Page 21 of We Can Do
Her smile unfolds slowly, a combination of sweetness and something else that makes my breath catch. “Thanks, Noah. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“See you then.” The words barely make it out intact.
She collects Devin from her table, and I watch them head toward the front door. The bell chimes as they exit, and the moment Alexis disappears from view, an unexpected emptiness settles over me.
I shake my head and pivot toward the kitchen. Whatever hold my new editor has over me, there’s one guaranteed way to break it: getting elbow deep in a batch of olive and herb dough.
The kitchen embraces me with its familiar warmth. I head straight for my olive and herb starter, already anticipating the meditative rhythm of kneading.
But something’s wrong.
The starter hasn’t risen properly. The surface should be dotted with bubbles, doubled in size from this morning’s feeding. Instead, it sits flat and lifeless in its container. The smell hits me next—wrong, all wrong.
I look around the empty kitchen. My eyes land on a bag of self-rising flour sitting on the counter near the starter.
Understanding dawns like ice water in my veins. Someone used self-rising flour instead of all-purpose. The chemical leaveners would kill the wild yeast, destroying the starter completely.
I grab the ruined starter and dump it in the trash with more force than necessary. Every single person who works here knows the difference between the flours. The bags are clearly labeled with bold black letters.
My gaze travels to the back door that opens into the alley. Closed, but the deadbolt isn’t engaged. We always keep that door locked unless someone’s taking out trash or receiving a delivery. Always.
The pieces click together with sickening clarity. The wrong flour. The unlocked door.
This was definitely intentional. Someone is sabotaging me.
Chapter Nine
Alexis
I tap my fingers against the worn wooden table, reading over the review one more time. “The crust is perfectly crisp and caramelized, offering a satisfying crunch with every bite. The interior is an airy, chewy delight, with just the right amount of tanginess...”
My fingers hover above the keyboard. There has to be more to say about Rye Again, but every word I’ve written is true. The bakery deserves every bit of praise, and it has nothing to do with trying to make amends with Noah. The bread is genuinely extraordinary.
I reach for the caraway and coriander rye loaf sitting beside my laptop—one of several Noah sent home with me last week. The plastic wrap crinkles as I tear off another piece. I’ve been rationing them, slicing and freezing portions to make them last, but the temptation to devour everything at once is strong. The complex flavors bloom on my tongue, the caraway seeds providing little bursts of earthiness against the tang of the rye.
My fingers return to the keyboard. Perhaps I should mention the way the bread holds up days later, how the flavors actually deepen with time?—
The pain strikes without warning, sharp and vicious, like someone’s driven a hot knife through my pelvis. My hand flies to my abdomen as I double over.
“Shit.” The word escapes through clenched teeth.
I wait, breathing shallow, counting the seconds until the acute pain fades. But when it does, it leaves behind that familiar, awful throbbing in my bladder. My eyes squeeze shut as the reality settles over me like a heavy blanket.
Another flare. Already.
My mind immediately starts cataloging everything I’ve done in the past few days, searching for the trigger. But I’ve been so careful. No acidic foods, no alcohol, plenty of water. I’ve been religious about my morning dilator routine, taking all my medications on schedule, doing every single physiotherapy exercise my doctor prescribed. These measures are supposed to prevent flares, or at least space them out more.
Except when they don’t work at all.
I push myself up from the chair with painstaking slowness, each movement sending fresh waves of discomfort through my pelvic floor. The ten feet to the refrigerator might as well be a mile. My bare feet shuffle across the cool tile, one hand braced against the counter for support. The freezer door feels impossibly heavy as I pull it open and retrieve one of the gel ice packs I keep ready for moments like this.
The initial contact of cold against my lower abdomen makes me gasp, but I press it firmly against the thin fabric of my shirt. With my free hand, I fill the kettle, the simple act of turning on the tap requiring more concentration than it should. While waiting for the water to heat, I lean against the counter, trying to breathe through the frustration that threatens to overwhelm me.
This is the second flare in two weeks. They’re getting closer together, lasting longer, hitting harder. The tears that prick at my eyes aren’t just from physical pain—they’re from the exhaustion of dealing with this unpredictable condition that hijacks my life without warning.
At least I’m home. The thought provides minimal comfort as the kettle begins its low rumble. If this had hit while I was at my co-working space in Portsmouth, I’d be facing a twenty-minute drive across the bridge to Pine Island, every pothole and bump in the road pure agony. Small mercies.
The kettle’s whistle pierces the quiet kitchen. I pour the steaming water into my hot water bottle with shaking hands, careful not to overfill it. The familiar ritual of preparing my pain management tools is almost meditative—ice pack, hot water bottle, my softest blanket, my phone within reach.
