Page 37 of Net and Chill
“What?”
“Gussets. Explain to me why you add a gusset to a pair of pants if a hockey player’s butt doesn’t fit into them.”
I have no idea where he’s going with this, and I’m slightly concerned that my father might be having sympathy concussion symptoms. Sighing, I tell him, “If an item of clothing is too restrictive, I add a hidden gusset, which is extra fabric that’s added to a seam, to provide more room and reduce stress on the fabric and thread.”
“You add it to allow freedom of movement. Right?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t mean the suit your client brought in isn’t the same suit. You’re enhancing it. You’ve been solving this problem for other people since you were a teenager. Now you get to do it for yourself.”
I sit with that for a minute. Examine thestructure of these words. This concept. “I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. Explain.”
He smiles at me. Mr. Ponytail Dad is soooo pleased with himself and this faulty metaphor. “A gusset doesn’t weaken the garment. It makes it stronger and more functional. The fabric doesn’t lose anything by expanding. It gains a range of motion it didn’t have before,” he says. “You aren’t cutting anything out of your life if you move to New York, sweetheart. You’re adding a gusset. The no-strings thing you were doing…that didn’t give either of you the freedom you thought it would. You don’t cut the ties to something you think you care too much about if it’s a good thing. You add a gusset. The alternative to expanding isn’t staying safely intact.”
God dammit, Tommy Cross, now I understand why Mom is still so in love with you even though you wear Crocs.
I’ve been so afraid of losing the shape of my life—Kenton, my parents, Pressed & Blessed, Cross Stitch, Penny, everything I care about besides Craig that I didn’t notice I was already straining at the seams. Craig shaped himself into my life four summers ago, and I’ve been trying to contain thatever since, and the fabric has been pulling and pulling and pulling.
But I don’t need to choose between my life and him. I need a gusset. A mental and emotional gusset. This doesn’t mean I stop being myself. Cross Stitch can move with me to New York. I can come back to Kenton. My parents aren’t going anywhere. The shop isn’t going anywhere. Kenton will still be Kenton. Penny will still be my best friend. I’ll FaceTime with her and the baby regularly. I’m not leaving my life or tearing it apart, I’m letting it expand.
Like beautiful fabric around a big, beautiful, round butt.
“I love you so much,” I tell my dad.
“Love you too, Biddy. Go take care of our guy.”
When I tiptoe back into the bedroom, I can tell just from the sound of Craig’s breathing pattern that he’s awake. I place a sixty-four-ounce stainless-steel water bottle on the bedside table and say, “Hi. You thirsty?”
“Yes. Tell me how hot I am.”
Well, that’s a good sign. “You are, by far, the hottest goalie in the NHL. Would you like some water to put out that fire?”
“Yes.”
He sits up, managing well on his own. He even turns and reaches for the bottle. Another good sign. After gulping down an alarming amount of water and placing the bottle back on the table he smacks his lips together and says, “Sex?”
“Not yet.”
“When?”
“Twenty-four hours at minimum.”
He reaches for his phone. “Setting a timer.”
“Don’t look at your phone.”
“Then you set a timer.”
“Fine. I will set a timer on my phone.”
While I’m setting a timer for twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes, he puts his phone down on the bedside table, scrubs his very stubbly face with his hand, and says, “What about my kids?”
“Uh-oh. Say more.” I put my phone back in my pocket and sit by his side.
“Goalie camp.”
“Ah. I talked to Coach Barrett about this. He decided to cancel it. Coach is too busy to run it himself and a guy named Winslow offered to run it this summer, but Coach and the Tanners decided to just cancel it and give refunds.”
