A Stitch in Time

by Asta Idonea

  He held back at first on the subject of Finn, but as the night progressed (and his wineglass emptied), he finally told Mel about their two brief encounters. Naturally she was all overflowing enthusiasm and took a large part of the credit for Connor’s good fortune.

  “If I hadn’t forced you to attend that class, you never would have met him.”

  “Well….”

  “It’s true, Connor. You ought to make me best woman at your wedding.”

  “Wedding? We’ve barely spoken! He might be straight for all I know.”

  “I don’t think so. Not from what you’ve told me.”

  “But he thinks I’m a boxer.”

  “So? Nothing wrong with a little mystery at the start of a relationship. You can confess later, once you’ve reeled him in.”

  “You don’t think that’s deceitful?”

  “Darling, if he’s worth your affection, he won’t mind. You can blame the mix-up on your inherent shyness. It’s partly true, after all.”

  “I may not even see him again.” Even in his own ears, it didn’t sound convincing. He wasn’t fooling himself, let alone Mel. They both knew he’d do anything in his power to see Finn once more.

  Mel didn’t call him out on it, but she did grace him with a wry smile. “Oh, I think you will.”

  SHE WAS right, of course. Although, that might have had something to do with the fact that Connor arrived super early again, in the hopes of bumping into Finn. He lingered in the hallway, listening out for anyone approaching. He wanted it to look like he’d just arrived, not as if he’d been hovering like a creepy stalker.

  As soon as he heard movement, he commenced a slow amble, and sure enough, there was Finn, rounding the corner. He immediately flashed Connor another of those heart attack–inducing smiles.

  “Connor! Back again, I see. Class must be going well.”

  “Yeah. It’s great.”

  Finn hesitated. “So, listen… I’m going for a drink. Perhaps you’d like to join me after your class?”

  Connor’s pulse hitched into a frantic rhythm, even as his brain’s ability to function declined. “Oh. Uh.”

  “No pressure. If you don’t fancy it, or if you have somewhere else to be, that’s fine.”

  “No, I do… fancy it.” And now he was blushing; he could feel it. Could he get any more obvious?

  “Great. The Turk’s Head. It’s just around the corner. I have a couple of quick errands to run. Then I’ll head over. See you there in two hours.”

  “Two?”

  “Yeah. That’s how long your class lasts, isn’t it?”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  Finn winked. “Later, then.”

  Connor wasn’t sure how he concentrated during the following ninety minutes, but somehow he managed to knock out a near-perfect row, earning praise from Angela.

  When the session ended, he took his time packing up. He still had half an hour to kill. If he got there too early, Finn would know he wasn’t really doing boxing, and he wasn’t ready to confess his darkest secret yet. Not on their first date.

  Was it even a date? Could he call it that? Finn had winked at him, but maybe he winked at everyone. He might be a serial winker. He might only intend this as a friendly drink. Connor couldn’t make assumptions.

  While waiting for the minutes to tick by, he glanced at the timetable pinned to the cork message board near the front door. Perhaps he could work out what class Finn was taking. There were a few craft groups earlier in the evening, but he immediately discounted those. That left kickboxing and judo. Probably the former, he decided. Though it could go either way.

  When he finally reached the pub, Connor’s nerves started to fray. Nonetheless, he forced himself to open the door and step inside. He looked around until he spotted Finn seated at a small table in the back corner. When their eyes met, Finn beckoned him over.

  “What’s your poison? First round’s on me.”

  Connor shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. “Pale ale. Only a half, thanks. I’m driving, so two halves will be my limit.”

  “Gotcha. Back in a few.”

  During Finn’s absence, Connor wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. When he returned, a brief, awkward silence descended.

  “So,” Finn said suddenly and loudly. He moderated his tone as he continued with “Tell me about yourself. What do you do?”

  “For work? Nothing exciting. Just admin in an office.”

  “Well, I can beat you on the boring jobs front. I work in a bank.”

  “Ouch!” Connor made a mock grimace, then laughed. Finn joined in, and their shared joviality broke the ice.

  From there, they chatted about films and books. They discovered they liked all the same things, and as they agreed time and time again, on a wide variety of issues, Connor started to relax. That is, until Finn posed the ultimate conundrum.

  “What made you take up boxing?”

  Here was another golden opportunity to fess up. The rational part of his brain told Connor to admit the truth, yet instead he found himself saying, “Self-defense mostly. Though I also wanted a new hobby.” He paused, but his brain still didn’t have enough time to catch up before he added, “Something manly, you know?”

  “Manly?” A crease appeared in Finn’s forehead.

  “Yeah,” Connor continued, his mouth well and truly out of his brain’s control. “People assume if a guy’s gay he must be into namby-pamby stuff like theater and crafts. And I didn’t want to play to stereotype.”

  “You think crafts are for sissies? Is that what you’re saying?”

  There was an edge to Finn’s tone that raised a lump in Connor’s throat. What was he saying? He didn’t really believe anything he’d just spewed. But to back down and contradict himself now would make him look foolish. He settled for what he hoped was a middle-of-the-road “Kinda.”

  The relaxed atmosphere of a moment ago was gone, and tension sparked in the air.

  Finn downed the remainder of his drink in a single swallow, then rose. “Thanks for coming tonight, Connor, but I don’t think we should do it again.”

  “Why? If I’ve said something—”

  “You blame others for stereotyping, but you do it yourself. Masculinity doesn’t have to be measured by violence. It shouldn’t be measured by violence.” He slammed his bag onto the table and opened the zip. Inside were several balls of yarn and a set of knitting needles.

  Knitting? Connor now saw his mistake. He’d made assumptions, stupid assumptions. Finn was like him; they were two of a kind. He’d been a complete and utter fool, but once he explained, it would all be fine.

  “Finn, I—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Finn closed the duffel and slung it over his shoulder. “Enjoy the boxing. I hope it gives you what you need to feel better about yourself.”

  Connor struggled to find the words, desperate to tell the truth and set things right. His throat was tight, but he managed to squeeze out “But I—”

  Too late.

  Finn had already pushed his way through the crowd and was even now disappearing out the door, leaving Connor emotionally reeling while superglued to his seat. Two minutes ago, Connor had really thought they had something, but his stupidity had ruined it all.

  Somehow he got up. He glanced at the beer left in his glass, but he couldn’t stomach it. Instead, he stumbled across the room, desperate for fresh air. Tears threatened, but he blinked them away. He wanted to get home, and he couldn’t drive while bawling his eyes out. That would have to wait until he was indoors.

  In the end, by the time he made it to his sofa, the urge to sob had departed, replaced with a hollow numbness. There was only one thing he could do now, so he pulled out his phone and called Mel.

  FINN’S ANGER was nearly at boiling point as he marched toward the bus stop. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was almost madder at himself than at Connor. Though he was plenty irate at him too. It had seemed to be going so well. They’d had so much in commo
n, and there’d been definite sparkage. But it was always the same. No one could accept that it was okay for him to enjoy both working out and knitting. People always wanted one or the other, with no in-betweens. He was fucking sick of the stereotyping. Perhaps he should make a calendar of hunky, naked knitters to prove his point. That was even a great title: Naked Knitters 2020.

  He laughed aloud at the idea, and his ire dropped to a simmer. It would probably be mostly women who bought it, but it might “raise awareness.” That seemed to be the catchphrase for any and every cause these days. In his experience, you could raise awareness all you wanted. It didn’t mean you’d change a single person’s views.

  When he reached the bus stop, he slumped onto the plastic bench and dropped his bag at his feet. With his anger dissipating, he became morose instead. He knew that feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to solve anything. However, wallowing was easy, and he didn’t feel like making an effort at present.

  The bus pulled up, and its doors opened. Finn climbed aboard, suddenly bone-weary. He shuffled to the back seat and flopped down. He had room to stretch out. The only other passenger was an old lady, who got off two stops later, so he mostly enjoyed a peaceful ride.

  Facing Connor again was going to be tough. He could try to avoid him, but they were bound to cross paths as they headed to and from class. Maybe he’d take a short break. He didn’t really need to attend the class anymore; he only went for the camaraderie. He could ring Angela tomorrow and say he wouldn’t be in for the rest of the semester. That would be a decent cooling-off period. Then he’d resume in the New Year. He’d be over it by then. He’d be able to walk past Connor in the corridor without feeling overwhelmed.

  His phone rang. It was Rosalie, doubtless wanting to know how his “date” had gone. He almost ignored it, but he changed his mind. She wasn’t one to give up, so he’d have to tell her at some point. Might as well get it done now.

  After drawing in a deep breath, he accepted the call.

  OVER THE past seven days, aided by Mel’s commiserations and counsel, Connor had gotten past his initial meltdown. True, he’d messed up in every conceivable way, but there was still time to put it right. He would apologize, explain, and beg for a second chance—on his knees in the middle of the hallway, if need be—and they could start afresh.

  He arrived too early again, and the wait by the front door seemed interminable, the minutes ticking by so slowly he was beginning to think the clock had stopped. Sweat gathered under his arms—an effect of his nerves rather than the central heating—but he didn’t remove his coat. It hid the damp patches.

  At last he heard voices approaching. As their owners rounded the corner, he recognized some of Finn’s friends. But Finn wasn’t with them. From the glares cast his way by some of the younger women in the posse, he guessed they’d all heard what he’d done, though. They passed without a word, and he didn’t dare speak to them.

  Actually, now that he considered it, he was mad to have thought Finn was taking a sports class. He’d always left with this same group of women, and although Connor knew he shouldn’t judge solely on appearances, he remembered now that he’d never seen any of the others carrying anything remotely resembling a gym bag or wearing any clothing that implied physical activity. Hindsight was a bitch. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he was hindsight’s bitch. Yes, that felt about right.

  He was despondent and distracted in class, and Angela noticed. As the others worked, she pulled up a chair beside him.

  “What’s wrong, dear? You aren’t yourself.”

  “Nothing. I mean, something, but….” He shook his head. He had no intention of airing his personal problems here. Yet, a moment later, he found himself blurting out, “I met this great guy—Finn—but I totally blew it.”

  “Not my Finn, from knitting?”

  Connor gaped. “You know him?”

  “He takes the class I run before this one. Usually, anyway. He called a few days ago to say he’d not be coming tonight. He mentioned guy troubles, but I’m sure he said it was a lad from boxing who’d upset him.”

  As they worked, Connor explained everything. He found it easy to talk to Angela. She reminded him of his grandmother, not least in the way she held her tongue throughout his narration, waiting until he’d finished before saying, “Well, dear, you’ve gotten yourself in hot water and no mistake.”

  “I know. I thought if I could just talk to him…. But he wasn’t here.”

  “No, and he’s told me he’s not coming back until Christmas breakup.”

  Connor’s mood plummeted still further. “But that’s weeks away!”

  “Yes, but maybe that’s no bad thing. It gives him time to cool down and it gives you time to finish that scarf.”

  “The scarf?”

  “In my experience, the right gift goes a long way in situations like these.”

  FOR THE next four weeks, Connor slogged away at his scarf. There were a few mistakes, but with help from both Mel and Angela, he made it to the penultimate lesson before Christmas with only the fringing left to complete. During the final ten minutes of class, Angela did the judging. Connor’s scarf didn’t win, of course, but he was still pleased with his effort, and Angela commended him on his dedication and swift progress. As they packed up, she reminded them that there would be no formal session the following week. They were welcome to bring projects with them, but the night would mostly be about drinks and nibbles.

  At home that evening, Connor took a long look at his finished scarf, snapped a picture on his phone, for posterity, and then wrapped the item with care, adding a red ribbon in a neat bow. He selected a gift label and printed “Finn” neatly across its surface using a glittery gold gel pen.

  Now all he could do was wait… and hope.

  FINN WAS busy answering emails, so when his phone rang, he grabbed it without checking the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Finn, dear? It’s Angela.”

  “Angela, hi.” He stopped what he was doing and sank back in his chair. “How’s everything?”

  “Good. Well, my arthritis has been flaring up of late, but when you get to my age, what can you do?”

  “Can I help with anything?” He knew she was probably downplaying the severity. She never liked to make a fuss—not on her own behalf, anyway.

  “No, no. You’re sweet to ask, but I’ll manage fine. The doctor gave me some new pills. No, what I’m calling about is that young man of yours.”

  Finn shuffled in his seat. “What about him?”

  “He’s a good lad, and I think you should give him a second chance. I know you won’t regret it.”

  “Oh yeah? How do you know that?”

  “I’ve met him. Look, I know there was a huge misunderstanding between you, but it’s not too late to set things straight.”

  A glimmer of hope awoke in Finn’s mind, but still he hesitated to grasp it. He’d been stung too many times before. He had no intention of walking into a similar scenario again. “I don’t know….”

  “Trust me. You two are perfect for each other. Was I wrong about Rob and Jane? That was a case of hate at first sight if ever there was one. But I said it would all work out in the end, and now look at them—married two years with a little one on the way.”

  “I suppose….”

  “There you are, then. Have you finished your scarf?”

  “Nearly. Only the tassels left. I’ve been a bit distracted.”

  “It would make a nice gift, don’t you think? I mean, if there was someone you wanted to give a second chance to….”

  Finn grimaced. “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t need a matchmaker.”

  “Of course you do, dear,” she said matter-of-factly, brooking no argument. “So, you’ll come next week?”

  “I figured I’d restart in the New Year.”

  “No, you can’t miss the party! Nor can you give a Christmas gift in January.”

  Her mind was made up, it was clear, a
nd if there was one thing for certain: Angela always got her way in the end. He’d never win, so further protestations were futile. He might as well surrender with good grace.

  “Okay, I’ll come.”

  “Good. See you next week, then. And finish that scarf. I’m sure it looks wonderful. Goodbye, dear.”

  Angela hung up and left Finn pondering. He was a mite irritated at the interference, but he knew Angela meant well. And maybe she was even right. Over the weeks, as his anger and upset cooled, he’d realized Connor couldn’t take all the blame. He’d made certain assumptions too, proving the truth behind the age-old adage of not judging a book by its cover. The gift of the scarf might be a nice gesture, after all, and surely everyone deserved a second chance.

  He’d go, he decided. He’d be in Angela’s bad books if he didn’t. Plus, it couldn’t hurt to give things with Connor another try. If it still didn’t work out, at least they’d have given it their best shot and could hopefully part on better terms than they’d left things at their last meeting.

  WHEN THE final Thursday before Christmas arrived, Connor made his way to the community center. His pulse was racing, making him feel light-headed. And he was once again too warm in his thick sweater and winter coat, despite the cold drizzle that had persisted all day. He was trying not to interpret the gloomy atmosphere as a bad omen, but it was hard to be positive when faced with gray skies and biting gusts.

  He stood in the hallway, shifting from foot to foot, unable to keep still. The wrapped gift was a leaden weight in his hands. When he saw Finn approaching, he froze, struggling to draw breath to speak. He was going to mess up again. He just knew it. He’d spent hours rehearsing his speech in front of the mirror, but now the practiced words wouldn’t come. They seemed too trite, and far too limited to express his feelings and regrets.

  Finn looked at him.

  Connor opened and closed his mouth, but no sound issued.