That’s not how Oliver approaches this. Quite the opposite. Even though he clearly knows the yarn aisle is at the back, we zigzag through nearly the entire store while he points to different items. None of them is for crocheting.
When we reach the back of the store, I’m overwhelmed by choices. I knew yarn came in a lot of colors, but apparently, there are types. Everything from tiny thin strands that are for babies—that’s what it says on the package—and big thick wool that cannot possibly be useful for anything.
This is payback for the running store. I’m sure of it. On the way home, he’d been a bit off. I’m not sure if it was because he had to get black shoes or something else. Either way, he didn’t seem quite himself. He did remind me, several times, that I needed to pick a pattern. I hadn’t been putting it off, per se, but I also hadn’t put in much work.
He has the shoes now, though, so I have to hold up my end of the deal.
“You sure this is the pattern that you want?” Oliver asks for the fifth time this week. It took me a bit to find a pattern I likedand then another week for our schedules to line up so that we could go yarn shopping together. Between my working swing shifts and his tight deadline, it was a bit tough to synchronize things.
Maybe that’s a sign that this is all wrong. If it’s this hard to arrange things, how are we going to get together regularly for lessons and running?
We’re destined for failure. A fact I want to be happy about: it would solve all my problems. Except, the idea that in a couple of months we won’t even be texting, makes me nauseous.
“Is there something wrong with the pattern?” I spent more time onPinterestthan I’m willing to admit,searching through pictures of various items. Everything from big throw blankets for the sofa to the little stuffed toys Oliver said he made. Honestly, everything looked both interesting and way too hard. What I kept coming back to was this strawberry blanket. I don’t know why it appealed to me so much. I love strawberries, but never enough that I thought I’d want a whole blanket of them for my couch. Except every time I saw them, it made me happy. I want that feeling every time I come home and see it in my living room. If part of that is because it’ll make me think of Oliver, then so be it.
“No, it’s a little more advanced than I anticipated, but it’ll be okay.” He seems unconvinced, but I ignore it. If he can run a five-k, I can make a strawberry blanket. Or, I guess technically, Oliver said it would be called an afghan. I’m not clear on the difference, but it seems essential. “You’ll need both red and green yarn. You can take a look at these and pick the exact shade you want for it.”
He points to a narrow section of yarn along the wall. “What about those?” I gesture to the shelf behind me, the one with the fuzzy balls that I can’t keep my hands off of. It’s so soft that Iwant to rub it on my face. It would be perfect to curl up under while I watch TV.
He shakes his head. “Those won’t work for this. They’re way too small. It’ll take forever for it to turn into a blanket. Besides, the strands are hard to work with. Definitely not beginner yarn.”
I want to argue, but he listened to me about running shoes, so I should listen to him about this. He’d confessed in the car that he wanted the pink ones. I know exactly which ones he has in mind, and they’re gorgeous. They’re also for trail running. He’d hate the way the sole felt against the sidewalk, even if he did love how they looked.
“You can try those for something later.”
Fine. I guess.I start going through the options in front of me. Who knew there were so many different shades of red? None of them is named Strawberry either, which would make it much easier. It’s like a Taylor Swift song, reading through the various shades, but eventually I find one I like.
“Great, grab five of those, but check the lot number on them. We want them to match so they match.” I give him a skeptical look but do as he says. What do I know? I think the last time I saw a ball of yarn was when I was ten and doing craft projects during summer Bible camp. I go through them, tossing back any I find from a different lot until my basket has five red and five green balls, or what Oliver keeps referring to as skeins.
“Okay, let’s get you some hooks.”
He leads me down an aisle lined with colorful metal sticks until he reaches the section he’s looking for. “I like these,” I say, pulling down one that’s bright pink.
“Those are nice,” he says, “but they’re knitting needles.”
“Which are wrong?” I venture. The way his face softens reminds me of how relaxed he was when we were in bed together. Most of the time, he’s strung pretty tight. It might not always be noticeable, but I see how he bounces his leg andconstantly looks around. It’s rare to catch a glimpse of this unguarded version. I want to wrap him up and keep him like that as much as possible.
Maybe in a strawberry afghan.
“We want a crochet hook. Like this.” He pulls one in a similar color off the rack and shows it to me. Honestly, it doesn’t look like much or that different from the needles, but I nod anyway. “Tell me what size the back of your yarn says.”
I hold up one of the skeins and flip it over a few times until I find what he’s asking for. “G?” I say, not sure if I’m even close.
“How about this one?” The hook he holds up isn’t nearly as pretty as the pink, but it’s still lovely, a bright metallic purple.
“Perfect,” I say, even though I have no idea what I’m talking about. I trust him to steer me in the right direction. He’s so sure of himself, the opposite of how he looked when we were looking at shoes. He’s standing a bit taller, his chest puffed out. This is his place. I wonder if he thought the same when we were at the running store?
I’m still trying to figure it out as Oliver tosses a few more things that he insists are essential into my little basket. It’s still not that much stuff. I don’t know how this basket of supplies is going to turn into a completed project magically. I half expect it’ll turn into a garbled mess and wind up shoved in the back of a closet until I decide to chuck it in the trash. A promise is a promise, though, and if he’s going to fulfill his end of it, I’m certainly going to hold up mine.
Even if that means failing at making a ridiculous blanket.
After a little bit of browsing through aisles full of craft items that I didn’t know existed—do kids really still make pipe cleaner animals?—we pay and head back to the car. It’s just a bunch of yarn, but somehow today’s activity weighs on me. It feels like a big commitment, a promise of a future to come.
I haven’t mentioned this agreement to the rest of my friends, and I’m unsure what’ll happen next. Nathan and Colt are finally getting their heads out of their ass and dating, but I’m not sure where that leaves the whole Oliver situation. Precarious, probably.
In the passenger seat, he turns up the radio when a song he likes comes on. It’s some ridiculous, overplayed pop hit, but he dances along to it like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard. It’s hard to think he could ever be an issue. He’s so genuine, a rare quality in people. Including myself. Maybe especially myself. I want to bottle it up and hold on to it. Hang out with him every chance I can get, hoping a little of it will rub off on me.
So why does he feel like my dirty little secret?
