Are we even on the same page? Yes, we’ve talked about the past, acknowledged the hurt, apologized for things that maybe can’t really be apologized for, but so what? If I fall for him—which I think I already have, if the way my chest aches has anything to say about it—and he’s not as serious, if this is just nostalgia or convenience for him, it’ll break me. Not bend me, not bruise me. Break me. Into pieces I’m not sure I could put back together this time.
Tears fill my eyes, hot and unwelcome, and I pick myphone back up. The screen blurs until I blink the moisture away. I can’t spend the whole night moping like this. I’m going to the meeting, even if it means falling asleep on the cushions there. At least I won’t be alone.
Composing a group text, my fingers moving slowly across the screen, I tell the girls that I’m in the middle of a flare and would appreciate a ride to Knit Happens. Maya responds almost immediately—three dots appearing, disappearing, then her message popping up, telling me that she’ll be over in forty-five minutes and asking if I need anything.
After letting her know that I’m good with the reheated pot roast I managed to warm up for dinner, I sink back into the cushions. The worn fabric cradles my aching body. Making a decision, even this small one, feels good—or maybe it’s exhausting? Either way, it allows me to rest until Maya arrives, to close my eyes without feeling like I should be doing something else.
But rest doesn’t come. Instead, I decide to do some more digging into Oliver’s injury since the only thing I can do is lie here and scroll on my phone. The look on Oliver’s face when he saw Mark Bailey in the crowd is seared into my mind—that flash of something dark, dangerous even, before he shuttered it away. And I swear I saw Bailey at the pizzeria when I first walked in last night, lurking near the bar.
Instead of searching Oliver’s name this time, I type “Mark Bailey hockey player” into the search bar. I vaguely remember him from when he and Oliver were on the same team, but I had so much going on at that time, I don’t remember many specific details.
The search results paint an ugly picture. He’s still playing professional hockey, though for a different team now. Multiple assault charges, bar fights, a current suspension for aggressive infractions, even some legal trouble. The pattern is clear—Mark Bailey is a man who solves problems with his fists.Was he bored during his suspension and decided to track Oliver down? The timing can’t be a coincidence.
I run out of time to speculate because Maya is knocking on the door, three soft taps that she always uses.
“Come in,” I call, my voice rough from disuse. I put away my phone and make a mental note to keep looking into this later.
Maya enters quietly, closing the door with care. Her soft smile lights up her whole face. “Hey. How are you feeling?”
I give her a thumbs up from my horizontal position, which makes her laugh. She already knows I feel like shit.
“I don’t think I can sit up straight,” I tell her. “But I’d like to try out reclined knitting. Could be a new trend.”
“Extreme horizontal crafting. I like it. Where’s your knitting bag?”
“I think it’s hanging on my bedroom closet handle. The blue one with the sheep pattern.”
She gathers my things for me—knitting bag, winter coat, purse, and shoes that she helps me slip on without making me bend. Then she reclines the passenger’s seat in her car when we get outside so that I can lie back on our drive downtown.
“You’re the best,” I whisper as I settle in.
“I know,” she says with a wink, adjusting the heat vents away from my face.
The simple gestures—the reclined seat, the gentle way she tucks my seatbelt, the travel pillow she produces from her backseat—bring fresh tears to my eyes.
“Have you seen Oliver lately?” Maya asks as she pulls out of my neighborhood. Her tone is carefully casual.
I suck in a sharp breath. “Last night. We met at the pizzeria and I—I kissed him and then freaked out.” I shake my head against the headrest. “I ran off and then, this morning, the flare started. Zero to sixty, just likethat.”
“You think those two things are connected? The panic and the flare?”
“Yeah. I haven’t had a flare in four months.”
“Okay, but correlation isn’t causation and all that.”
I twist my lips. “I dunno. Seems pretty clear to me.”
“Why did you leave?”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know. I wanted it. I was the one who kissed him, and then it was getting hot and heavy and I just felt panic. I couldn’t even think straight. I had to get out of there.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her hand briefly squeezing mine. “Have you talked to him since then?”
“No,” I whisper to the window. That’s the part that hurts the most. He hasn’t called or texted. And even though I’ve wanted to talk to him, have typed out a dozen messages I’ve deleted, I don’t know what to say.
“How was your day?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I would much rather hear someone talk about what they have going on. It spares me from a few minutes of dwelling on the last twenty-four hours.
Maya tells me about how she’s going over ceramics with her elementary school students, and how she’d like to have Hannah back to teach knitting classes. Her voice is warm and familiar, and combined with the fatigue, it lures my eyes closed.
