gaping hole where Sebastian used to be. I press my palm against my sternum, willing the pain to ease.
Maybe I should just turn around, get back in my car, and drive home. The couch and a carton of ice cream are looking really good right about now. I could lose myself in dyeing, let the colors bleed together until everything else fades away.
But I also know that won’t help—not really. The Band-Aids I put on my wounds will fall off soon enough, and I’ll be just as down as before, my life crumbling to pieces around me.
So, I might as well keep going. Because what else am I going to do?
Taking a breath that catches halfway, I open the door. The bell chimes overhead, too cheerful for my mood. The rest of the Chronic Pain Crafters are already gathered in their circle on plump cushions, wool and needles in various stages of progress. I’m fifteen minutes late.
The shop smells like lavender sachets and the faint mustiness of wool—usually comforting, now just another reminder of everything that’s shifted in my world.
“Hey.” Maya looks up from her intricate lace pattern, concern flickering across her features.
“Sorry I’m late.” My voice comes out rough, like I’ve been gargling gravel. “I was finishing up work.”
It’s not entirely a lie. I did spend an hour staring at undyed skeins, my hands too shaky to trust with the dye pots. Even with the steroids supposedly helping, my joints screamed every time I tried to lift the heavy water-filled vessels.
“How is the latest dye lot going?” Devin’s crochet hooks pause mid-stitch.
Maybe it’s the mention of work. Or the way she looks at me, so innocently, so unaware of the hell I’ve been sludging through. Whatever the reason, I crack.
The sob erupts before I can stop it, raw and ugly. Within two seconds, I’m crying properly, shoulders shaking, tears streaming down my face and probably ruining the mascara I’d carefully applied to look human. The girls stare in shock for a moment, needles and hooks frozen mid-air.
Then they’re around me, a warm circle of understanding.
“I’m okay.” I frantically swipe at my cheeks, mascara definitely smearing now. “I’m okay.”
“You’re clearly not.” Alexis produces a box of tissues from somewhere—the good kind with lotion. “And it’s fine that you’re not.”
I dab at my eyes, trying to stuff the rest of my pain deep down where it belongs. But it’s like trying to untangle laceweight that’s been through the wash—the more I pull, the worse it gets.
“It’s stress. There’s so much going on, you know?” My voice wobbles dangerously.
Hannah’s gaze finds mine across the circle, and her silence speaks volumes. She knows I’m lying. She’s always been able to see through my deflections, even when I desperately wish she couldn’t.
The weight of her knowing is too much. I sigh, shoulders dropping. “It’s not just that. I ended things with Sebastian.”
Devin’s gasp is audible.
