Hog:Night. Dream about me.
Rhett:Already am.
I smiled, grabbed ice from the freezer, and pressed it against my ribs. The cold bit through my shirt, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath.
I pulled out my grandmother's project bag and found soft green yarn. Cast on stitches, counting under my breath. Thirty-two. My ribs complained when I shifted position on the couch, but the rhythm of the needles helped. In, around, through, off.
My phone buzzed.
Jake:Pickle says you were at youth practice with Rhett. You teaching kids to knit?
Hog:Jeremy wants lessons next time.
Jake:Adorable. But how'd it go with Rhett?
Hog:Good until my ribs said no.
Jake:Ah fuck. You spiral yet?
Hog:Working on it
Jake:Don't. He's into you. I saw it at dinner. Stop inventing problems and go to sleep.
I set the phone down. Picked up my needles.
I kept knitting—in, around, through, off—until my hands stopped shaking.
My phone buzzed again.
Rhett:You okay?
Hog:Iced them. Knitting now
Rhett:I knew what I was getting into when I invited you to practice. You didn't surprise me by being you.
I stared at the screen.
Hog:Go to sleep. One of us should
Rhett:You too
Hog:You know I'm gonna knit for another hour.
Rhett:I know. But I'm asking anyway.
I set the phone down. Fixed a dropped stitch and kept going until the green yarn started looking like a turtle. Or maybe a dinosaur. Jeremy could decide.
Outside, someone's car alarm went off. The upstairs neighbor's TV was too loud—a hockey game, someone scored, and the apartment shook with stamping feet.
My ribs throbbed in time with my pulse.
I fell asleep on the couch with the half-finished turtle-dinosaur in my lap, the ice pack melted into a wet spot on my shirt, and the phone still showing Rhett's last message.
For once, the spiral didn't win.
Chapter eight
Rhett
