Page 64 of We Can Do
“Were you not going to tell me you read it? And why did you even read it?” Her eyes are glossing over with tears that she’s fighting not to shed.
“Because I stumbled across it, and I couldn’t not read it.” I rake my fingers through my hair, probably leaving it standing in all directions. This conversation is spiraling completely out of control, the romantic evening I planned crumbling like over-baked bread.
“And you decided to make assumptions without even asking me about my side of the story?”
I lean forward, desperate to make her understand. “I can tell he’s an ass, Alexis. Written word can’t hide it. I know he’s full of shit. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I read it and didn’t tell you. I figured—I didn’t plan on telling you, because I knew there was no point, and then it just came out of my mouth right now, and... I’m sorry,” I finish lamely, the words feeling completely inadequate.
Her eyes drop to her untouched pizza. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I suck in a labored breath. This rough day has turned into a complete disaster, and we haven’t even tried the pizza that’s slowly cooling between us.
“What I hate the most about that article,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “is that no one gets to hear my side of the story. No one knows about what I went through.”
My shoulders drop as understanding hits me. “I get it. That’s how I felt when your review of Street Cucina came out. I used store bought dough once, and no one ever got to hear why I did it. I just ended up looking like a total fraud.”
Her brow furrows. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
We sit there, gazing at each other across the table while Big Night’s soundtrack continues its romantic Italian serenade,completely at odds with the tension in the room. Still, looking at her face in the candlelight, I let myself hope. Maybe this night isn’t a complete disaster.
“I have an idea,” I say, trying to inject some energy back into my voice.
“What?”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the checkered tablecloth, feeling the slight tackiness where Lawrence might have spilled something earlier. “Maybe it’s not too late to share your side of the story. Have you ever thought about pivoting and switching to health journalism? You could kill two birds with one stone. Get out of food reviewing and become a voice for women like yourself who are struggling with chronic illnesses.”
She’s already shaking her head before I finish, her hair swaying with the movement. “I don’t want to do that. Thank you, but... no. It’s not for me. I still want to work in food, I just can’t keep doing the reviewing. It’s too hard on my health. An editing job is what I need. I’ve already figured this out.”
Sitting back in my chair, I hear the old wood creak under my weight. The helplessness of not being able to fix this settles over me, but it’s her life. She knows what’s best.
“I understand,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I won’t butt in again, but I’m here if you ever want to brainstorm.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
One song ends in the background—something slow and romantic—and another begins, equally romantic but doing nothing to ease the awkwardness. We eat our pizza in near silence, and somehow it tastes like it’s missing something crucial despite having all the right ingredients. The mozzarella seems rubbery, the sauce too sweet, the crust just a vehicle rather than the perfect foundation I’d aimed for.
“What would you like to do after dinner?” I ask, grasping for something, anything, to salvage the evening. At least she hasn’t stormed out.
Her lips twist—that expression she makes when she’s thinking—and her eyes drift toward her purse. “You know what? I’d really like to bake.”
“Oh, yeah?” A chuckle escapes me, releasing some of the tension that’s been coiling in my chest.
“Yeah.” Her eyes light up for the first time since the conversation went south. “I just need to forget about today, and I brought my starter.”
She reaches for her purse, pulling out the familiar jar. But this time, it’s wearing what can only be described as a sequined skirt, glittering in the candlelight like a tiny disco ball.
I nearly spit out my water, barely managing to swallow before laughing. “Wow. So it has a whole wardrobe now.”
“Flick made it.” She adjusts the skirt with careful fingers, making sure it sits just right around the jar. “I figured tonight was a night for dressing up.”
“I’m honored,” I chuckle, and it’s genuine this time.
She smiles back at me, really smiles, and her hair falls across her face in that way that makes my heart skip. The conflict of our previous conversation seems to evaporate like steam from fresh bread. Peace settles back over us, fragile but real.
Moving without conscious thought, as if pulled by some invisible force, I stand up. My chair scrapes against the floor as I walk around the table. When I reach her, I cup her face gently and press my lips to hers. Her mouth is soft, welcoming, a gentle embrace that makes me want to freeze time and stay in this moment forever.
The kiss deepens, her hand coming up to rest against my chest, when suddenly—CRASH! The sound comes from directly below us, from the bakery.
