Ten Scarves To Say Goodbye

I have a high-paying client who frequently commissions me to hand-knit custom scarves for astronomical prices.

Until this latest order, when he transferred an extra three thousand dollars with a note: Make this one perfect. Shes the one I like best.

The day after I shipped it to him, my gorgeous, brooding, and devastatingly poor boyfriend quietly handed me a familiar package.

I stared at it. "You knit this?"

He pressed his lips together, looking almost shy. "Yeah. Do you like it?"

I smiled, my teeth grinding so hard my jaw ached. "I love it. In fact, why don't you knit me one every single week?"

I gripped the impossibly soft yarn of the scarf, letting out a breathless sound of amazement.

"The stitching, the cast-off its flawless. Roman, you put so much heart into this!"

The more I praised him, the tighter my fingers curled into the wool.

I was squeezing it so hard the fabric was warping out of shape.

His slightly overgrown dark hair fell across his brow, half-concealing those striking, intense eyes. A faint, bashful smile touched his lips. "As long as you like it."

I tilted my head, pouring concern into my voice. "It must have taken you forever, right? To knit something this intricate as a beginner? It's honestly incredible."

I kept my eyes locked on his face, watching for the slightest fracture in his expression.

He pauseda hesitation so microscopic youd miss it if you weren't looking for it. Then he let out a soft hum, his voice a cool, clear baritone. "It was a little difficult. But if you like it, it was worth it."

My hands balled into fists before I threw my arms around his neck, burying my face in his chest. I laughed, a bright, brittle sound. "I love it to death. In fact, why don't you knit me one every single week?"

The air in the room flatlined.

Half a minute passed. Then, he agreed. "Okay."

A few seconds later, his hand hovered over my shoulder. "Are you shaking?"

Yeah. With absolute rage.

My smile twisted, growing rigid against his shirt, and I forced a wet, choked sound into my throat. "I'm just so happy. Its the first time anyone has ever made something by hand just for me. I feel so lucky. Just impossibly lucky."

By the end of the sentence, I was literally grinding my teeth.

My eyes were rednot from tears, but from the sheer, blinding heat of my anger.

Roman awkwardly, mechanically, rubbed my back. "If you like it, I'll just keep knitting them for you."

After Roman walked me back to my dorm, a notification pinged on my Depop app.

Z: [I need you to knit me one a week. Can you do that?]

My thumbs flew across the glass screen: [Five thousand dollars a piece.]

Normally, I charged anywhere from a hundred to maybe three hundred bucks for a custom knit, depending on the yarn. I got steady clients, and it was a decent side hustle to pay for my textbooks.

That was, until this user named "Z" slid into my DMs.

When he first reached out, I had typed up a whole paragraph explaining the different price points for merino wool, cashmere, and cable-knit patterns. He ignored it and immediately transferred a thousand dollars via Venmo. [Just use the best.]

It screamed clueless rich guy with more money than sense.

If he was offering, I wasn't going to say no.

After that, he became a regular. I even set up a hidden, exorbitant listing on my shop just for him to click and buy. Once finished, Id overnight the scarves to the address he provided.

It was right here in the city.

Unsurprisingly, it was a zip code that belonged to an ultra-exclusive, gated enclave in the hills. The kind of place where the driveways are longer than my entire street.

But not in a million years did I think "Z" was my sweet, beautiful, perpetually broke, tragically brooding boyfriend.

The moment I sent the five-thousand-dollar price tag, my screen lit up.

Z: [?]

Me: [High demand lately. My rates went up.]

The chat bubble stayed empty for a long time.

Just as I debated deleting the message and backpedaling, a notification popped up. He had purchased five of my standard thousand-dollar listings.

I let out a cold, hollow laugh.

I immediately opened the Amazon app, found a bundle of cheap, machine-knit scarves for twenty bucks, and had them shipped to my dorm. Once they arrived, Id just slap a new label on them and mail them to his mansion.

It didn't matter. I was the one who was going to end up receiving them anyway.

After checking out, I opened iMessage. The only pinned thread at the top of my screen had a new text:

Roman: [At work. Thinking about you.]

My brow furrowed.

I hit the FaceTime icon immediately. It rang and rang, the digital tone echoing in the quiet of my room, until it automatically disconnected.

Twenty minutes later, he texted: [Manager caught me looking at my phone and yelled at me. Everything okay?]

Me: [Nothing. Just missing you too.]

In those twenty minutes, I had grabbed my bike and pedaled furiously across town to the dingy little diner where he supposedly worked.

I walked in, breathless. "Carol, hey, about that guy from my psych class I recommended"

Before I could finish, the diner owner cut me off, her eyes wide and exasperated. "Look, Harper, I only hired him because you were one of the best waitresses I ever had!"

"What happened?"

"Day one, and he picks a fight with a customer! He was wearing some crazy watcha vintage Patek Philippe, or something? The customer made a joke about it, asked to see it, and your boy told him to back off because if he broke it, he wouldn't be able to afford the repair in ten lifetimes!"

Carol pressed a hand to her chest, her face flushed with residual stress. "Who even knows if the damn thing was real? If its fake, why couldn't the guy look at it? And if it was real what the hell is a guy like that doing bussing tables in my diner? Were you trying to play a joke on me?"

A cold tremor started at the base of my spine. My voice shook. "Is is he still here in the back?"

"He quit twenty minutes into his shift!" Carol barked a harsh laugh. "Turned my dining room upside down and walked out without even asking for his tips."

I stood there, anchored to the sticky linoleum.

I didn't know what to say.

When I finally stepped back outside, the night wind carried a biting chill. It swept through my thin jacket, and a violent shiver wracked my body.

Carol waved me off from the window, her face twisted in disgust. "Go home, Harper. I don't know what kind of sick game you college kids are playing, but we always treated you right here. Unbelievable."

"I'm sorry," I mumbled to the glass, though she couldn't hear me.

On the bike ride home, I pulled over under a flickering streetlamp and scrolled through my text history with Roman.

I knew he was poor. I knew he skipped meals to save cash. So, whenever I finished a big knitting commission, I would quietly Venmo him a fifty or a hundred bucks here and there for "groceries."

It wasn't much. But it was money I had scraped together from my own meager living expenses, money left over only after I made the monthly payment on the massive debt my deadbeat father had left behind when he died. My mother and I bled ourselves dry every month just to keep the collection agencies at bay.

I thought Roman and I were the same. Two bruised, exhausted people huddling together for warmth in a freezing world.

Turns out, I was just a prop in his little poverty-tourism roleplay.

And he was cheating on me.

All those other scarves I had meticulously knitted over the monthsthey went to someone else.

As the recipient of the one he "liked best," was I supposed to feel honored?

By the time the initial, violent wave of emotion crested and broke, a chilling clarity settled over me.

After careful consideration, I decided it wasn't time to blow the lid off this thing yet.

After all, I was currently positioned to extract five thousand dollars a week from this guy's trust fund.

And I didn't even have to knit the damn things anymore.

If Roman was getting off on playing the starving artist and acting out some indie-movie romance with a tragic poor girl, exposing him now would ruin it. His ego would bruise, his novelty would wear off, and Id lose my golden goose.

While the novelty was still fresh, I needed to bleed him for all he was worth.

Still.

Was there a way to mess with him without breaking the illusion?

I sat on my dorm bed, plotting.

Three days later, I called him. "Are we still on for our date tomorrow?"

His voice was smooth, immediate. "Absolutely."

I softened my tone, dialing up the sweetness. "Is the scarf ready? Its been a few days, and since we haven't seen each other, I just know youve been working so hard on it, right?"

A beat of silence on the line. "...Right."

"Great. See you tomorrow."

The second I ended the call, my Depop notification went off.

Z: [Is it done?]

I glanced at my desk, where the cheap, machine-made Amazon scarf Id picked up from the mailroom was sitting in a plastic bag.

I read the message and ignored it.

Z: [Rush order.]

Z: [Can you deliver it tonight? Your shipping is always next-day, so we must be in the same city.]

Me: [That's going to be difficult.]

A notification from Venmo appeared at the top of my screen. Z paid you $5,000.00.

Me: [Fine.]

Me: [Same address as before?]

Z: [Yes.]

Another notification. Z paid you 0-0,000.00.

Z: [For the inconvenience. Bring it yourself or hire a courier, I don't care.]

I picked up the twenty-dollar Amazon scarf, inspecting it.

Honestly? The machine tension was probably more even than my hand-knitting.

I opened an app to hail a local courier. It was past midnight, and the estate was on the complete opposite side of the city, tucked high in the hills.

The app suggested a $200 fee. I winced and hit 'Request'.

No one took it.

I bumped it to $300. I waited thirty minutes. Still nothing.

Any higher and Id be cutting into my own ridiculous profit margin.

Sighing, I grabbed a black baseball cap, oversized sunglasses, and a surgical mask. I stuffed the cheap scarf into a nice boutique gift box Id saved, and snuck out of my dorm into the night.

The gated community was a labyrinth of aggressively manicured hedges and winding asphalt.

Even after the security guard at the front gate called the house to clear me and gave me a map, I got turned around three times before I finally found the sweeping, modern architectural monstrosity that matched the address.

I pulled out my phone.

Me: [I'm at the gate.]

I pulled the brim of my cap down further, pushed my sunglasses up my nose, and pinched the wire of my mask tight over the bridge. Before I left, I had even spritzed myself with my roommates sickeningly sweet vanilla perfume, just to mask my own scent.

I absolutely could not let him recognize me.

But standing there in the cold, staring at the massive frosted-glass double doors, a treacherous thought crept in.

What if he does?

What would that scene even look like?

But reality quickly informed me that I was overthinking it.

A girl in a sleek, tailored wool coat, a Birkin resting casually in the crook of her arm, walked up the driveway right beside me.

She punched a code into the digital keypad with practiced ease.

The heavy doors swung inward. A blast of heavily heated air rushed out, carrying the thumping bass of a house track.

There were dozens of people inside. It was a massive, pulsing party.

The girl turned her head, her perfectly winged eyeliner sharp as she assessed me. Her gaze dropped to the boutique box in my hands. "Delivery? Who bought it? Was it Ro? Whats inside?"

She reached out, tapping the cardboard with a perfectly manicured nail, though she didn't try to open it.

I kept my mouth shut, my eyes locked on the scarf wrapped around her neck.

My scarf. The thick, cream-colored merino wool Id spent two weeks knitting last month.

She rolled her eyes, bored by my silence. "Whatever. Want me to just take it in for him?"

Right at that moment, a voice cut through the thumping music. Low, lazy, and magnetic.

"Why are you standing out there? Its freezing."

The girl and I turned at the same time.

Roman was leaning casually against the doorframe. His dark hair was pushed back, untamed, revealing the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face.

Gone was the brooding, silent, down-on-his-luck college boy. This guy looked like he owned the world.

His dark eyes drifted from the girl to the box in my hands. "I ordered that. Bring it in for me, will you?"

"Sure," the girl chirped, snatching the box out of my hands.

The amber lighting from the foyer spilled out onto the driveway.

Roman stood up straight, preparing to pull the door shut. He cast a careless, dismissive glance my waybut then his gaze snagged on my sunglasses.

In that microsecond, my heart slammed against my ribs.

In my rush to leave the dorm, I had grabbed the first pair of sunglasses I found. They were a cheap, plastic pair Roman and I had won at a boardwalk carnival game a month ago.

One of his dark eyebrows arched upward. His lips parted. "You the seller?"

I gave a stiff, jerky nod.

He let out a short, derisive scoff, casually looking me up and down. "Wearing sunglasses at midnight? Take the grand I tipped you and buy yourself a decent designer pair. Those look ridiculous."

I froze.

With that, Roman turned his back, the heavy glass door clicking shut behind him.

The pulsing music and the golden warmth were instantly severed, leaving me alone in the biting cold.

I walked slowly down the long driveway until I hit a streetlamp. I pulled the sunglasses off my face, running my thumb over the cheap plastic frame.

The paint was already chipping. It was uneven, fading at the edges.

When I won them at that rigged carnival game, I was so thrilled. I thought they looked chic and edgy.

I remembered putting them on, turning to Roman with a massive grin. "How do I look?"

The tips of his ears had gone pink. He had nodded softly. "Beautiful."

Because of that, I had worn them to death. I cherished them.

But looking at them now, under the harsh, buzzing glow of the streetlamp?

They just looked cheap. Pathetic, even.

The next morning, I walked out of my dorm building.

As I passed the communal dumpsters, my hand reaching into my tote bag, I locked eyes with Roman.

The moment he saw me, the corners of his mouth tipped up into that familiar, quiet smile.

My hand stopped mid-air.

I had forgotten to throw the sunglasses away last night. I was planning to toss them this morning.

Roman closed the distance between us. He pulled a scarf from his bag and gently wrapped it around my neck.

The twenty-dollar Amazon special.

"Do you like it?" he asked, his voice low and intimate.

I stretched my lips into a smile, pulling my hand out of my bag empty. "You knit this so beautifully. I love it."

His smile deepened, not a flicker of guilt in his eyes. "I'm glad."

I let him take my hand.

I didn't even bother trying to interrogate him about his "job" at the diner or the late nights "knitting." He wouldn't panic; hed just smoothly spin another lie.

We took the bus to the local amusement park.

Just as we queued up for the first ride, a slender, terribly familiar figure appeared in my peripheral vision.

It was the girl from the mansion.

She was wearing a designer trench coat and carrying the same Birkin. She was staring right at us.

Instinctively, I looked up at Roman.

He met her gaze. I saw the microscopic lift of his eyebrowa silent warning.

A bright, overly sweet smile bloomed on the girl's face as she marched over to us. "Roman! This must be your girlfriend."

He gave a noncommittal hum.

I kept my face perfectly blank. "A friend of yours?"

Roman stared at the girl for a few seconds, lacing his fingers through mine. "Not really."

"Hey," she pouted, a playful, bratty sound. "Don't pretend you don't know me." She tapped her chin, feigning thought. "Hmm Roman grew up struggling, right? So my family hired him to tutor me in high school. I guess that makes me his former boss."

As she said it, she looked right at Roman, her eyes dancing with wicked amusement.

Romans gaze turned icy. "Boss?"

"Yeah. You should be a little nicer to your employer, don't you think? Poor boy." She beamed.

If I didn't know the truth, my heart would have broken for him in that moment. I would have hated this rich, entitled girl for humiliating my hardworking boyfriend.

Knowing what I knew now?

I just wanted to laugh until I threw up.

Were they seriously flirting right in front of my face?

"What are you guys riding? Let me tag along." The girl pulled out her phone, waving it at Roman. "I actually need someone to carry my bags and hang out with me today. Five hundred bucks to be my personal assistant for the afternoon. Good deal, right?"

Romans expression went completely dead. He glared at her. "Don't ruin my date with my girlfriend."

The girl looked at me. "Five hundred dollars is a lot of money. You're going to stop your boyfriend from earning a living?"

"Do you want to earn it?" I asked Roman, my voice totally flat.

He hesitated for two seconds. "Might as well."

I dropped the subject. I didn't say another word.

Romans thumb stroked the back of my hand. He leaned in, whispering, "I'll transfer the money to you tonight."

I just smiled.

Before we got on the drop tower, the attendant told everyone to remove loose articles, including scarves.

The girl leaned against the metal railing, waving us off. "I hate heights. You two go ahead."

Roman pulled me toward the seats. "Scared?"

"No," I said.

His lips pressed together. "Well, I am."

I glanced at him. Those dark, bottomless eyes were locked onto mine, waiting. Expecting me to comfort him.

Despite everything, the muscle memory kicked in. I reached up and brushed my knuckles against his cheek.

You play the part so well, rich boy.

When the ride was over, Roman held my hand tightly as we walked back to the lockers.

I noticed a small crowd gathered around the cubbies.

When we pushed through, I saw my scarfthe Amazon onesoaking wet, covered in a thick, sticky green liquid.

The girl was standing there, examining her manicure without a shred of remorse. "Oops. I bought an iced matcha and it just slipped right out of my hand. How much was it? I'll Venmo you."

It didn't look spilled. It looked like she had taken the lid off and poured the entire venti cup directly onto the fabric.

I looked at Roman, pouring devastation into my voice. "But you made this for me."

The girl crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at him. "Since when do you knit?"

Roman looked down at the ruined scarf, his face completely devoid of emotion.

Then he looked at me. "It's fine. I'll just knit you another one in a few days."

"Bella. My patience is running out."

Roman was staring blankly ahead, rhythmically flicking a silver lighter open and closed in his hand. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

I was standing perfectly still behind the corner of the churro stand, my eyes cast downward, listening to every word.

Bella rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Your little girlfriend reeks of student loans and thrift stores. Aren't you embarrassed being seen with her in public?"

"She's gorgeous," Roman replied flatly.

"The guys and I have a betting pool on how long you can keep this up. I'm dangerously close to losing. If you're struggling to shake her, I can help you."

Roman scoffed. "Fuck off. I'm not bored of her yet."

Bella sighed. "You're sick, you know that? Did you seriously tell her you knitted that scarf yourself?"

"You think I'm going to spend hours knitting a scarf just to play house?"

A few seconds of silence passed.

"Wait," Bella said, her tone shifting to suspicion. "That scarf you gave me is it from the same seller as hers?"

"Yeah." His voice was utterly bored.

Bella hesitated. "Did you buy different price tiers? Because the one you gave me is pure, heavy cashmere. I looked closely at hers todaythe yarn was cheap acrylic. The stitching was fine, but it was absolutely not the same quality as mine"

Romans brow furrowed. I could hear the shift in his posture. "What?"

Bella let out a triumphant laugh. "The seller scammed you! They probably realized you have deep pockets and started sending you garbage to widen their margins."

Me, hiding behind the corner:

Don't ruin my hustle, you spoiled brat!

I already lost my relationship, am I going to lose my business too?!

I pulled out my phone.

Sure enough, a second later, a notification from "Z" popped up, demanding an explanation.

I swiped it away. Id play dumb until I got back to my dorm.

"You don't even need to worry about it," Bella drawled lazily. "Your girlfriend clearly can't tell the difference anyway. She can't spot cheap yarn, and she can't spot a fake poor boy. God, she is spectacularly stupid"

"Enough." Romans voice dropped ten degrees, slicing through her sentence. "I'm taking her to a movie. Stop following us."

Bella clicked her tongue. "Fine. Have your fun for now. Just don't forget we're supposed to announce our engagement soon."

My head snapped up.

For a second, all the ambient noise of the amusement parkthe screaming on the rollercoasters, the carnival musiccompletely faded out.

After a long, suffocating silence.

I heard Roman's voice. Clear. Resigned. "I know."

I turned on my heel and walked away.

I don't know how much time passed before Roman found me.

He took my freezing hands in his, rubbing them. "I thought I told you to wait inside the bakery. Why are you out in the cold?"

I didn't say anything.

Just then, a park employee pushing a roving merchandise cart spotted us and trotted over, beaming.

"Are you two a couple? Were running a promotion today! Show me your admission tickets, and Ill take a free Polaroid for you!"

She reached into her cart and pulled out a fuzzy headband with cat ears. "These look so cute in the photos."

I shook my head instantly, taking a step back. "No thanks."

Romans eyes drifted to the headband, then down to me. "I want to see it."

The employee sensed a sale. "Come on! You're both so ridiculously good-looking. Its a great souvenir."

Roman gently squeezed my hand, his dark eyes softening. "Just one picture. Please?"

Whatever.