“You’re allowed to bring those needles on a plane?”
“Yep. They’re fine with crochet hooks, especially the plastic ones. We do it all the time. A couple of the other guys on the team started making these, too. Now we all do it when we have long bus or plane rides. We hand them out to kids in the crowd when we do community events.”
I’d assumed the first one I saw was a gift from a fan, but now I can picture a bus full of ball players surrounded by yarn, happily stitching silly faces onto their crocheted baseballs. Whatever was left of my annoyance melts away as a huge smile breaks out on my face. “Okay, I love this. It might be the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
Jordan chuckles. “Here, you can have this one.” He hands me a baseball with pink stitching and eyelashes meant to rival a Hollywood starlet. There are tiny red hearts stitched on the cheeks to look like blush.
“Thank you.” I take the gift and squeeze it lightly, another layer of my stress lifting. When I look at him again, Jordan’s finally wearing his genuine friendship smile.
“Do you want me to show you how to make one?” he asks. “Fun fact: Crocheting also lowers cortisol. And you seem a little stressed. It might be a good distraction until we land?”
“What exactly makes you think I need a distraction?”
He only raises his eyebrows and gives me a knowing look in response. Guess I’m not hiding my nerves as well as I hoped.
“Fine. I’m not the best flyer. So, yes. Please.” I nod and he takes another hook from the bag, untangling it from some loose strands of yarn. His hand brushes mine as he gives me the supplies, and a familiar tingle runs up my spine. I swallow and try to ignore it as I say, “Thanks” one more time.
Jordan shows me how to start a row and briefly explains the stitch I need. After a few practice tries, I start to get the hang of it and follow his lead to continue my stitches into a row. Having something to focus on lessens the tension and makes it a bit easier to breathe the thin, recirculating cabin air.
“Do you know how to make anything else?” I ask out of curiosity, looping the yarn around my hook like he taught me. My project is looking pretty pathetic so far, hanging limp in my hand with uneven spaces between the stitches. I don’t see a world in which this mess of knots is going to turn into one of those cute little smiling baseballs, but I’m still grateful to have something to do with my hands, and for the excuse to avoid eye contact while we talk.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I only learned one stitch so I could make these. I guess this pattern could be a tennis ball too, if we change the color of the yarn.” He turns to me, and I’m grateful to see him looking happy again. “We could probably make a potholder. Do you want to try that?”
“Nah. I won’t get any use out of a potholder. Not a big cook over here, remember?”
“I do remember,” he says, letting his voice soften enough to feel like a hug before he clears his throat. “Let me show you how to make a baseball.”
I follow his lead. With my hands occupied, I’m finally comfortable enough to tell him, “I have some news. They’re doing repair work on my graduate housing, so I’ll be in NorthBay for the summer. I’m renting an apartment in your building. But I’m not stalking you, I promise.”
“Sounds like something a stalker would say,” he teases. Then he adds, “Mike already told me, but thanks for the heads-up.”
For the remainder of the flight, we work on our projects. Hours pass, but I’m so absorbed in the task that I’m surprised to hear the announcement when we’re descending and need to put away our belongings. My fingers brush against his again, and the familiar heat runs through me at the contact as I hand back the yarn and hook.
“That was fun.”
It’s true, and I’m surprised I’ve been able to enjoy myself as much as I have while we are hurdling through the atmosphere at unnatural speeds.
“It was. And, hey, we’re good, right? I know we left things a little awkward the last time we talked.”
“Yeah. We’re good.” I nod.
Jordan zips everything back into his backpack and pushes it under the seat in front of him again. Then he leans back into his own chair and turns his head to face me.
His eyes crinkle at the corners when he offers me another real smile and turns his palm up on the armrest in a silent offer to hold my hand for the landing. I link my fingers through his, grateful for the gesture, and hold my new blushing baseball gift tightly in my other hand while I try not to squeeze Jordan too hard or dig my nails into him as the engines get louder.
When I flinch at a clunking sound, he drops his shoulder and leans toward me until our upper arms are touching. His lips are so close I feel his warm breath against my cheek when he whispers, “That was just the landing gear. We’re okay.”
I nod and swallow, but I must not look convincingly calm yet, because his other hand comes down to cover where we’realready joined. His thumb traces small circles over my knuckle, and every cell in my body redirects its attention to that tiny point of contact.
Who could form a single coherent thought when Jordan Wagner is casually stroking their skin in this minuscule interaction that probably means nothing to him, yet means everything to me? Because, just like in the hotel room, I know he sees. I don’t have to say anything. Jordan can read me effortlessly. It’s like my soul was written in a language he speaks fluently, even though it’s indecipherable to everyone else on the planet. With him I don’t feel strange, or out of place, or like I’m too much. I can just…feel. I feel so much it’s overwhelming and causes me to pull my hand away.
As soon as I lose the contact, I wish I had it back, but Jordan seems unfazed as he looks toward the window.
“All the farmland sort of looks like a big quilt from up here,” he muses. “Are you excited to be home?”
“Sure.” I nod because I see what he means. Large patches of land are plowed into straight, rectangular patches for crops, and they’re harvested at different times, so some areas are green, while others are yellow or brown. From our overhead view, they really do look like squares in a patchwork quilt. For a minute my mind wanders to the old blankets my mom keeps draped over the chairs in our living room.
As crazy as my family can be, I miss them, and I’m excited to see them all again. I know it hasn’t been long since we all saw each other at the wedding, but it’s different on home turf. I want to hang out with my sisters in our own space, eat Mom’s pancakes for breakfast, and relax under my tree in the backyard.
