Page 49 of We Can Do
Nice. Such a simple, inadequate word for what Noah makes me feel. Our conversations flow like water—natural, easy, refreshing. All that tension from when I found out I was his editor, when he discovered I’d reviewed Rye Again—it’s evaporated like morning mist. Sometimes I forget we even have that complicated history.
“He’s understanding about my condition,” I add, the words soft with wonder because it still surprises me.
“That’s worth a million bucks.” Devin turns onto the coastal road, where glimpses of sparkling water flash between the pine trees.
“Yeah.” I watch the scenery blur past, but my mind drifts to Miles. God, Miles.
It had started out so perfect. He was charming, attentive, successful. A journalist for the Times with ambition to spare.For six months, it was everything I’d wanted. Then my condition worsened, the flares became more frequent, and Miles decided he was going to fix me. Every day became a battle. Articles about miracle cures, supplements, clinics that promised breakthrough treatments. He couldn’t accept that sometimes bodies just don’t cooperate, that chronic illness isn’t a problem to be solved but a reality to be lived with.
The frustration in his voice when another treatment failed. The disappointment when I couldn’t push through the pain for a dinner with his boss. The anger when I suggested he stop researching and just accept me as I was.
Then, after I couldn’t take it anymore and we broke up, there came the article...
I turn away from the window, fidgeting with the hem of my dress. Funny how much pain writing has caused in my life. I hurt Noah with a review—though at least that was honest, even if poorly timed. Miles hurt me with calculated cruelty.
“Here it is,” Devin announces with forced brightness, probably sensing my mood shift.
She navigates her car down a narrow dirt driveway, the Honda bouncing over ruts and roots until we reach a log cabin with a massive workshop attached. A man emerges—full mountain-man beard, worn overalls, hands that speak of decades working with wood. He waves us into his workspace with a gruff nod.
The smell hits me first—cedar and pine and something else, maybe Danish oil. The space is organized chaos, tools hanging from every surface, wood shavings carpeting the floor, and there, along one wall, the desks. They’re gorgeous. Each one unique, the natural grain of the wood preserved and highlighted, knots and whorls turned into features rather than flaws. These aren’t the pressed-particle-board pieces I’ve been buying from IKEA my whole adult life. These are furniture. These are art.
“How much for this one?” I run my hand along a piece made from what looks like reclaimed barn wood, smooth as silk despite its rustic appearance.
He names a price that makes my stomach drop. It’s more than I make in a month from the paper. Even with my freelance articles, even being careful with money, there’s no way I can justify this. My income is too unpredictable, too dependent on Elaine’s whims and which publications accept my pitches.
“Can you knock some of that off?” Devin’s response is immediate, her voice taking on that negotiating tone I’ve heard her use at the farmer’s market.
The woodworker scratches his beard, considering. “I could go down two hundred.”
“That’s not much.” Devin frowns, already moving toward the other pieces, but something in her body language suggests she’s not really interested in looking. “Do you have anything cheaper?”
She takes another step toward the door, and I realize this is strategy, not genuine disinterest.
“How about three hundred off?” the man calls out, and I can see him calculating, probably remembering that Devin’s bought at least three pieces from him in the past year.
Devin’s gaze cuts to mine, eyebrows rising in question.
“That’s good,” I blurt out before he can change his mind. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”
He helps us load the desk into Devin’s car—it barely fits, even with the seats down—and then we’re bouncing back down the driveway, the whole transaction completed in less than ten minutes. Classic Devin. She can be all flowing scarves and gentle yoga speak one minute, then turn into a shark when business is involved.
“Thanks,” I tell her as we reach the main road.
She flashes me a grin and winks. “I figured he would give you a discount. I’m a pretty regular customer at this point. Maybe too regular. I might have a furniture addiction.”
“Well,” I laugh, the first genuine laugh since opening that box, “your shopping habits are working well in my favor. Thank you. For suggesting this and bringing me here, too.”
“Anytime.” Her smile softens into something more genuine. “Do you need to go back to your house now, or would you like to grab some coffee? We have time before your afternoon deadline.”
“Actually, what if we get coffee in Portsmouth? I could use the distraction.”
“At Rye Again?” She casts me a knowing look, one eyebrow arched.
“No,” I laugh, though the thought of Noah’s bakery makes my chest tight with longing. “I need to write a review of that new place on Market Street—Sunrise Café. Although there’s no way it’ll be as good as Rye Again’s sourdough. Nothing is.”
“Are you sure you aren’t a little biased?”
“Maybe.” I find myself pulling out my phone, hoping for a text notification I might have missed. The screen remains stubbornly blank. No new messages. The disappointment is ridiculous—we texted just this morning. “Do you ever... worry that you like someone too much?”
