Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
I thought about bribing him with flowers or chocolate, but that seemed desperate. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t a big deal either way, but it kind of was a big deal.
I had a better understanding of why Noah said he didn’t date or do the boyfriend thing. He'd been hurt, ostracized, and rejected by everyone important to him when he’d needed them most. He’d let me in…to a degree. But agreeing to this particular date would be a leap of faith. It felt that way for me too. My family was a little standoffish. And my sister was a nightmare.
So how was I supposed to convince him to go when I didn’t want to go either?
I rehearsed a “this could be fun” speech in my head at his place the following evening after work as we made idle conversation about what to binge on TV over chicken and veggie salads. When the moment was right, I’d smoothly request his presence in Santa Barbara. No hurry, no big deal.
“We can choose a movie. I haven’t seen the new Marvel one. What’s it called?” Noah squinted, nibbling his bottom lip thoughtfully.
“I don’t know, but I brought some grading I really need to finish. Do you mind?”
“Of course not. I’ll have a crafter-evening while you do your thing.”
“A what?”
“An evening of crafting fun. In the morning, I call it a crafter-morn or a crafter-doodle-doo. In the afternoon, it’s a—”
“Crafter-noon?”
He waggled his brows. “Exactly.”
I settled across from him on the sofa and got to work, balancing my laptop on my knee as I input the last batch of grades. It should have taken me no more than thirty minutes to finish up, but my attention wandered to Noah with his head bent and eyes focused on his needle and thread as he sewed impossibly tiny beads onto a T-shirt…one by one.
I was a utilitarian guy. Clothes had one purpose for me. And until Noah, I’d never looked twice at anything that shimmered and glittered, so I’d certainly never pondered the intricacy of beadwork and design.
“How do you keep track of the pattern?” I asked out of the blue.
Noah lifted the T-shirt to show me his project…a bird of some kind.
“I draw first, then plan out the color palette. I found that I do my best work when I stick to a simple design with a handful of brightly colored beads or sequins or whatever I’ve decided will pop best. This is a phoenix. I’m using a ton of orange, reds, yellow here. I bet you ten bucks I’ll dream about you tonight…as a sexy, shirtless flamethrower or a firefighter.”
I chuckled. “Thanks?”
“No, thank you.” He fluttered his lashes and bent to his task again. “Grade your papers. You’re going to make me mess up if you don’t stop staring.”
But I couldn’t stop staring. I’d watched him sew before, and I had to admit that I was struck by the incongruity of his hobbies. Soccer and beadwork. The only commonality seemed to be concentration. His brow creased as he threaded the needle through the cotton canvas the same way it did when he scanned the field, kicking a ball downfield, looking for an opening, an opportunity. So focused, so determined.
“I’m curious. Why beadwork? When did you start? Why do you like it? It’s beautiful, but it looks so…”
“Tedious?”
“Difficult. Your eyes must hurt after a while.”
“So many questions. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a scientist or something,” Noah teased, hiking his knee on the sofa as he twisted to face me. “Yes, my eyes ache and my fingers go numb if I work for too long, but I don’t overdo it unless I’m about to finish something special. As for when and why…one of the nurses used to come by to keep me company on her break when I was in the hospital. Her name was Maria. Some days she’d knit or crochet, others, she’d embroider. I didn’t even look at her at first. She could have been building grenades for all I noticed. Days passed, then weeks…and she was always there. Like a guardian-angel-slash-Cuban-grandmother who took no prisoners.”
I set my computer on the coffee table and scooted closer.
“She taught you how to do this?” I asked, fingering the hem of the cotton tee.
He nodded. “She taught me how to embroider and knit, and how to keep my hands and mind busy to avoid going bonkers. It helped. I wasn’t very good at first, which frustrated me to no end. I was used to being insta-awesome at everything I tried. Not needlework.”
“And now?”
“I’m pretty darn good. And it’s therapeutic. It soothes my nerves, and people like my work. I make tote bags, T-shirts, and accept commissions for specialty items. I sell them online and give the proceeds to a children’s hospital fund.”