Page 91 of Close Knit

I take it in—Cameron’s messy handwriting on the card, the inside joke behind the bouquet. Something so small, a shared bit of our humor, makes me feel seen, cherished, and understood. Who knew a bunch of lettuce and peas could do that?

A halfhearted chuckle falls out of me. And it’s exactly what I needed.

Chapter 23

Daphne

Knock.Knock. Knock.

I glance at the clock. It’s ten. I’ve heard the same sound a dozen times over the past three weeks.

Cameron.

My heart somersaults. I drop my knitting and hit pause onLittle Women,before walking to the front door.

Staying offline for three weeks has been tough, but necessary. Those first few days, my hands instinctively reached for my phone, a rhythm of a habit too ingrained to break. But ever since I stepped back, I’ve found myself more present, more in the now. My therapist hit the nail on the head. How could I champion mental health for others without first tending to my own?

I even put a child lock on sites like theStone Timesto stop doomscrolling. Cameron got ridiculous the piece taken down. He said there’s still stuff lingering but the rumors will fade. The little bubble we’ve created has been a godsend.

Bea has stopped by a few times to drop off pastries and check in on me, which is an incredibly sweet thing to do for someone she just met.

Therapy has helped too, even if it rattled me at first. Understanding the root of my triggers and making peace withthe fact that the bullying from years ago can still affect me deeply was not something I planned to do. Some mean comments online and all the negative self-talk I’ve ever heard in my head came rolling back. One day at a time, I remind myself. I can handle it.

Cameron’s solution to escape from everything was valid. Sometimes, withdrawing from the world isn’t the worst option. Not being online means that I’ve been holed up at home, planning my retreat and posting patterns to my shop, but otherwise, the content break has been helping me gain perspective.

I swing open the door. Cameron stands there, his usually bright eyes dull and heavy. “Can I—?” He hesitates, glancing into my apartment. His right pointer finger digs into his thumb like it’s a stress ball. “Am I interrupting?”

“You’re not. I’m just watching a movie.”

He looks at me for a long, hard moment. “Would it be all right if I sit with you for a while?”

For nearly a month, Cameron’s been doing this adorable thing where he migrates to my place—never quite staying the night, but definitely playing house.

“Of course,” I say. Untangling our kiss has been like sorting out mangled yarn. It wasn’t just a heat-of-the-moment thing; we said things we can’t unsay. But diving into the what-are-we chat? Not happening. At least, not until the media storm is over for good and I can go online without hyperventilating. For now, we’re in that awkward limbo between friends and something more.

“Hungry? I’ve got churros, and you look like you need some sugar.” I head to the kitchen. Food fixes everything, right?

“No, thanks, though,” he mumbles, setting down his training bag before collapsing onto my couch. I grab a bowl with two churros, hit play, and sink into the couch, my body settling intothe groove his weight has carved over the last few weeks. We sit in silence, him looking like a moody statue. When his fingers start their usual self-torture routine, I decide to break the ice.

“All right, what’s on your mind?” I turn to face him with my best, encouraging smile.

“We’ve been working on this new play all week.” He swaps his nail-picking for twirling my hair around his fingers.

“Are you planning on using it at your next game?” I ask, my voice soft and coaxing.

“Yeah, against Overton.” He sighs. “I have to lead the play, so there’s a ton of pressure to get it right.”

Last Wednesday, the guys were as thrilled aboutThe Great British Bake Offas a cat in water. Usually, they’re drenched with excitement, but the upcoming match has everyone in a funk. They haven’t lost a game since September, but they drew last week’s game, which is no different in Cameron’s eyes.

This Overton game is a dark cloud hanging over his head. His old team didn’t exactly throw him a farewell party, and now he’s up against his ex-coach and that dreadful ex-best friend. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story, but I’ll wait until he’s ready to share it.

I wish I could be there to cheer him on, but we agreed it’s best I stay in the no-match zone until the new year. A girl’s gotta keep her boundaries, even if it stings not being there for him.

“How are you feeling about playing your old team?” I ask.

“Fine,” he mutters. I want to tease the truth out of him, unravel his thoughts like a ball of yarn, but I know better. Cameron’s the kind of guy who needs to unsnarl himself. “It’s just another game—I want to win,” he says, but there’s a hollow ring to it, like a bell that’s lost its chime.

I want to tell him it’s okay to be scared, that it’s okay to not have all the answers, but the words get stuck in my throat like a too-big bite of cheesecake. Instead, I lean into his touch, offeringsilent comfort. Sometimes, just being there is the best way to say you care.

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