Page 43 of No More Love Songs

“Ari isn’t even going to know I’m there,” he says with a laugh. “Besides, you blend right in with us, your company never feels like an intrusion.” He bumps my elbow with his. “Come on, you know you want to. There’s a little shop on Main where you can do all these weird crafts. You just pick your project, and they provide a plethora of tools to create it, complete with instructions. I bet they have something there you’ve never done before. Make word magnets from old scrabble pieces perhaps? Chimes out of bottle caps? Cover mason jars in paint and glitter? Oh, and once Ari made a journal out of a recycled cookie box. You don’t have to do cookies though if you don’t want. I believe they also had cereal, crackers and pasta. Really any sort of box you can find in your pantry is probably available for journal making.”

“You know, I have always wanted a journal made out of an old cereal box. Lucky Charms, if possible,” I tease.

“That settles it then, you’re coming along.” He smiles.

“Are we at all worried we might fall asleep while out and wind up at the mercy of two teenage girls who may or may not take pleasure in torturing us in such a vulnerable state?” I’m joking, of course. About the torture. Not the falling asleep. That could totally happen.

“Don’t worry. I have a plan that’ll ensure we’re both wide awake and fully energized by the time we head out.”

“Does this plan involve more coffee? Because I reach a point where the caffeine in my system is more dangerous than the exhaustion.” I’m told. I kind of black out when it happens, but according to Gray things can get a little out of hand when I’m too hopped up and no longer have the capability to notice.

“No, it involves a nap.” He chuckles quietly and turns his gaze back to the window and the beautiful sunrise beyond it. “This is our last cup for a while. Maybe the day.”

“Why are you being mean? You can’t cut me off like that.” But, if I’m being honest, “Probably wise to do though.”

As if on cue, the coffee maker beeps, signaling the process of brewing is complete. “Come on,” Kit says, pushing back from the counter. “Let’s fix our cups and take them outside.”

“I love that idea.”

A few moments later, we’re stepping out through the back door and onto the back porch. Automatically, I make a beeline for the nearest rocking chairs, and within seconds I’m sinking into one, fully relaxed, hot cup cradled in my hand and a stunning view straight ahead.

“Good call coming out here,” I say quietly, eyes still locked on the sky and the fabulous art the rising sun is making with her ascent. “Your kitchen is cozy, but there wasn’t anything near as beautiful to see in there.”

“I don’t know,” he rumbles softly from the chair beside me, “I saw plenty of beauty from where I was standing.”

I can feel my eyes widen of their own accord. It’s an odd reaction to questioning your ears. Trying to see better.

Even as I’m distracting myself with internal ramblings, I can’t pretend I didn’t hear him. Nor can I be sure I know what he meant. We were both standing at the window. He could very well be pointing out that the view was plenty nice from right there. Or, he may be implying other things inside the kitchen were beautiful. In any event, I’m never going to know which way he meant it because I’m never going to ask.

I’m just going to open my mouth and change the subject. Pretend it never happened. “I think I’m going to learn to crochet,” I announce a little louder than necessary.

“Oh, yeah?” Kit sounds only mildly surprised. And I’m not even sure the randomness of my new interest or the volume at which I presented it has anything to do with it. It’s entirely possible the only thing catching him off guard with me these days is my own lacking certainty in the statements I make about myself. Though he’s probably pretty used to that already too.

On second thought, maybe that’s not surprise in his voice. Maybe it’s just mockery.

“I was looking at the blanket it my room, the one that’s kept at the foot of the bed,” I start to explain.

He nods. “The shapeshifter.”

Unlike him, I find I’m still stumped by the things he says on a regular basis. “The what now?”

He chuckles softly, sips his coffee, and then, slowly starts to answer, “My cousin, Leah, makes them. Every room has one. She’s by far my favorite cousin but she’s totally nuts.” He laughs. “Leah’s an artist through and through. Everything she creates is unique and riddled with imperfections. She can’t stand straight lines, refuses to measure anything, and don’t even get me started on how she feels about instructions.” He has another sip of coffee before he goes on, “Anyway, her bread and butter is this kickass painted furniture. I’ve got a few of her pieces around the lodge. The coffee table in the front sitting room you’ve seen. The rest are dressers and nightstands tucked away in the other suites. But, creative nutjob that she is, she constantly needs side projects to soak up the excess creativity just oozing out of her. I swear, she overstimulates her own brilliance, but she thrives this way, so here we are, enjoying the excess in the form of shapeshifting blankets.”

I wait for a moment, sure there must be more, because I still have no clue what a shapeshifting blanket is or what constitutes the wonderfully comfy and soft blanket in my room as such. Apparently, he thinks he’s sufficiently answered my original question though, because he’s back to drinking his coffee and watching the sun climb the horizon in silence.

“Kit, I think you must be more sleep deprived than we realized, because that’s the very first time

since I’ve known you, I wound up more confused by the time you were done talking than I was before you started.”

He turns, the corner of his mouth already moving up into a half grin. “Maybe you’re the one who’s too tired to piece things together anymore. I gave you all the information. My cousin can’t do straight lines or follow instructions, but she doesn’t let that stop her from crocheting blankets.” He tilts’ his head back glancing overhead in the direction of my balcony and subsequently, my room. “Go check it out for yourself. Thing’s got four corners, but it sure as shit ain’t a square.”

I fold my lips in to keep from grinning back at him. I get it now. “So, calling it a shapeshifter, is that, like, your way of making fun of her?”

“Hell no.” He laughs. “She came up with that all on her own. Leave it to hippy-dippy Leah to turn her lacking skills into a marketing gimmick. You wouldn’t believe how many people want these things. She has waiting lists that go months out of people wanting one of her blankets. They don’t even care what colors or yarn it comes in. If it’s Leah-made, it’s sold.” He shifts around in his seat, sitting up a bit straighter. “I’ve actually caught people trying to steal them from the lodge. It’s crazy.”

“I mean, they are really nice blankets,” I concede. “I was considering asking you if you’d sell me the one in my room.” I wouldn’t steal it, but I was fully prepared to throw a lot of money at him to keep it honestly. I have mixed feelings about that now. On the one hand, I’m clearly not alone in my infatuation with these blankets, on the other, what the hell is wrong with me? Why would I pay money for a blanket made by someone who can’t even really crochet? Which reminds me, “But then I decided I wanted to learn how to make my own.”

He grins. “Well, if you’re looking to make a shapeshifter, I recommend watching a few how-to videos on YouTube. Just play ‘em in the background while you’re doing about seven other things. That oughta get you the same level of results. But,” he pauses to shift into a more serious expression, “if you’re hoping for something with a little more order and possibly even a pattern, you could always ask Mavis to show you.”

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