The water finally turns off, letting me breathe a sigh of relief. At least he’s not dead in there. I pull the sweatpants I brought on over my running shorts. This pair is perfect for running but not so great for lounging. I’m aware they get described as skimpy. That’s what I love about them, though. I feel like I can run without the fabric getting in the way. Since I mostly run either straight from my home or from my car, it’s not like I’m hanging out in them in public.
Oliver liked them.
A fact I shouldn’t care about. It was impossible to miss the way his mouth hung open as he stared at them. I didn’t say anything, in case he was embarrassed. I like it, though. A fact I hate admitting even to myself. Yeah, he’s already seen me naked, but him looking me up and down like I was a big meal? That stroked my ego in a way that doesn’t happen very often. We’re just friends, so I’m not supposed to want him to think of me that way. Or enjoy it when he does.
“Sorry, I took forever.” Oliver comes into the living room looking sheepish.
Did he jerk off thinking about me?I immediately cut off that particular train of thought. Too many of my nights in the past couple of weeks have been spent thinking about him while my fist was wrapped around my cock.
Not on purpose. I tried desperately not to think about him. No amount of porn could get him out of my mind.
“No problem. Are you okay?” I can’t keep from checking in. I feel somewhat responsible for him, especially when it comes to running.
“No,” he says, his hands coming to his hips. The low-slung joggers he’s wearing slide down a little farther, revealing a thin strip of skin. Not that I’m looking. “Every muscle in my body hurts. Some of which I didn’t even know existed until today.”
“Yeah, that’ll get better with time. Give it a couple of weeks and your body will adjust.”
“A couple of weeks?” His voice squeaks as his eyes go wide. “I’m going to feel like this for weeks? I thought it would get better after today.”
“It will, but not as much as you’re hoping. Building up the kind of necessary stamina, both for your heart and muscles, takes repetition.”
“Fine. Are you ready to crochet?”
It’s not fine, that much I’m sure of. The word drips with sarcasm. Instead of arguing, I let it go, a move I’m going to consider a form of personal growth. I could sit here all night insisting I’m right. It wouldn’t change anything, especially in Oliver’s mind. The only thing that will convince him is time.
“Let’s do it.” I’m sure he’s anxious to switch positions, to be the one in a position of authority for a little bit.
He leads me to his living room. I can tell he’s put in at least a little effort to clean up for me. There are no stray items lying around on the table or the couch. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he keeps it like this all the time. Not messy, but lived in. I’m sure his closets would tell a different tale.
“I brought my yarn with me,” I say, motioning toward the small tote bag I brought. I only have one pack of each color, but I figure that’s enough for a first lesson.
“Oh, you won’t need that today.”
My confusion must be written all over my face, because Oliver is holding back a laugh. Poorly.
“I have a piece started, so you can learn some of the stitches you’ll need. We’ll work on that today, then next time we can start on the pattern you chose.”
I’m disappointed. In my head, I pictured going home today with something that at least resembles the final project. That’s not happening. I suppose I should probably take my own advice. Find patience and joy in the process rather than focusing on the result. Oliver’s not going to run three miles today; I’m not going to make a blanket.
“It’s a good thing,” he assures me. “This way, any mistakes you make won’t be on your final version.”
It’s a good point, but it doesn’t assuage any of my disappointment.
I tuck my tote bag away next to the edge of the sofa and find a seat. A minute later, my lap is full of hot pink yarn. It’s… bright.
“Okay, watch me for a few rounds.”
I stare at Oliver’s hands, attempting to get a sense of how he’s turning the yarn into… well, yarn in a shape. It looks easy enough, but I know better. Anything that seems that easy when an expert does it is bound to be complicated.
“Okay, you try.”
It takes a few seconds for me to get a grip on my hook that Oliver approves of. It’s almost like holding a pen, but not quite. In my first attempt, I completely lost the yarn that Oliver had placed on the hook for me. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem fazed by it. He sticks it back on and tells me to try again.
It only goes slightly better this time. “Good, now do that until you hit the end of the row.”
While I work, Oliver picks up another project and does his own, stopping often to peer over at me and make sure I’m still moving along. I am, but it’s slow as fuck. I swear he gets a whole scarf done in the time it takes me to do one row.
“Okay. Done.” I hold up the piece, a little proud of my ability to get through it.
