Page 71 of We Can Do
“Hey.” The word comes out creaky, unused.
Devin’s eyes go wide, taking in the full disaster of my appearance.
“I’m trying out a new look.” I lift the hem of the blanket and attempt what might generously be called a smile. “You like it?”
“It’s very... uh, different.” Her smile is gentle, the kind you give to wounded animals and heartbroken friends. “Are you okay? We haven’t heard from you much, and I just wanted to check on you.”
Haven’t heard from me. That’s putting it mildly. I’ve responded to exactly three group texts this week: a thumbs upto confirm I’m alive, a “haha” to a meme Maya sent, and a heart emoji when Flick shared a photo of her cat tangled in yarn.
“I’m fine.” The lie tastes familiar now. I step back to let her in. “It was just a breakup. How are you?”
Deflection, my trusted friend. Devin has enough on her plate without adding my romantic disasters to it. Since her fainting episode, she’s been trapped in diagnostic purgatory—test after test coming back inconclusive. Is it POTS? Chronic fatigue syndrome getting worse? Something new entirely? The not knowing is almost worse than a diagnosis.
“I’m good.” But her attention has already shifted, drawn to my kitchen. She walks through the doorway and stops short. “Did you bake all of this?”
The counter looks like a sourdough graveyard. Four complete loaves in various stages of decay, plus flour dusting every surface like snow.
“Yeah.” I pick up the oldest loaf and rap it against the counter. It makes a sound like knocking on a door that will never open. “I was just about to bake another one. Want it?”
The look she gives me could peel paint.
“Why?”
“Because...”
Shit. I don’t even know how to answer that. Because I can’t stop making the bread my ex-boyfriend taught me to make. Because the rhythm of folding and shaping dough is the only thing that makes my hands stop shaking.
“It’s something to do.” I shrug like it’s nothing.
“And you’re not eating them?”
“I’m on an elimination diet. I cut out gluten.” The tea kettle chooses this moment to shriek, giving me an excuse to turn away from her too-knowing eyes. I pour water into two mugs even though she hasn’t asked for tea. “Ginger or green?”
“I’m not staying. We have the meeting to get to, and don’t say you’re not going.”
“I—” The protest dies in my throat at her expression.
“Alexis.” My name is a complete sentence, weighted with all the things she’s not saying. “You’ve been cooped up in here all week. No one has seen you since the breakup. You look like you’ve been living in that Snuggie, and you’re endlessly baking bread to... to what? Feel closer to Noah in some twisted way?”
The words hit like cold water. Of course that’s what I’m doing. Every loaf is an attempt to hold onto something that’s already gone.
“I... like it,” I say, but even I don’t believe it.
Devin sighs, and it’s the sigh of someone who loves you enough to tell you the truth. “Come to the meeting tonight. Please. It’s not good for you to be alone this much.”
I’m already shaking my head, mouth open to list all the reasons I can’t when I catch my reflection in the microwave door. The hollow eyes. The unwashed hair. The way I’m holding myself like I might shatter if I move too fast.
I don’t recognize this person. This isn’t who I want to be. Shit. Embarrassment and shame hit simultaneously.
“Okay. I’ll go. Give me five minutes to get ready.”
Relief transforms Devin’s face. “Great.”
Five minutes isn’t enough time for the full hair and makeup routine that usually armor me against the world, but it’ll have to do. In my bedroom, I peel off the wearable blanket. The pajama pants go too, replaced with jeans that feel foreign after a week of elastic waistbands. A clean shirt from the depths of my drawer. I drag a brush through my hair, wincing at the tangles, and pull it back into a ponytail that at least looks intentional.
I catch myself reaching for my makeup bag, then stop. The friends waiting for me at Knit Happens have seen me at my absolute worst. They’ve held my hair during flares that had mecrying on bathroom floors. They don’t need my mascara. They just need me to show up.
“I’ll drive.” Devin jingles her keys when I emerge.
