Page 48 of We Can Do
With a heavy exhale, I turn away from my reflection and scan the living room for my purse. Devin will be here any minute to take me shopping for a standing desk. If these flares keep lasting this long, I’ll need one. Sitting at my kitchen table to work has become torture, the pressure on my bladder making it impossible to focus on anything except the next bathroom break.
The disappointment sits heavy in my chest. Yesterday morning, I’d been certain the flare was finally ending. The pain had dulled to something manageable, the urgency had decreased. Then last night hit like a sledgehammer—hot water bottles pressed against my abdomen, ice packs alternating every twenty minutes, and those endless trips to the bathroom. Fivetimes. Five times I’d shuffled through the darkness to pee, each journey more exhausting than the last.
The worst part? That happened at Noah’s place three nights ago. The memory makes heat creep up my neck even now. There I was, trying to be quiet, trying not to wake him as I navigated his unfamiliar apartment in the dark. But he’d noticed. Of course he had. And when I’d whispered an embarrassed apology in the morning, he’d just given me that easy smile—the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes my stomach flutter despite everything. “Don’t even think about it,” he’d said, pulling me closer. “My apartment, your apartment—what’s the difference?”
That smile. God, just thinking about it sends warmth spreading through me, chasing away some of the discomfort.
But then the doubt creeps in. Am I falling too hard, too fast? We’ve known each other such a short time, and already I can’t imagine my days without his texts, without hearing his voice before bed. It’s been three days since we’ve actually seen each other—his early morning bakery schedule and my deadlines creating a frustrating dance of missed connections. Three days that feel like three weeks.
At least we have our next meeting scheduled. Two more days. In the meantime, we text constantly. He calls every evening, and half those conversations involve him asking how I’m feeling, if I need anything, if I’m taking care of myself. It’s sweet. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t fuss quite so much, but then I remember Miles—who never asked, who only ever told me what I should be doing differently.
The doorbell chimes, pulling me from my thoughts. On my way to answer it, I spot my purse on the couch—of course, the one place I hadn’t looked.
I take a deep grounding breath, glance at the mirror one more time, then open the door for my friend. Devin stands onmy porch, her smile brightening an already perfect outfit of fitted jeans and a crisp button-up.
“Hey.” Her smile grows wider, though her eyes scan my face with that particular brand of concern I’ve come to recognize from our chronic pain support group. “How’s that flare going?”
“Ugh. Wonderful.” I roll my eyes, trying to deflect with humor. “Thank you for asking.”
That’s when I notice the small box in her hands. “Did you bring me a present?”
She glances down as if she’d forgotten she was holding it, then laughs—that bright, tinkling sound that draws people to her yoga classes. “No, I just found it here on your doormat when I came up. Figured I’d grab it for you.”
My pulse quickens with anticipation. “I wonder if it’s something from Noah.” Though why wouldn’t he ring the bell? He knows I work from home most mornings.
I take the box from Devin’s manicured hands and lift the lid. The smile dies on my lips.
Newspaper clippings. A dozen or more, carefully cut out and arranged. My breath catches as I recognize them—all my reviews. But not just any reviews. These are exclusively the negative ones. Every scathing critique, every restaurant I’ve had to pan, every harsh truth I’ve had to write over my career. My hands tremble as I count them. Fifteen. Fifteen bad reviews out of the hundreds I’ve written. Someone went through years of my work to collect only these.
The note sits on top, written in block letters on plain white paper:
THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT. I WILL RUIN YOUR CAREER LIKE YOU RUINED MINE.
The box slips in my suddenly slick palms. My voice comes out thin, shaky. “I’ve been feeling like someone is watching me lately. And I got a strange text the other day. I thought I wasbeing paranoid but maybe...” I hold the note up with trembling fingers. “Maybe it was someone affected by one of these reviews.”
Devin’s expression hardens, her jaw setting in that determined way she gets when defending her friends. “It’s not your fault that these places weren’t good, Alexis. You write honest reviews. It’s why so many people read them. You have integrity.”
I shrug, staring down at the clippings spread across my palm like accusations. Each one represents someone’s dream, someone’s investment, someone’s livelihood. I know I was fair, I know I was honest, but that doesn’t stop the guilt from creeping in.
“Want to postpone shopping?”
“No.” I close the box with more force than necessary. “I need this desk. I’ll keep my eyes open for anything else strange and report it to the police if it escalates.” I lock my door, double-checking the deadbolt before following her to the car.
We slide into Devin’s pristine Honda—not a crumb or water bottle in sight, the exact opposite of my disaster of a vehicle. I shift my weight, trying to find a position that doesn’t send shooting pains through my pelvis. The leather seat that usually feels luxurious might as well be made of concrete today. No position is comfortable. I adjust again, pulling my seatbelt away from my lower abdomen.
Devin notices, because of course she does. “Have you talked to your doctor yet?”
“I have an appointment in a few weeks.” I try to sound optimistic. “I’m hoping he knows why the flares have been lasting for so long. There has to be something we can adjust, some treatment we haven’t tried.”
She nods, pulling out of my driveway with practiced ease. “Even if he doesn’t have immediate answers, I’m sure he’ll havesome sort of suggestion you can try. Maybe a referral to someone new, or a different medication combination.”
I shrug, not wanting to voice my real fear—that we’ve already tried everything, that this is just my new normal.
Devin, ever the standing desk evangelist since she got hers last year, swears by this local woodworker on Pine Island. “Changed my life,” she’d said at least a dozen times. So here we go, heading to the far end of the island where the houses get sparse and the trees grow thick, to check out his handful of ready-made pieces.
“Sooo...” She draws out the word as we pass the familiar landmarks of our small island—the library, the post office, the single grocery store that charges tourist prices year-round. “How are things going with Noah?”
“Good.” I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips, the way my whole body seems to relax just thinking about him. “We haven’t seen each other since I spent the night at his place, but we’re talking constantly. It’s... nice.”
