“Yeah. I think we’re good for now.”
We walk back along the path, dragging the wagon of goodies behind us. Leaving the parts from the tractor over by the garage-shed, we enter the main house from the side door.
Jake’s voice carries into the kitchen from the living room. “Will you pass me those scissors?” There’s a pause, and then he speaks again, “I think you pulled the thread too tight there.”
“Would you quit looking over my shoulder?” Archer returns.
Finley and I share a confused glance. I follow her into the living room. Archer and Jake are on the couch, and Oliver is on the recliner. All three of them are holding white fabric set in embroidery frames, tugging needles through the material.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Oliver freezes, his gaze slicing to mine.
Jake cuts at his thread with a small pair of scissors. “We’re sacrificing kittens to Beelzebub. What does it look like we’re doing?”
Archer keeps sewing. “We’re cross-stitching.”
“It’s kind of lame but also kind of fun. See.” Jake turns his so I can see it.
I read out loud. “Archer has a little pen…”
He turns it back around. “Well, it’s not done yet. Just need two more letters.”
Finley puts her hands on her hips. “Really, Jake?”
“It’s cool,” Archer says. “Mine is gonna say, ‘Oliver is a dickass.’”
Oliver pauses in his stitching, lowering the frame to his lap, his brows drawn together. “A dickass?”
“Yup. You’re kind of a dick and kind of an ass. It’s the perfect insult.” Archer lifts both hands like a showman revealing the word in lights on a billboard. “Dickass.”
Oliver nods as if this all makes perfect sense.
Finley rests her hip against the sofa next to Archer, laying a hand on his shoulder and peering at Oliver. “I suppose you have some insulting stitching going on too?”
“No. I’m making a bird.”
Everyone stares at him.
Jake leans over, trying to get a peek. “Let’s see it.”
Oliver inspects it briefly before turning the loop around to face us. “It’s not quite finished.”
It’s a bluebird. The head is complete, the body about halfway done, but the stitching is neat and tidy. He’s used various colors of blue so it’s shaded, almost like it’s ready to jump off the fabric.
“How did you…?” Jake scratches his head.
Archer laughs. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“No. I’m very good at everything.” The words are delivered without emotion.
“He’s not lying.” Archer sets his cross-stitch to the side. “We did archery during summer camp, and Oliver hit the bullseye almost every time.”
Jake releases a beleaguered sigh then sticks a hand out toward Archer. “Would you ladies quit flirting and pass me the pink thread?”
I can’t sleep. Again. I went to bed a few hours ago then woke up in the middle of the night when my phone chimed once, then again, then multiple times, one ding after another.
I miss seeing you.