She guides me to a small section of the shop just off the reception desk, a magazine organizer screwed into the wall holding laminated sheets of different stitching patterns to choose from. I quickly scan through them, opting for the coaster. It’s just a square; it can’t be that hard. Right?
After selecting colors from the baskets on the wall, I carry the bundles of yarn and choose where to sit. The long table in the middle of the room only has a couple people already at it, each place setting marked with a crochet hook and scissors. In my peripherals, I can see Tieran standing toward the other end of the table, chatting with his sister and the same older woman from before.
The head of the table closest to the entrance looks like a great spot, nice andfaraway from a certain six foot something rugby player who looks like a giant in this small shop. It also provides me with an unobstructed escape should I need it.
“Alright, you lot. Take your seats, and we’ll get started,” Lottie instructs.
I fiddle with my spools of yarn, pointedlynotpaying attention to the movements of any one person, zoning out so spectacularly as I stare at the vibrant green and pink I don’t notice when the seat on each side of me fills.
“Hello, dear,” a soft voice to my left says, warbled yet melodic.
Angling my head to put a face to the voice, I’m met with sharp brown eyes framed by the deep groove of wrinkles earned only by a life well lived.
“Hi,” I reply.
“I’m Mrs. Cline. I’ve not seen you ‘round here before.” Placing her accent is difficult. Welsh, maybe?
“Jade. First time here,” I say politely.
Mrs. Cline pulls her glasses out of the breast pocket on her quilted vest, places them on the bridge of her nose, and then gives me a slow once over. “Have you crocheted before then?”
Her tone feels slightly accusatory for some reason, but surely, I’m just paranoid because I’m in a new environment completely out of my wheelhouse.
“I don’t believe she has, Dorris.” The gravelly tone that rings outmuch too closeto my right ear makes my spine straighten. “Jade’s not one for hobbies. Are you, Jade?”
When I look over at Tieran, I find him with his arm resting against the back of my chair and his body leaning slightly toward mine. The smell of fresh laundry and warm skin reaches out to greet me, and I breathe it in involuntarily. By all accounts, I would have pegged Tieran as a flashier man, one who has a trove of grooming products scattered about his bathroom, including no less than ten different colognes. But every day, I’m more and more surprised by him. His personality is bold, but I think behind the commanding frontman is someone much softer.
“Is this your girlfriend then?” Mrs. Cline asks with obvious derision.
“No!” I shout.
“No need to answer so fast, love.” He directs his attention to Dorris. “She wants me, but I keep shooting her down.”
Before I can irrefutably deny his claims, Lottie pulls our attention to start the beginning of our workshop. She takes us through a series of terms and maneuvers—mostly to benefit those of us new to crochet—before showing us how to do a slip knot and connect it into another stitch.
Twenty minutes goes by, and I’m getting more pissed off by the second at my inability to get the hang of this. My fury only quadruples when I look over and see Tieran expertly hooking, knotting, and stitching—his project already taking form while mine looks like a heap of twisted yarn.
I’ve stayed quiet the whole time, trying to concentrate and drown out the sound of a certain overstepping rugby player's voice every time he speaks. Which is often, asking me mundane questions on a relentless loop. My refusal to answer never discourages him from continuing his one sided conversation, though.
The only time I acknowledge him next to me is when Dorris is being critical of my technique and Tieran steps in, soothing her crankiness with a couple sweet words and a cheeky smile.
I can’t stop the words from vomiting out. “I knew you had a thing for old people.”
His resounding laugh is so loud, it almost draws a smile out of me, but I look over and see Dorris scowling my way, so I school my face quickly.
The evening passes by in a mild conversation between everyone at the table, intermixed with Lottie going around and giving people direction. She, embarrassingly enough, has to stop by and help me a lot. The fact I can’t get the hand of a simple knot and repetitive pattern is really irritating me—especially when Tieran is basically done with his.
“What are you even making?” I ask. “Is that underwear?”
“It’s a bandana for my dog.” He holds it up where I can see the strings he’s working on that will tie it together. “Who in the bloody hell wears crochet knickers?”
“I don’t know what you’re into…other than people over seventy. Tell me, did the Queen really get your heart racing?”
“What can I say? I’ve always liked powerful women.”
It’s a fight to keep the corner of my mouth from curving.
“Here.” He stands, coming up behind me.
