Page 57 of Mistle-Ho

Cilantro tilts her head, yellow eyes wide as she watches me struggle, and offers a meow of commiseration. Or maybe she’s trying to tell me to give up so she can have her wicked way with the yarn I’m fighting.

“Not happening.” I scoot the bundle closer, just in case she doesn’t want to take no for an answer. “This isn’t for you.”

It may not be for anyone if I can’t figure out how in the hell to make more than just the repeating single loop the chick on YouTube calls a chain stitch.

Again, I attempt to turn and dig into the second row, pausing every two seconds to restart the video tutorial, making sure I’m following the instructions correctly. But again, the stitches end up too tight, the circle of yarn strangling the metal hook that’s so small I struggle to maneuver it.

“For the love of—” I toss the barely started project onto the couch cushion beside me, abandoning it for the hundredth time. “There has to be an easier way.” I don’t know what sort of magic was in Granny D’s old lady hands, but it’s clearly not in mine.

Leaning forward, I focus on my laptop. After opening a new search window, I type in a prompt.

Easiest way to make a scarf

All the Google selected options populate the screen in front of me and I scroll, bypassing the sewing tutorials in search of a new yarn-based alternative. I saw the way Alexis responded to the cashmere scarf I bought her, so I’m not giving up on that part of this whole endeavor.

My gaze snags on a thumbnail and I click the link so I can inspect it better. What pops up might be the solution to my problem. Instead of using a teeny tiny hook to freestyle loop the yarn together, this new method requires some sort of plastic apparatus with pegs sticking up off it. The process appears to simply be winding the yarn around the pegs and then using a hook to pull one over the other. I deflate a little when I see a hook is still required, but it doesn’t look like I’ll have to gymnastic the mother fucker in all sorts of ways. Just one single maneuver.

I think I can do that.

I order the plastic thing and add on expedited shipping. Once that’s handled, I pack up the cashmere yarn I spent an hour in a specialty fiber shop selecting. I didn’t want to give Alexis another red and white scarf, so I ended up choosing the crimson and gray of the Swamp Cat branding. It’s still a little similar to the others, but hopefully different enough.

Plus, I really fucking like the thought of Alexis in the stands wearing a scarf I made her, watching me do what I do best.

Because crocheting is certainly not what I do best.

Once I know the expensive yarn is hidden safely away from Cilantro, I go to check on the iguana. I wasn’t able to get aperfect setup today, but thanks to Al’s boss, I found a temporary enclosure and ordered a custom unit that should be ready in a couple of weeks.

I set up the wood and wire space in the corner of the spare bedroom where Cilantro’s litter box is. It made the most sense to keep all the pet shit in one space.

And I’m pretty certain the iguana is now my pet.

The lizard looks happy enough, basking in the glow of its new heat lamp. I’m checking the temperature to make sure it’s within the recommended span when my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. After less than one day, I’ve already got a fucking trained response to the vibration, and my stomach clenches in anticipation.

Alexis and I have been messaging each other all afternoon. I worried she would get sick of the constant communication, but she’s reached out to me as much as I’ve reached out to her, and it has my brain thinking all sorts of things. Good things.

And also bad.

Swiping across the screen, I see the three words I’ve been waiting for.

On my way.

I give the iguana a last look. “It’s show time.”

It’s been a busy day, and I think all my effort is about to pay off. At least I hope it is.

Going into the kitchen, I flip on the oven light, checking the contents before going to the fridge. After pulling out the first of many surprises I have for Alexis, I go to work setting everything up. My heart races faster and faster, driven by anticipation, excitement, and a little fear. Fear that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

Fear that this is all going to be too much.

Fear that maybe—as much as I don’t want to consider it—my dad will be right. Maybe I am just setting myself up to have my heart broken again.

I scrub one hand over my face, forcing the thought away. That’s not how Alexis is. She would never hurt me the way my dad hurt my mom, or even the way my high school girlfriend did me.

But Alexis is only half the equation. And I’m not sure my half is as trustworthy as hers. I don’t know how I’m going to handle being close to her. Don’t know if I’ll be able to keep the jealous, possessive side of me in check.

Thankfully, a light knock stops my spiraling thoughts. I practically run to the door. There’s no sense hiding my eagerness to see her. There’s going to be no missing it as soon as she comes inside, might as well put it out there from the beginning.

My heart nearly stutters to a stop when I see her on my doorstep. I expected her to be all decked out like she usually is, but instead Al is wearing a pair of flannel pants and a hoodie. Her face is makeup free and her blonde hair is pulled up into a messy bun at the top of her head. She looks fucking fantastic.

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