Page 13 of We Can Do
Behind the display case, Sarah restocks the shelves with fresh loaves, the smell of warm bread mixing with the earthy scent of coffee. Each loaf is perfectly golden, the scoring creating delicate patterns across the crust. This morning’s batch turned out exceptional—sometimes the bread gods smile on you, and today they were positively beaming.
I can feel some of my stress fading away.
This is it.
This is what I came here for. Not the dream I started with in New York—that one involved Michelin stars and write-ups in the Times and a waiting list three months long—but a dream nonetheless. A damn good one, standing in my own bakery, watching people’s faces light up when they bite into bread I made with my own hands at three o’clock this morning while the rest of the world slept.
Now I just have to hold on to it.
The thought of Rye Again failing sends acid crawling up my throat, burning like the cheap whiskey I used to drink after shifts in New York. I busy myself checking the coffee grounds, measuring out portions for the next round of French presses. Straightening the stack of to-go cups that don’t need straightening. Wiping down the already-clean counter until it gleams. Day by day. That’s all I can do. Keep my head above water through each crisis, each unexpected twist that threatens to pull me under. Eventually—God, hopefully—I won’t feel like I’m white-knuckling it through every shift, waiting for the next disaster.
The bell above the door chimes its cheerful tune—Sarah insisted on changing it from the harsh electronic buzz to actual bells. A tall guy with short brown hair walks in, and I spot the Pine Island Fire Department logo on his polo before his face fully registers in my sleep-deprived brain.
“Chief,” I say, straightening up. “Welcome in.”
Surprise flickers across his features before recognition dawns. He extends his hand across the counter, his grip firm and calloused. “Noah, right? Michael. You were at the fire house’s last fundraiser.”
“Yeah, I was.” I grab a towel from under the counter and wipe down the spotless surface between us, needing something to do with my hands. “How are you?”
“Good. I heard about your place from my girlfriend. She hasn’t been in yet, but her friend raves about it. Says it’s the best bread she’s ever had.”
The compliment spreads warmth through my chest like good bourbon. I try to keep the grin professional, but it’s probably bleeding through, making me look like an idiot. But after the morning I’ve had, I’ll take any win I can get. “Well, damn. Just for that, I need to give you a loaf on the house.”
My hands are already reaching for the house sourdough, the one that started it all, sliding it into a paper sleeve with practiced ease. The logo I designed myself—a simple wheat stalk curving around the words “Rye Again”—stands out against the kraft paper.
Michael chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. “I won’t turn that down. But how about coffee? Do you have that too?”
“As long as you have four minutes to wait for the French Press.”
While I grind the beans—our special medium roast from a local roaster who sources directly from Colombian farmers—we talk about the differences between Pine Island and Portsmouth. How the island feels like stepping back in time, while Portsmouth races forward. The steady rhythm of small talk, the familiar motions of making coffee (wet the filter, add grounds, check water temperature), the normal interaction with someone who doesn’t know or care about my past—it all combines to liftthe morning’s weight off my shoulders like someone’s literally removing bricks from a backpack.
He leaves with his coffee and a second loaf I insisted he take—the cinnamon raisin that’s become our surprise bestseller—and I’m left with something I haven’t felt in days: optimism. Maybe Portsmouth really is the fresh start I need. Sure, some people here know about New York, about the review and the failure and the way I slunk out of the city with my tail between my legs. But there are also people like Michael who just want good bread and decent coffee and don’t care about the rest.
I whistle while I make myself a French Press—darker roast for me, I need the caffeine hit—then check the morning’s sales numbers on the register. Better than yesterday, not as good as last Tuesday. The rhythm of business, predictable in its unpredictability. My phone buzzes in my pocket, vibrating against my hip. Expecting a text from one of the suppliers, hopefully saying they found our missing flour order, I pull it out. But it’s a calendar reminder that stops me cold, the words might as well be in neon:
Alexis - 10 minutes
The whistle dies on my lips like someone stuffed a rag in my mouth. Joy drains out of me like water through a sieve, leaving nothing but dread in its wake.
Despite three emails to the publishing house—each one more desperately professional than the last—despite what I thought was a compelling argument about conflict of interest and past history and the absolute inadvisability of this pairing, they insisted no other editor was available. Of course that’s bullshit. There must be dozens of editors in New England alone, hundreds if you expand to New York. But I get it. I’m a risk—a new author with a shaky reputation and Google results that aren’t exactly flattering. They’re already taking a chance on me. Finding another editor would mean spending resources they’drather save for their star authors, the ones whose books fly off shelves instead of languishing in the “Local Interest” section.
So it’s me and Alexis. Whether I like it or not. Whether it makes any sense at all or not.
“Hey.” Amanda pushes through the back entrance, cheeks flushed pink from the morning chill, hair escaping from her ponytail in frazzled wisps that frame her face. “Sorry I’m late. My car’s battery died.”
“No problem. Everything good now?”
“Good except I have to buy a new battery.” She grimaces while clocking in on the ancient time clock that still uses punch cards, and I feel the familiar twist of guilt in my gut. My crew is amazing—every single one of them shows up day after day, dealing with early mornings and difficult customers and my stress-induced mood swings—and I wish I could pay them what they’re worth. But even with busy mornings like this, even with lines out the door on weekends, Rye Again is barely breaking even. The math is unforgiving. Raises are a distant dream, like retirement or a vacation that lasts longer than a weekend. Normal for a new business.
“Let me know if you need any help in the meantime.” It’s pathetic, offering rides when I want to offer bonuses, but it’s all I have.
She smiles—genuine, not forced—and starts asking about the morning rush, but her words dissolve into background noise, Charlie Brown’s teacher sounds. Movement outside the window catches my eye, and everything else falls away like someone just switched off the sound.
Alexis walks down the sidewalk like she owns it, like the concrete was poured specifically for her heels to click against it. The tight skirt molds to her legs, navy blue or black—I can’t tell from here—professional but with an edge that makes it hard to look away. Her heels strike the pavement with metronomicprecision, each step confident and purposeful. Her hair—silk spun into gold, catching the morning sun and throwing it back doubled—bounces against her shoulders with each step, and her lips are painted the kind of red that makes men walk into walls and forget their own names.
But it’s not the clothes or makeup that makes my breath catch in my throat like I’ve swallowed wrong. It’s those eyes—bright, intelligent, seeing everything and filing it away for later use. The slight quirk of her lips that suggests she finds the whole world privately amusing, like she’s in on a joke the rest of us haven’t figured out yet. The way light seems to come from inside her rather than just reflecting off her skin, like she’s somehow more real than everything around her.
I need to look away. I want to look away. My brain is screaming at me to look away before someone notices I’m staring like a teenager. But I can’t. In this world of gray stones and ordinary people, of disappointments and failed dreams, she’s a jewel—one who holds my entire future in her perfectly manicured hands. Whatever she writes about Rye Again will either establish me here or destroy me. One review. One opinion. One woman who might as well have her hand wrapped around my?—
