Page 46 of We Can Do
“Nothing exciting. Shelves.”
“What kind? Floating? Or you using brackets?”
The enthusiasm in his voice for something as mundane as shelving makes me want to laugh, but not in a mocking way. It’s refreshing, actually. Someone who gets excited about the simple pleasure of building something functional.
“Come out to the truck.” I tilt my head toward the street. “And I’ll show you.”
We carry our coffees outside, the morning air still carrying last night’s rain on its breath. Michael circles my truck bed like he’s appraising a horse, running his hand along the lumber, testing the brackets between his fingers.
“Good wood selection.” He squints at the measurements I’ve penciled on one board. “You going for fixed shelves or adjustable?”
“I was thinking fixed, but?—”
“Make them adjustable.” He pulls out his phone, shows me a photo of what looks like a pantry with similar shelving. “See these tracks? You can move the brackets up or down depending on what you need to store. Your jars are different sizes, right?”
“Yeah, actually. That’s smart.”
He launches into specifics—which brackets work best, how to find studs in old buildings where nothing is quite square, a trick with washers that distributes weight better. The man clearly knows his stuff, and I find myself taking mental notes.
“You know what you’re talking about.” I pull the tarp back over the lumber, securing it against any afternoon rain. “How come you left the construction business behind?”
“Long story.” He squints into the morning sun that’s finally breaking through the clouds. “But to sum it up, I grew up on Pine Island. It’s where my family is. It seemed like a good place for both me and my daughter. What about you? You moved to Portsmouth to open a bakery, I assume, but why here?”
“Because it felt far enough from the past.”
The words escape before I can examine them, raw truth I hadn’t even admitted to myself. Portsmouth isn’t just geographically distant from New York. It’s psychologically distant. Far enough that I could pretend to be someone who hadn’t failed spectacularly, someone starting fresh instead of running away.
His mouth draws into a thin line of understanding. “Gotcha.”
I push my fingers through my hair, the nervous gesture I can’t seem to break. How much does he know? Pine Island is tiny, gossip travels at the speed of light there, and Alexis?—
“I know about Alexis’s review,” Michael says, apparently psychic. “And your old restaurant. What happened. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” I stare at the latte in my hand like it might provide answers. The foam art has already dissolved into abstract swirls.
“I’m not into gossip, but word travels faster than the wind on Pine Island.”
“I bet.” The chuckle comes out more genuine this time. “So does that mean you know about...”
“You and Alexis?” His eyes carry a knowing sparkle. “Hannah told me. She owns a yarn store called Knit Happens on Pine Island and she and Alexis and their friends have a weekly Chronic Pain Crafters group there.”
Right. Alexis mentioned those gatherings. Every week, creating things with their hands while supporting each other through the unique challenges of chronic illness. The fact that she’s told them about us doesn’t upset me. Just the opposite—it sends warmth spreading through my chest. You don’t share something with that circle unless it matters.
I duck my face, trying to hide the smile that won’t stay down. “I really like Alexis.”
“She’s pretty damn cool.”
“Yeah.” I take a sip of my latte, working up courage for what I want to ask. “So your girlfriend also has a chronic illness...”
“Fibromyalgia.”
“Yikes.” The woman I worked with in New York—Laura, I think—had fibro. I watched her go from energetic and passionate to barely able to hold a knife some days. The kitchen doesn’t slow down for anyone, and she eventually had to walk away from her dream.
Michael leans against my truck bed, arms crossed on the rail, facing me with an openness that makes this easier. “It’s different, dating someone with a chronic illness. If you ever want to talk?—”
“Yes.” The word rushes out, too eager, too desperate. But I don’t care about playing it cool. “That would be great.”
His smile carries understanding without pity. “Do you know much about Painful Bladder Syndrome?”
