Page 36 of We Can Do
Alexis
My phone rings right as I’m parking the car on the street across from Rye Again. The late afternoon sun catches the bakery’s windows, turning them golden, and I let myself stare at the familiar storefront for just a moment before extracting my phone from my purse. My shoulders drop when I see Elaine’s name on the screen instead of Noah’s.
Even though this baking lesson I’m about to attend is technically work—research for editing his cookbook—it feels nothing like it. The flutter in my stomach has nothing to do with professional obligations and everything to do with the memory of Noah’s lips on mine from our last encounter.
“Hi, Elaine.” I keep my voice neutral, professional.
“Alexis. Glad I caught you.” Her tone is all business, as always. “You know the farm-to-table tasting menu that Field and Fork is having in a couple weeks? One day only.”
My mind races. I haven’t heard about it, but admitting that might make me look out of touch with the local food scene. “Uh-huh. Yeah.”
“I’d like you to cover it.”
The words hit me like a weight dropping into my stomach. I suck in a sharp breath, my free hand tightening on the steering wheel. Special tasting events used to excite me—the carefully curated courses, the wine pairings, the chance to experience a chef’s full vision. But that was before my interstitial cystitis turned them into endurance tests.
These events are marathons of sitting. Three, sometimes four hours at a table, course after course arriving in steady succession. There’s the mental checklist that never stops running—menu items to remember, flavor profiles to analyze, presentation details to note, the chef’s explanations to absorb. Missing even five minutes to run to the bathroom could mean missing a crucial course or the chef’s introduction to a signature dish.
And with my condition, regular bathroom breaks aren’t just preferable—they’re essential. Even on good days.
The thought of a flare hitting during the event makes my chest tighten. I can already imagine the burning sensation building while I’m trapped at the table, trying to smile and take notes while my body screams for relief.
I should say no. Every fiber of my being wants to say no.
But my bank account speaks louder than my body’s protests. Until I land that full-time editing position, I need every freelance dollar I can get.
“Sounds great.” The words come out through clenched teeth, my jaw tight enough to ache.
Elaine knows about my condition—I’d mentioned it once, briefly, when I’d had to reschedule a meeting due to a particularly bad flare. But she’d simply nodded and moved on, never bringing it up again. I’ve taken that as a sign that she expects me to handle it without letting it affect my work. And I’m not about to start complaining now, not when I need these assignments.
“Excellent. I’ll get you the ticket and forward you the info.”
“Thank you.”
The line goes dead before I can say anything else. Typical Elaine—efficient to a fault.
I sit in my car for a moment, trying to convince myself it will be fine. Just one evening. If I’m careful the week leading up to it—avoid trigger foods, stay hydrated, manage my stress—maybe I can prevent a flare.
But even as I think it, I know I’m lying to myself. My last flare came out of nowhere, no warning, no obvious trigger. That’s the cruelest part of this condition—its unpredictability.
Not much longer,I tell myself.Nail this cookbook edit, impress Kitchen Lore Publishing, and they’ll offer me that full-time position. Then no more racing between restaurant reviews and food events.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text. My heart does a little skip, hoping it’s Noah, maybe checking if I’m running late. But the number isn’t one I recognize. I tap to open it and immediately wish I hadn’t.
You ruined my life. Watch your back.
The phone slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering onto the passenger seat. My hands are shaking as I retrieve it, staring at the message like it might explain itself if I look hard enough.
What does this mean? A scam? Wrong number? Some cruel prank?
My fingers tremble as I type back:
Sorry, I think you have the wrong number.
I watch the message try to send, the little bar creeping across the screen. Then it fails, marking itself as “unable to be delivered.”
That’s... odd. I try again. Same result.
A chill runs down my spine despite the warm afternoon. Maybe I should show Noah. But what would I say? “Hey, before we talk about bread, someone might be threatening me”?
