Page 25 of We Can Do
“No, man. Get out of here.” I spray glass cleaner on the display case, watching the liquid bead up on a particularly stubborn handprint. “Thanks for today.”
He salutes me, the gesture both casual and sincere. “You sure you don’t want me to hang around in case you need saving during your lesson?”
I stop wiping down the display case, the cloth towel frozen mid-swipe. “Am I that hopeless?”
But he’s already chuckling, the sound echoing off the bakery’s exposed brick walls. “No. Just wanted to give you the option, though.”
“I appreciate it, but it’s just a baking lesson. What could go wrong?”
Even as I say it, though, my stomach and throat slowly twist, like dough being worked too hard. There’s a lot that could go wrong when it comes to me and Alexis being in the same room. We’re like cats and dogs, circling each other warily despite our attempts at white flag waving. The truce we’ve established feels as fragile as phyllo dough.
Being alone with her will be challenging, but at least I have the task of teaching to keep me focused. Though that in itself is nerve wracking. While I’ve taught millions of people to bake through YouTube—carefully edited videos where I can do multiple takes—a one-on-one class in person will be a whole different beast. No retakes. No editing out the awkward moments.
I also don’t trust my ability to talk properly around her. Despite our issues, she’s still a beautiful woman, and that can tie even the most articulate man’s tongue into knots tighter than a pretzel.
“Indeed.” Lawrence winks, the gesture so exaggerated I can see it from across the room, like he knows something that I don’t. “What could go wrong?”
I shake my head, returning to my cleaning with renewed vigor. “Nothing. See you tomorrow.”
He heads out, the bell above the door chiming his departure, and I make sure the sign is flipped to “CLOSED” then get started putting the chairs on the tables so that I can sweep and mop after Alexis leaves. The familiar routine calms my nerves slightly—lift, flip, place. The chairs know this dance as well as I do.
A four AM start time to baking means I’m up at three thirty every day, my alarm cutting through dreams that lately feature more flour than anything else. After taking a quick shower that never quite washes away the persistent scent of yeast, I dashdownstairs, start a French Press that’s more necessity than luxury, and unlock the door so my baking assistants can get in.
Then it’s off to the races for a seven AM open time, the first customers already waiting outside.
The rush usually lasts through around nine or so, a beautiful chaos of orders and coffee and the constant dance around each other in the tight space behind the counter. Then comes the lull before people pop in at lunch to pick up loaves, their paper bags crinkling with promise. We close at two, then it’s cleaning time, with an end to the official day at around three. That doesn’t include the business aspect of the job, though. Any paperwork, ordering, payroll, and phone calls I can’t get done during Rye Again’s open hours gets pushed to the afternoon, stealing time I don’t really have.
If I’m lucky, I’m headed up the exterior steps to the apartment space above Rye Again by six, my legs protesting every step. Then it’s a quick dinner—usually something grabbed from the day’s unsold items—before I pass out in the home I haven’t had a chance to decorate since moving here six months ago. The walls are still bare, boxes still stacked in corners like monuments to good intentions.
At four AM, I’m up and at it again. Wash, rinse, repeat. Seven days a week. The cycle as predictable as the rise of properly proofed dough.
And it’s worth it. Every aching muscle, every early morning, every late night with the books. Rye Again is more than a bakery. It’s my second shot at showing the world that I actually know what I’m doing. I’m not some canceled hack who tries to take the shortcut to success. I’m not someone whose whole future hinges on a small, poor choice to use store-bought dough just once. That single decision that haunts me like the ghost of baking past.
In the spare moments, I work on my sourdough cookbook, which is more like an escape from my hectic life than anythingelse. The book is a natural result of testing and tweaking recipes through the years, each failure teaching me something new, and putting the results together in one place only feels natural.
More than that, this cookbook is kind of like my comeback. A big middle finger to the people who have doubted me, wrapped in wholesome recipes and helpful tips. Every component of it needs to be perfect—from the hydration percentages to the descriptions of that moment when you know the dough is ready.
Which brings me to Alexis. Her asking me to teach her some recipes was impressive, unexpected as a successful first rise. Let’s hope that once we get into the thick of it, her tenacity doesn’t waver like under-kneaded dough.
I hustle around the dining room, continuing to clean up. The late afternoon sun throws long shadows across the floor, turning the wood grain into abstract art. My feet are aching, that particular throb that comes from standing on them for twelve hours straight, and my mind spins from the hundred conversations I had this morning alone with employees and customers alike.
Mrs. Edwards wanting her usual rye, extra seeds. The college student trying to impress his girlfriend with artisanal bread knowledge he clearly googled five minutes before walking in. Lawrence fielding complaints about us running out of the rosemary loaf again.
As much as I’ve been craving some quiet, though, I find I can’t enjoy it. The bakery feels too still without the usual bustle, like a heart between beats. I’m too on edge, checking the clock every thirty seconds as if that will make time move differently.
A knock on the front door makes me look up, my pulse immediately quickening. Alexis stands on the stoop, her silhouette backlit by the setting sun. Her long hair is pulled into a ponytail that sways slightly in the evening breeze. She’s wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, which somehow she managesto make look glamorous, like she stepped out of some casual-chic magazine spread. Her work bag is slung over her shoulder, and she’s cradling something in her other hand.
Resisting the urge to smooth my hair—I don’t want to give the wrong impression, don’t want her to think I care more than I should—I walk around the counter and open the door. The evening air rushes in, carrying the scent of the ocean and something floral from the shop next door. “Hey. Come in.”
“Thanks.” She steps inside, and for the first time I see what’s in her hand. It’s the starter I gave her, the mason jar I’d handed over like a peace offering, except now it’s wearing what looks like...
“A dress?” I ask, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.
She laughs, the sound filling the empty bakery. “A sweater. But, uh, sure. We can call it a sweater dress. One of my friends made it last night. What do you think?”
I lean closer to examine the tiny knitted garment, complete with what appear to be pearl buttons. I chuckle, the absurdity of it breaking through my nervousness. “I think that I’ve seen people do a lot of weird things with their sourdough starters.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?” She tilts her head, genuinely curious.
