Page 45 of We Can Do
Lawrence’s face scrunches like he’s tasted something sour. “That’s still work.”
“Yeah, but it’s the hardware store.” I spread my hands wide, palms up, the universal gesture of ‘obviously.’ The hardware store means wood shavings and metal brackets, means measuring twice and cutting once. Not dough that needs precise timing or customers whose satisfaction hangs on every slice.
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “True. And it’s not the bakery.”
“Exactly.” The word follows me as I push through to the kitchen, already mentally cataloging what I need.
My tools wait in their designated corner—tape measure, pencil, the level I bought secondhand but works perfectly. I run my palm along the wall where the shelves will go, picturing the finished product. Three tiers, maybe four. Adjustable bracketsso we can modify as needed. The measurements flow onto my list with practiced efficiency: eight-foot boards, cut into thirds. Heavy-duty brackets. Wall anchors rated for the weight of multiple gallon jars.
Before stepping out the back door, I pull my phone from my pocket. My thumb hovers over Alexis’s name in my messages. Just a quick check-in, nothing heavy.
Hey, thinking about you. How’s your morning going?
The message sends with a soft whoosh, and I pocket the phone even though part of me wants to stand here waiting for those three dots that mean she’s typing back. We haven’t managed to see each other since that night at my apartment. Three days that feel like three weeks. My mind keeps circling back to moments from that evening—her skin warm under my palms, the way she sighed my name, how we found our rhythm in exploration rather than rushing toward some predetermined destination.
But it’s her condition that occupies the deeper corners of my thoughts. Interstitial cystitis. I’ve probably read every medical article and forum post about it twice over. The clinical descriptions don’t capture what I saw in her eyes that night—the vulnerability of sharing something so personal, the trust she placed in my hands.
The night itself was transcendent. We mapped each other’s territories with careful attention, no urgency except to know and be known. But I’m walking a tightrope I can’t see the end of. Her condition is serious, more serious than her casual mentions suggest. Everything I’ve read points to progression, to the possibility of increasing pain and frequency of flares.
The thought of her hurting, of possibly contributing to that hurt through ignorance or carelessness—it sits like a stone in my gut.
She trusts me to navigate this with her. But what if my internal GPS is broken? What if I take a wrong turn and hurt her, not just physically but by failing to be what she needs?
The rabbit hole of medical websites and patient forums hasn’t given me a roadmap. Just more questions. More ways I could screw this up.
The hardware store’s fluorescent lights chase away some of the spiral. I lose myself in the simple pleasure of selecting lumber—running my hand along the grain, checking for warping, inhaling that sweet smell of fresh-cut pine. The boards slide into my truck bed with satisfying thuds. Brackets next, then screws, wall anchors, sandpaper to smooth any rough edges.
My truck—powder blue and more rust than paint in some spots—accepts the load with creaking dignity. I bought her cash from a farmer who’d let her sit too long, and she needs constant attention. New spark plugs last week, oil change the week before. But there’s something about nursing her back to health, about second chances and proving everyone wrong who said she was done for.
Not unlike my own story, really.
I slide the tailgate closed with a metallic clang and check my phone. No response from Alexis yet, but it’s only?—
“Nine twelve?” The groan escapes before I can stop it. How is it only nine twelve?
Lawrence would absolutely pelt me with yesterday’s rock-hard baguettes if I showed up now. The man takes his enforced breaks seriously. I need to burn more time.
The café across the street catches my eye.Common Grounds—terrible name, decent coffee. Plastic chairs out front that have seen better decades. Local art rotating on the walls, never quitegood enough to sell but earnest in that way that makes you want to support it anyway. Book exchange in the corner with spine-broken paperbacks and the occasional gem.
I used to live in places like this during culinary school. Nursing a single coffee for hours while I studied technique and memorized recipes. Now I grab my caffeine to go, drinking it while I work, usually forgetting about it until it’s cold.
The bell above the door announces my entry with a cheerful tinkle. I order a latte from the barista—a young woman with purple streaks in her hair who looks surprised to see me actually staying. The armchair by the bookshelf accepts my weight with a wheeze of protest. I scan the spines, lots of thrillers with dark covers and bold fonts promising twisted endings.
“You like thrillers?”
I turn to find Michael—no uniform today, just jeans and a flannel that makes him look more lumberjack than fire chief.
“I saw what you were looking at.” He nods toward the shelf, casual but friendly. “That one’s good.”
“Oh, yeah. I read some of the author’s other stuff.” I pull the paperback free even though I know it’ll just gather dust on my nightstand. Maybe I’ll get through a few pages before passing out each night. Fall asleep to fictional problems instead of my own very real ones.
“It’s good to see you.” I tuck the book under my arm and extend my hand. His grip is firm, calloused in a way that speaks of physical work beyond firefighting. “How are you?”
“Good, good. You closed today?”
“No.” The chuckle comes out awkward, defensive. “I’m just taking the morning off. Working on a project in the kitchen.”
“Oh, yeah?” His whole face transforms, genuine interest lighting his eyes. “I used to run a contracting business back in Seattle. What kind of project?”
