Page 9 of We Can Stay
Finished dyeing the wool yarn in various cotton-candy shades, I hang it all up to dry and wipe my hands. The kitten has been suspiciously quiet this whole time, so I walk back up the stairs and open my bedroom door.
And there she is—Cat—sleeping on a tangled mess of yarn like it’s the cover photo for a calendar featuring cute kittens.
My shoulders drop. “Shit.” I forgot all about the basket of chenille yarn under my bedside table!
The morning light catches on the mess, revealing the full extent of the damage. Soft green chenille twisted with buttery yellow, a custom order due by Friday. Hours of work, tangled beyond recognition.
And now I’ll have to wind the yarn back into skeins, which will take forever, and isn’t something my hands, dyed pink and aching from the cold water I used, are looking forward to.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I mutter to the kitten, for maybe the hundredth time since finding her under the bush.
I go to relocate her so I can get to work, but the doorbell rings, making me freeze. Wait a second… What time is it? Is Sebastian already here? He called earlier and verified it was still okay to stop by after work and bring the rest of the cat stuff.
My pulse picks up speed. Why am I nervous? It’s just the vet bringing cat supplies. Nothing more. The fact that I changed shirts three times this morning means nothing.
The bedside clock says five till six. The afternoon has flown by, and I’m a mess, dressed in a stained pair of overalls, my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and my living room covered in laundry waiting to be folded. I was hoping I’d have a little more time to get myself together before he got here.
So much for the put-together yarn artist image. He’s about to see the reality—chaos barely contained.
“Damn it.” Sighing, I pick up Cat in one hand while stuffing the yarn back where it belongs with the other, and I carry her and the basket downstairs. My pulse quickens as I reach the door, memories of Sebastian’s sexy smile and his bright gaze making me walk faster.
I check through the peephole first—a habit from the city I’ve never shaken. It’s him, shifting his weight from foot to foot, checking his phone. Even nervous, he looks good. Too good.
I open the door, and there he is, the tall, fine piece of work I remember. “Hi,” I breathe.
“Hey.” His eyes go to the kitten and the basket. “Looks like she’s already causing mischief.” His gaze drops and lingers on my hands.
There’s something in the way he notices details—not judging, just observing. Like he’s cataloging information to understand better. It’s unsettling and comforting at the same time.
“It’s dye,” I explain. “Come on in.” I step back and prop the door open with my hip so he can enter.
“Right. I should have known that.” He walks past me, toting a cat carrier filled with supplies, and I catch a whiff of his cologne—cedar and vanilla. Mm, nice.
Nothing like David’s aggressive body spray that announced his presence three rooms away. Sebastian’s scent is subtle, something you have to be close to notice. Dangerous.
“Sorry about the chaos. Time got away from me,” I say, trying to collect myself and play it cool as I shut the door. “And I found Cat tangled up in yarn I forgot to put away in my bedroom.”
He chuckles. “It is her nature. Where would you like me to put these things?”
“In the kitchen is good. Thanks for bringing them by.” I lead him into the kitchen, where I put down the basket of yarn and grab the stool I was sitting on while dyeing.
As I move it out of the way, though, pain shoots through my hand. It’s impossible to hide my wince.
“What’s wrong?” Sebastian puts the carrier on the floor.
“Oh. It’s…”
Damn it. I usually avoid this explanation if at all possible. Especially when it comes to men I’m dating—or hope to date—I find it’s unnecessary.
The last guy I told about my RA ghosted me after googling “rheumatoid arthritis prognosis.” I found his search history on my laptop. Men hear “chronic illness” and see complications, not a person.
But he’s asked…and I don’t like to lie…and I might as well get it over with.
“It’s rheumatoid arthritis,” I say, forcing myself to look at him. “It’s chronic. I just had my hands in cold water to dye the yarn, and that can make it flare up. No big deal, though. Heat and CBD help.”
I search for a joke to add like I usually do, but I can’t find one. Instead, there’s just a heavy feeling in my stomach.
It used to be easy to give the spiel and move on, but since that doctor’s appointment last month, things have been different. It hasn’t been on my mind too much, but whenever I remember the sudden chest pain, followed by the pericarditis diagnosis, I feel as if I might faint.
