Page 58 of Close Knit

“How’s that going?”

“Really well. Moving to London was terrifying. That first month, I felt so invisible, and my nerves were all over the place. I kept pushing myself to try new things, but it was hard.” She was lonely, like me. “Now, it’s starting to feel like I’ve found mypeople. I never imagined, even in my wildest dreams, that I’d befriend a bunch of professional athletes, but the guys treat me like a little sister, and they’ve given me this amazing opportunity to put my knitting needles to good use.”

“It’s nice that you’re helping Femi.” I’ve rarely talked to the groundskeeper, but he cares deeply about his work, and I appreciate that.

“I’d do it for anyone.” It’s hard not to feel like one of her charity cases, but I shove the thought aside.

“Everything you’re planning for your retreat sounds impressive,” I say, eager to steer the conversation away from my insecurities.

“Thanks. I’ve checked out places in London, but they’re not quite right. I want something that feels like the treehouse my moms built back home. Juniper and I would spend hours there, sometimes falling asleep and waking up to find that our moms had joined us with cozy blankets and late-night snacks. This place has a similar rugged charm.”

“Minus the lack of nearby hotels, right?”

Her eyes widen, as if she’s surprised that I’ve been listening. “Someone’s been a very good assistant today.”

The praise hits me like a well-timed save in the top corner. It’s funny how a few kind words can make me feel worthy again.

Three sheep gently nudge their wet noses against her leg, begging for her affection.Get in line, buddies.

“I’m certain that whatever you do, it’ll be exactly how you imagine it,” I say.

She gives me a crooked smile and tilts her head to one side. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Shoot.”

“I’m worried about pulling this off. I know I can, but occasionally these voices in my head tell me I’m just aninfluencer, and where did I get the audacity to run a whole retreat focused on mental health?”

I feel a twinge of empathy. “You’re more than an influencer,” I assure her. “You’re Daphne fucking Quinn.”

She laughs. “Well, Daphne fucking Quinn struggles with anxiety. I was bullied as a kid, so being inside my brain can be exhausting.”

I grit my teeth. How could anyone bully this girl?

“I guess I didn’t picture you as someone who struggles with anxiety.”

“What did you picture?”

My body stiffens. “I didn’t mean to assume.”

“No, Goose,” she says softly. “I’m genuinely curious about your assumptions this time, for retreat research purposes.”

When I think of mental health struggles, my mind goes to my oldest sister. The pressures of being an Olympic figure skater led Brooklyn into some tough situations, but we supported her as a family.

“I guess when I picture someone with anxiety, they avoid things that feel threatening, prioritize safety over new experiences.”Someone like me. I block that thought. “It’s the opposite of what you’re doing this year.”

“I’m good at faking it. Fluoxetine helps too.”

“Anxiety meds?”

“Yep. Been on them since I was a teenager,” she confirms.

Her admission catches me off guard. Vulnerability like that, just offered up so easily, is foreign to me. My throat tightens, and I struggle to find the right words. How can she be so open, so unguarded, when I can barely scratch the surface of my own feelings?

“I’m still having a hard time understanding how anyone would ever bully you.”

“It’s easy to get bullied when you’re too much.” The light in her eyes fades.

“Maybe those bullies were too fucking little.”

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