I was alone in the parking lot, the cold seeping through my jacket, with the Sleeping Giant visible across the bay.
My phone buzzed.
Hog:Jake says you're not terrible. That's high praise btw.
Hog:Also Pickle wants your number. Something about dead raccoons?
I climbed into my truck and sat there with the engine running and the heater starting to push warm air through the vents.
Not terrible.
It wasn't acceptance—not even close. But it was a start. A crack in the door. Permission to keep showing up, keep trying, and keep earning my way in.
And next week, Hog would meet Sloane. My sister. She'd been asking about him since New Year's, and she'd want to know if I was serious, if this was real, and if I was finally letting myself want something that scared me.
Chapter thirteen
Hog
Idropped a stitch.
Again.
Edith Murillo caught it before I did—her needles pausing mid-row, eyes sharp behind reading glasses. "Connor, that's the third time tonight. What's got you so distracted you're knitting like a beginner?"
"Nothing." I grabbed my crochet hook and started fishing for the dropped stitch.
"Nothing," Edith repeated, flat as the gray sky outside Margaret's shop windows. "Your grandmother would've had words about lying to your elders."
Gram would've had words about a lot of things. Like how I'd spent the last two hours teaching a decrease stitch I could do in my sleep while Margaret's offer looped through my head on repeat.
Teaching classes. Co-ownership. A future that wouldn't end when my body gives out.
The radiator hissed in the corner, filling the shop with the smell of hot metal and wool. Outside, snow pressed against the windows—fat flakes that caught the streetlights.
Linda Simmons packed up her project bag across the circle. "Leave the boy alone, Edith. He's allowed to be distracted. Probably thinking about his new boyfriend."
"Rhett Mason," Margaret said from her chair by the register. "He's great at fixing things."
"And our Hog's been spending a lot of time getting things... fixed," Linda said, waggling her eyebrows.
My ears burned. "Can we not—"
"We absolutely can," Edith said. She set down her needles and looked at me directly. "But that's not what's got you dropping stitches. You've been distracted all night, and not in the good way."
Everyone was listening now—pretending not to, but listening.
"Margaret offered me teaching gigs. Regular classes. Maybe taking over the shop someday."
Silence.
Then Edith smiled—slow and satisfied like she'd been waiting for this. "About damn time."
"You knew?"
"Honey, we all knew." Linda stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Margaret's been planning this for months. This was your grandmother's wish."
My throat tightened. I was twenty-two again, sitting in a hospital room while Gram's hands shook too much to hold the needles anymore.
