Page 69 of We Can Do
The mental whiplash makes me dizzy. But I steady myself with the thought that this is exactly what I need to do. This is the right choice. Everything will be okay. Eventually.
The door starts to open and I suck in a sharp breath, the air cutting into my lungs. She appears in the doorway and my heart clenches at the sight of her. There are bags under hereyes, dark shadows that makeup isn’t hiding. Her hair is tangled, uncombed, like she’s just rolled out of bed even though it’s midafternoon. She’s wearing an old t-shirt I recognize—soft and worn, one she usually sleeps in.
For a long moment, we just stare at each other. The weight of everything that’s happened between us creates its own gravity, pulling and pushing at the same time. The reviews that started everything. The stolen kisses in my kitchen, flour in her hair. The heated touches that promised more. The fight yesterday that felt like the beginning of the end. The way our hearts somehow got tangled up in all of it, knotted together in ways I don’t know how to undo without destroying everything.
I swallow hard, my throat dry as flour. “Hey.”
“Hi.” She sucks on her lip, a nervous habit I’ve memorized. “I thought we weren’t talking unless it’s about the book.”
The reminder of my own words from yesterday stings. “I know.” I look down at my shoes, study the worn laces like they might hold answers. But that’s cowardice, and I force myself to look back up, to meet her eyes even though it feels like staring into the sun. “I had to see you, though. We need to talk. About...”
“Us.” She finishes the sentence when I can’t.
“Yeah.”
She grips the edge of the door, knuckles white with the force of it. I stay firmly on the porch, knowing I won’t be invited in. Knowing I shouldn’t be. The electric pull that’s always existed between us crackles in the air, and I have to lock my muscles to resist the magnetic force that wants to draw me to her. My hands itch to reach out, to pull her close, to kiss her until all of this messiness disappears. There’s a part of me—desperate and wild—that believes if only we can love each other enough, if only we can lose ourselves in each other completely, everything else will work out.
But most of me isn’t that naive. Not anymore.
“We need to break up.” The words tumble out before I lose my nerve, harsh and too fast.
She stares at me, unblinking. Her face goes completely still, like someone pressed pause on her expressions. She might as well be made of stone.
So I push on, the dam broken now, all my tangled thoughts spilling out in a rush. “We can just focus on the book for now. After it’s over, we can re-evaluate things. For now, this—this is what’s best. We can work on the book over email. We don’t even need to see each other. It can be painless.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re lies. Nothing about this will be painless. But I’m trying—God, I’m trying—to convince myself as much as her. If we can just rip this bandage off, surely everything will get easier. It has to.
I suck in a breath and hold it until my lungs burn, afraid I’ve said too much and simultaneously haven’t said any of the right things. This isn’t what I want to do. The very thought of waking up tomorrow in a bed that doesn’t have Alexis in it makes my stomach turn. Her absence already feels like a physical thing, a hollow space in my chest that’s expanding with each second.
But it’s what needs to be done. For both of us. It has to be.
Her chest rises with a sharp inhale that sounds like it hurts. “Is this because of the article? Noah, I—I’m sorry, okay? I know that was a mistake. I won’t make decisions again that impact you without checking with you first.”
The hope in her voice breaks something in me. I shake my head, wishing it were that simple. Wishing I could just accept her apology and we could move forward. “It’s more than that. Being with you... It’s wonderful.” My voice cracks on the word, betraying everything I’m trying to hide.
“It’s wonderful,” I repeat, needing her to understand this isn’t about not caring. “But it’s too difficult. Everything is all mixed up in one ball. It’s complicated. We’ve made itcomplicated. Everything in my life is riding on you, Alexis. My business, my cookbook, my reputation...”
My heart, I think but don’t say.My whole heart.
“Do you understand?” The question comes out soft, almost pleading.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, silent tears start streaming down her face, each one a direct hit to my chest. They roll down her cheeks in perfect lines, and I ache to reach out and wipe them away. But my arms feel wooden and immobile, held at my sides by the knowledge that any touch will only make this harder. One touch and I’ll crumble. One touch and I’ll take it all back.
“What’s wrong?” The question is so stupid I want to take it back immediately, but I don’t know what else to say. How else to fill this terrible silence.
Her response, when it comes, is like a door slamming: “I’ll look for your rewrite of the equipment section on Monday.”
And then she shuts the actual door in my face.
I stand on her porch, jaw hanging open, my heart plummeting to somewhere around my shoes. The painted wood stares back at me, final and unforgiving. Did I make a mistake? The question pounds in my head with each heartbeat.
My hand raises on its own, fist formed to knock again. To take it all back. To beg her to understand, or to forget everything I just said. But I freeze with my knuckles an inch from the wood. No. I need to think logically, not emotionally. I didn’t make a mistake. This is how things need to be. If Alexis and I keep dating and then things go south between us—and given our track record, they will—I’ll lose it all. The bakery. The book. Any credibility I’ve managed to rebuild.
The memory of closing my restaurant in New York still wakes me up some nights, heart racing, sheets soaked with sweat. I’m not sure I could survive it happening again.
But still I stand frozen between our shared past and the lonely future stretching ahead. My feet refuse to move in either direction. The pansies in their pots seem to watch me, their cheerful faces suddenly accusatory.
Of course she hates me for what I just did. The door might as well have been a slap. And maybe it’s best if she does hate me. That will force the space between us that we need. Because I don’t entirely trust myself to stick to my decision. A big part of me—maybe the biggest part—is still teetering on the edge, ready to pound on her door and beg her to take me back.
