Page 35 of Close Knit

My gaze keeps abandoning my project and jumping up to the entrance of the common room. Cameron’s late today. It’s already a quarter past nine.

Where is he? More importantly, why do I care?

“Sven, you’re such a teacher’s pet.” Ibrahim nudges his friend’s elbow, attempting to mess him up.

“No need to be jealous, big boy,” he laughs. “My sister’s taught me to knit.” He shrugs nonchalantly, as if he isn’t turning the macho stereotype on its head. “I used to make sweaters for my pet iguana.”

When Sven showed me pictures of the tiny iguana in a white sweater, I nearly peed myself. Cozy, adorable animals are my weakness, apparently—right up there with gruff footballers who rescue spiders.

Ibrahim side-eyes Sven. “They have iguanas in Oslo? Isn’t it too cold for them?”

“Hence the sweater.” He laughs. “Daphne, do you sell the pattern to this scarf on your website?”

“I do! It’s one of my bestsellers. I have over a hundred patterns on my site, and I’m always adding new ones.”

“I’ll have to check out the others and buy some,” Sven says.

“Thanks, Sven.”

Omar, Jung, and Tamu have their tongues stuck out in deep concentration.

“While Sven’s picking up a new side hustle, I doubt we’ll have an easy time auctioning these off when they look like this,” Tamu muses, glancing at the tangled mess in his lap.

“Everyone gets better with practice, I promise,” I say, hoping I don’t come off as some cheesy motivational poster. “These scarves will be made with love, and that’s all that matters.”

“I guess,” Tamu says. He doesn’t look convinced.

“We’ll get it right, just like we’ll get that play right with Hastings on the pitch,” Omar assures him.

I want to find out more but before I can pry, Jung says, “You’re announcing your knitting camp tonight, right?”

My nerves wriggle with excitement. Since theStone Timesarticle came out a month ago, I’ve been flooded with support and patience from my knitting community. My mom and I sat down to go over an estimated budget for the event. I’ve organized a list of sponsors, from yarn suppliers to mental health providers, that could all pitch in and lower costs. Despite my nerves, things seem to be working out.

“Yes, tonight is the big announcement.” I glance at the clock. “I actually have to get going soon to set up.”

“If you can manage to teach us poor saps how to knit, your followers will be positively stoked,” Ibrahim says in the only volume he knows—loud.

They all cheer.

After so many years of keeping my social circle to my sister, moms, and online community, being here with them has made me realize how lonely I truly was. Three months into my Yes Year, and taking risks is paying off tremendously. I like this feeling of belonging. My knitting retreat is only going to multiply it.

“Thanks, guys.” I pack up my tote bag and loop it over my shoulder. “Same time next week.”

“Night, Daph!” they say in unison.

Next to the mailboxes in the lobby, there’s a stack of packages with my name on them. I crack my neck, ready for the only form of exercise I actually enjoy: lugging PR boxes up and down three flights of stairs.

At least at the end of this cardio, I’ll have a whole new slew of yarn to play with.

The best part of my job is how lucky I am to be sponsored by brands I love. My streaming income is consistent enough to keep me comfortable, but the sporadic brand sponsorships give me a boost here and there.

Definitely a big enough boost for me to be able to invest in the retreat!

I grab the biggest box, struggling with its unwieldy size, and ascend the stairs. Halfway up the last flight, my arms strain with the effort. You’d think yarn wouldn’t be this heavy, but my thighs are burning. My foot catches on a step, and I stumble, the box almost slipping from my grasp.

“Need a hand?” A voice startles me from behind.

Not just any voice. Cameron’s voice.

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