Page 82 of We Can Do
I can barely speak, I nearly choke on my excitement. “You sure?”
She nods eagerly. “Of course. I want you to know that it won’t—we’ll still have to be careful. It won’t be like what you’re probably used to, I?—”
“Alexis.” I gently take hold of her face. “It will be amazing, because it’s with you. The only woman in the whole world that I want to share things like this with.”
Her eyes glisten. “I believe you.”
Still holding her face, I press my lips to hers. The familiar warmth floods my system, and for the hundredth time I wonder how I ever survived without her touch. We’re woven back together now, a braid that never should have been undone, and it seems I can’t get enough of her.
She presses into me, deepening the kiss. Walking her backwards, I guide us into her bedroom. The familiar smell of lavender greets us, the thin curtains fluttering with the evening’s breeze. It’s perfect, but not because of the atmosphere or the setting.
It’s perfect because it’s her. It’s us.
“I love you.” The words slip so easily from my mouth, like any other exhale.
“I love you, too,” she murmurs back.
I settle in next to her on the bed, drawing her into my arms. The crickets chirp on the other side of the window, and the fireflies light up the night. And here we are, just two people, exactly where they’re supposed to be.
Epilogue
Alexis
“Everyone!” I pick up a champagne glass and tap it with my fork, but it’s nothing like when someone does it in the movies; the sound is much softer than I’d hoped, barely audible over the animated conversations filling Rye Again. The book release party carries on, everyone milling about the bakery’s warm interior, the display cases that usually hold loaves now cleared to make room for champagne bottles and appetizer platters. Not one person looks my way.
“Here. Let me.” Flick clears her throat then raises her voice. “Hey, guys, Alexis would like to say a word!”
The party—small, but meaningful—quiets down. The Chronic Pain Crafters group turns toward me almost in unison, their familiar faces bright with anticipation. Hannah’s boyfriend Michael pauses mid-conversation with Sebastian, Flick’s boyfriend, both men holding their drinks and waiting. Elaine stands near the coffee station, her usual professional demeanor softened by the casual atmosphere. Lawrence leans against the counter where he’s spent countless mornings managing the rush, and the film crew that’s helped take the baking tutorialsto a new level clusters near the window. Noah’s dad, who flew in from Baltimore just for this occasion, sets down the slice of rosemary focaccia he’s been sampling and gives me his full attention.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of all the eyes on me. “Thank you Flick. Um, hi everyone.”
Noah sidles up to me, his warmth immediately settling my nerves. He cocks his head in that familiar way, genuine interest lighting up his features. His presence beside me feels as natural as breathing now, after everything we’ve been through.
“I just wanted to say thank you for coming out tonight.” Unexpected emotion washes over me, tightening my throat. I think about the journey that brought us here—the misunderstandings, the article that nearly destroyed everything, the slow rebuild of trust. “Noah has worked so hard on this book, and it’s an honor to have been privy to some parts of that journey. As you all know, he’s an amazing baker, and you won’t be disappointed with this book. I know that editing it was truly an honor.”
There’s a round of applause with a couple hoots sprinkled in—definitely from the film crew, who’ve become like extended family during the months of shooting videos. Noah slips his arm around my waist, the gesture so familiar yet still capable of sending warmth through me. “I’m only as good as my editor.”
His compliment makes my cheeks warm with pleasure. I know it’s not true—Noah’s talent stands on its own, has always stood on its own—but the acknowledgment of our partnership, both professional and personal, touches something deep inside me.
“To the new book.” Lawrence raises his champagne glass, the bubbles catching the warm bakery lights, and everyone follows suit. The chorus of “cheers” and “congratulations” fills the space.
Instead of drinking with everyone else, I put my glass on the table behind me—there’s a reason I’m avoiding alcohol tonight—and wrap my arms around Noah’s neck. The familiar scent of flour and yeast clings to him even now, hours after he finished baking. “Congratulations,” I whisper in his ear, feeling the slight stubble on his jaw brush against my cheek.
Tomorrow his sourdough book hits the online markets, a result of the last year of editing and promoting. Going the self-publishing route means he’s had to do a lot more work himself—late nights formatting, early mornings coordinating with printers, endless emails with distributors—but I can tell that having full control has made him happier. He doesn’t have to compromise or make trades in order to keep agents and publishers happy. Every decision, from the cover design featuring his grandmother’s bread bowl to the dedication page that made me cry, has been entirely his.
“It’s all thanks to you,” he whispers back, his breath warm against my ear. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”
I doubt that—Noah’s determination could move mountains—but I’m more than happy to have played the part of his editor. And it turns out that editing books part-time has been a lot of fun; I’m on my third one now, this time with a first-time cookbook author from Seattle that Noah’s former agent introduced me to. She’s eager and talented, reminding me of myself when I first started writing reviews. The think pieces and food gadget reviews have been going well, too, and Elaine exclusively assigns me to those now. No more sitting through endless tasting menus that aggravate my condition. Food reviewing, while it had its glory days, is officially a thing of the past.
So much has changed in the thirteen months that Noah and I have been together. I’ve learned how to edit cookbooks, understanding the delicate balance between preserving anauthor’s voice and ensuring clarity for readers. I’ve learned how to bake bread—really bake it, not just follow a recipe but understand the science behind fermentation and gluten development. I’ve even learned how to wake up at four AM.
That last one isn’t a skill I put to use much, but every once in a while when the bakery is short a staff member, I’ll roll out of bed at the Pine Island house Noah and I moved into a few months ago. The old Victorian needs some work, but it has good bones. On those early mornings, I drive across the bridge with him to ring up orders and make French Presses for a few hours. There’s something meditative about those quiet morning rushes, regulars coming in knowing exactly what they want, the rhythm of commerce and community intertwining.
With us in a new and larger place, the apartment above Rye Again has been converted into a studio where Noah films his baking videos. The natural light is perfect, he says, and he doesn’t have to worry about keeping our house kitchen camera-ready.
Even though the new house is a bit of a drive from Rye Again, the extra space has turned out to be a blessing. We have a proper office now where I can work on my editing, no longer driving into Portsmouth for the co-op space. Noah has a room set up for his bread-making equipment and testing. And the spare bedroom that we’ve been using for storage will soon have a different purpose. Especially now that?—
“Congrats, son.” Noah’s dad approaches with his hand extended, breaking into my thoughts.
