Page 111 of The Fix-Up

“He forgot and he opened…” he leaned in and whispered “…the hallway closet we aren’t supposed to open.”

“No,” I breathed and rushed from the kitchen. “Please, please, please.”

But no amount of pleading could reverse the damage. Because there was Gil, standing in front of that closet. The door was open. Skeins of brightly colored yarn—at least thirty of them—lay on the floor at his feet. Oreo and Cookie (the most recent names of the kittens) were in the middle of it. One of them leapt in the air and attacked a large ball of red yarn.

I groaned. “What did you do?”

“I was looking for extra towels.” A bemused Gil clutched a pile of said towels against his chest.

“No, don’t look at those.” I dashed over to him and tried to grab them out of his hands, but he was faster.

He held one up. It was a hand towel with the words POTTY LIKE A ROCK STAR embroidered in red. And another one that read: YOU’RE A POOP STAR. He pressed his lips together, holding back amusement, before choking out, “Why?”

“Don’t laugh.” I smacked his shoulder. “I was into embroidering at the time and thought I could make some extra money and Oliver had just finished potty training and, well…” Iwaved at them weakly. “I sold them at craft fairs and online until I kind of got over dealing with it and just stopped.”

“You made these?” He’d pulled another towel out: HOPE EVERYTHING COMES OUT OKAY.

“That was my biggest seller.” I stuck my hands in my pockets and hoped I would be abducted by aliens any second.

Gil pressed his lips together and nodded. He looked up at the ceiling, then the floor, then back to the ceiling. I thought he might be counting to himself. Finally, he took a deep breath. “The yarn?”

“Crocheting. I was pretty good at it but after a while…” I shrugged. “I tried knitting, too, but I got frustrated with it.”

“Is this a whole closet of craft supplies?”

This is what happened with all my crafty ideas. The excitement was overwhelming and lasted just long enough for me to buy all the things I needed (and didn’t need). In fact, shopping for crafty items was most of the fun of starting a new hobby. I’d organize everything, spend hours online looking at tutorials and patterns and ideas. I’d attempt to make a few things. I might even enjoy it. I might even be good at it. Until I lost interest, or another brighter, shinier craft came along.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know it’s kind of nuts. I’ll admit the six months I decided I was going to make all of Oliver’s clothes was a dark time and I have no talent for watercolors or oil painting. Needlepoint is, wow, yeah, not for me. There’s stuff to make soap and candles, too.”

He reached in and pulled out a huge bag of balloons. “Why would one person need this many balloons?”

I closed my eyes. “For balloon animals.”

“Wow,” he said in a strangled voice.

“I got pretty good at it,” I said defensively. “It’s my secret shame, okay?”

“I can see why.” He coughed.

“No laughing.”

“Me? No. Of course not.” He snickered.

“Okay, fine. Ha. Ha.” I snatched the bag of balloons out of his hand and tossed it in the closet. After trying and failing to wrestle a ball of yarn from a kitten, I pushed the rest of it into the closet and tried to shove the door closed. It popped back open like it was taunting me.

“You weren’t supposed to see this. It makes me feel like such a…loser.”

He grinned. “Hey, you’ve never seen my craft closet.”

I shoved the door closed again and leaned my body against it, putting me squarely in the middle of the door and Gil. “I bet there’s a lot of lot of drills and hammers and screwdrivers. I don’t know. I think I’d like your craft closet.”

Gil looked left and right. “No Oliver. I could steal a kiss.”

I walked my fingers up his chest. “You sure you want to kiss a woman who makes balloon animals?”

The right side of his mouth ticked up. “Literally nothing in the world I want more.”

And then, he did.

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