The Shop on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #1)(12)
“I guess I’d better get back to work,” Brad said when I let the conversation drop. I wouldn’t have minded exchanging pleasantries for another few minutes, but I was sure he was on a schedule. So was I, in a manner of speaking. Besides, I never was much good at flirting.
“Before I go, can I help you put these boxes someplace? They’re heavier than they look.”
“I’ll manage, but thank you.” Distracted as I was by Brad’s friendly visit, I’d hardly noticed he was delivering new yarn. One of the delights of opening my own shop was being able to buy yarn at wholesale prices. Unsure of what would interest my clientele, I’d ordered a number of different varieties. My first order was for good solid wool in two dozen colors. Wool is a must, especially with the popularity of felting. That’s where the pattern is knit in a bigger size and then shrunk in hot water, which also mats the yarn, creating a consistency like felt. Next came the cotton yarns; they’re some of my favorites. The fingering weight yarns have become increasingly popular, too, as well as the imported European sock yarns. The yarns most in demand, I thought, would be the blends of wool and acrylic, so I’d ordered all the basic colors, as well as the colors that were, according to my knitting magazines, this year’s trends. Most of my shipments had arrived before I opened my doors but the smaller orders were dribbling in day by day.
“Do you live in the neighborhood?” Brad asked as he tucked the clipboard under his arm and reached for his empty cart.
“I have the apartment above the shop.”
“That’s good, because parking around here is a headache.”
As if I didn’t already know that. I wondered where he’d left his truck and supposed it must be quite a distance away. Any customers I was bound to attract would need to find parking a block or two down the street, and I worried that many people wouldn’t be willing to go to that trouble. The alleyway behind the store was open, but it wasn’t the kind of place I wanted to be caught alone, day or night.
“Thank you, Brad,” I said as he opened the door.
He gave a cheery wave and was gone. It seemed for a moment as if all the sunshine had left the room. I recognized that feeling for what it was: regret verging on misery. This wasn’t the time or the place, I told myself sternly. If I’m going to wallow in self-pity I want to make sure I’ve got an Eric Clapton CD playing and a sad movie or two in reserve. Ice cream is always a help, but only if it’s a really bad case.
There was nothing stopping me from getting involved in a relationship. Nothing except my own fears. Good grief, I’m thirty years old. Okay, here’s the truth. I don’t want to risk falling in love when in all likelihood the relationship will end. I’ve tried several times and as soon as I admit I’ve had cancer not once, but twice, I can see it in their eyes. I hate that look the most. The wary look that’s a mixture of pity and regret, of disappointment and sympathy.
Often the change in attitude is immediate, and I know it won’t be long before the relationship that once seemed so promising falls apart and dies. And with it my hopes for what women have always cherished—a husband and children. A family of my own.
I know I sound terribly sorry for myself. I’ll admit that I struggle with the subject of men and relationships. Even my girlfriends sometimes act uncomfortable around me. I do my best not to think about it. I have so much for which to be grateful, and for the sake of my sanity, I choose to concentrate on those things.
To put it simply, I don’t handle relationships well. That wasn’t always the case. BC (before cancer), I’d been popular and outgoing, with lots of friends, boys and girls. All the boys in my life eventually bailed. Actually I’d come to expect that, but I was the one who pushed my female friends away. It was foolish, I know, but I couldn’t stand to hear about all the fun they were having. In retrospect I realize I was jealous. I so desperately wanted to be like them, to laugh and stay up all night talking and confiding secrets. To go out on dates. Discover life. Instead, my daily routine consisted of doctors and hospitals and experimental drugs. I’ve never recaptured what cancer took away from me. The point is, I don’t have close friends, and now that I’m thirty, I’m afraid I’ve lost the knack for making them.
I shoved Brad Goetz out of my mind.
I’d just started to unpack the boxes and sort through my treasure of yarns when I saw a flash of brown uniform in my display window. Despite my earlier determination, I craned my neck, hoping for a glimpse of Brad. I wasn’t disappointed as he flung open the door and hurried inside.
“Lydia, are you doing anything after work tonight?”
To my utter astonishment, my mouth went dry. “Doing anything?” I repeated.
“I know it’s last-minute and all, but can I take you to dinner?”
Again I faltered, trapped between the yearning to leap at his invitation and the knowledge that, in the end, I’d be left with nothing but raw feelings and regrets.
“Sorry,” I said, hoping I conveyed just the right tone, “but I’ve got plans this evening.” I didn’t mention that it was finishing the gusset on the sock, but that was information he didn’t need.
“What about tomorrow? My ex has my son for the next two nights and I thought, you know, that we might get together and—”
Before I could give in to temptation, I shook my head. “Sorry, I can’t.”