Page 12 of We Can Stay
“Felicity.” I test the name, liking how it feels. “They’re both great names.”
“I like them okay.” Her lashes flutter, and something flutters in response deep in my chest.
“Okay, another question. How did you get into all of this? Yarn dyeing, I mean. I never even thought about it. I’ve just assumed all yarns are dyed at factories by machines.”
Her face transforms, taking on an almost ethereal quality. “I was living in New York, working at this storytelling app. There was a knitting shop by my apartment—tiny place, squeezed between a bodega and a dry cleaner. I would pick up supplies on my way home and knit scarves and hats, things like that, in the evenings. Then one day, this woman was there. She had baskets of yarn she’d dyed herself, and the colors...” She pauses, lost in the memory. “They looked like captured sunsets, ocean storms, spring gardens. I just thought it was the coolest thing ever.”
Her hands move as she talks, painting invisible colors in the air.
“That was the start. Things changed pretty fast after that. I guess I was looking for a shake-up, you know? Even if I didn’t realize it. Because six months later, I had liquidated my 401k, opened my online shop, and moved here.”
“Why here? That’s such a huge switch, from New York City to this little island.”
Her expression shifts, a shadow passing over her features. “I was tired of the city. My boyfriend and I had just broken up—well, to be more specific, he had just cheated on me with a girl who worked with both of us?—”
“Yikes.”
“It’s fine. I only wish them moderate food poisoning and perpetual traffic jams now.”
I snort, and her eyes brighten with mischief.
“That’s also when the rheumatoid arthritis started. Everything changed then. The city belonged to another lifetime. All those stairs, the crowded subway, fighting for a seat when you’re tired and achy... I was ready for a fresh start.”
“I get it.” A particularly stubborn knot demands my attention, but I keep my focus on her. There’s more to this story, layers she’s not ready to share yet. “Do you have family close by?”
“Outside of DC. My parents work in politics. Campaign managers, so they’re always traveling.”
“So, you Googled ‘cutest towns in America’ and found this place?”
“Something like that.” She grins. “Actually, I threw a dart at a map. Hit the ocean first, so I figured that was close enough.”
“And when was that?” The yarn is becoming more tangled in my hands, but I can’t look away from her. She’s magnetic, drawing me in with every word, every gesture.
“Around five years ago.”
I shake my head, genuinely baffled. “I still can’t believe we haven’t met before.”
She tilts her head, considering. “I guess the island isn’t as small as it feels. You don’t go to the farmers market, I assume. I’ve never seen you there.”
“I’m at the emergency clinic on Saturday mornings.” The words come out apologetic, like I’m confessing a crime.
“I’ve also never seen you at the town meetings.”
“Uh, right. Well, I’m at my practice here on Wednesday evenings.”
She stops untangling the yarn, fixing me with those perceptive hazel eyes. “But you’re here tonight.”
Heat spreads through my chest. “If there’s something I really want to do, I make time for it.”
Pink blooms across her cheeks, but she holds my gaze. The air between us thickens, charged with possibility. I can hear my own heartbeat, can see the pulse fluttering at her throat.
“Flick, I?—”
The doorbell cuts through the moment like a scalpel. I stand, trying not to show my frustration. “I should get the door. That’s dinner.”
She laughs, the sound slightly breathless. “You do that. Thanks.”
Walking away from her feels like fighting gravity. The delivery driver gets a ridiculous tip—I’m too happy to care about being reasonable. When I return, pizza box warm in my hands, Flick is hunched over her phone, brow furrowed.
