Page 55 of We Can Do
“How to Support a Partner When Sex Is Painful for Them.”
My heartbeat picks up as I click through. The opening paragraphs seem genuinely helpful, discussing communication and patience. But as I read on, the tone shifts. Subtle at first, then increasingly obvious. The author talks about hispartner’s “unwillingness to pursue treatment,” her “resistance to maintaining a normal intimate relationship.” By the end, it’s clear he’s painting himself as the long-suffering boyfriend held hostage by his partner’s condition.
The words blur as anger builds in my chest. This isn’t support—it’s a public shaming disguised as advice. My finger scrolls faster, looking for something, anything that might explain why this came up in my search about Alexis.
The comments section loads, and there it is, buried between other responses:
“You’re an asshole for writing about Alexis in this way. Complete lies.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I have to read it three times before it fully sinks in. This Miles person—he dated Alexis. And then he wrote this, put her personal medical information out there for anyone to read, twisted it to make himself look like a victim. What a bullshit thing to do.
My hands shake as I navigate to his social media profiles. I tell myself to stop, that this is invasive, that I’m crossing a line. But my fingers keep clicking, scrolling back through years of posts. Barcelona vacation photos. Craft cocktails at trendy bars. Food pics that try too hard to be artistic.
Then Alexis’s face appears on my screen, bright and laughing at a Brooklyn pizzeria, Miles’s arm around her shoulders. Another scroll reveals them kissing at what looks like a New Year’s party, sparklers blurring in the background. She looks younger, her hair longer, but that smile is unmistakable.
I push back from the table, the chair scraping against the floor. Fuck. My stomach churns with a mix of anger and nausea. Not because she had a relationship before me—of course she did. But because of what he did to her afterward. The violation of it. The cruelty. Blaming her for her chronic illness.
The glass from the cabinet feels cool in my hand as I fill it with water from the tap. I drain it in one long pull, staring out the window at the trees losing their leaves. The setting sun paints everything golden, but all I can see is Alexis’s face when she told me about her condition that first time, the vulnerability in her eyes, the way she braced for rejection.
Did she see this article? Of course she did. Someone would have told her, shown her, unable to resist being the bearer of bad news. How long did she have to live with people knowing these intimate details about her? Is this why she left New York?
The parallel hits me like cold water. We were both driven out of the city by words on a screen. Her review of Street Cucina became the catalyst for my downfall, though she was just doing her job, reporting what she experienced. But Miles—he knew damn well what he was doing. He wanted to hurt her.
I set the empty glass on the counter, my grip so tight my knuckles have gone white. The urge to call Alexis, to tell her I know, that I understand, wars with the certainty that I can’t. This isn’t my secret to acknowledge. She chose not to tell me about Miles’s article, and I have to respect that. If she wants me to know, she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
But keeping this to myself feels like swallowing glass. Every time she mentions feeling judged for her condition, I’ll know there’s this deeper wound she’s not talking about. Every time we’re intimate and she apologizes for what she can’t do, I’ll wonder if she’s hearing Miles’s words in her head.
My hands grip the edge of the counter, and I stare at the water droplets still clinging to the inside of the glass. Even if I never say a word about what I’ve discovered, something tells me this article, this painful piece of Alexis’s past, isn’t done with us yet. These things have a way of surfacing when you least expect them, like old wounds that never quite healed right.
The laptop screen has gone dark on the table, the video upload probably complete by now. But I can’t bring myself to move, to check, to continue with the normal evening routine. All I can do is stand here at the sink, holding onto this secret that isn’t mine to hold, worrying about what other shadows from our pasts might be waiting to emerge.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alexis
The shrill blast of my phone cuts through the darkness like a knife through butter. I fumble for the pillow beside me, pressing it hard over my head as if I can suffocate the sound into submission. The ringing stops. Thank God. I sink back into the warmth of my mattress, already drifting back toward the dream I’d been having—something about Noah and freshly baked bread that made my whole house smell like heaven.
The phone explodes to life again.
My eyes snap open. Two calls in a row. The emergency signal.
I lunge across the bed, sheets tangling around my legs like seaweed, nearly sending me face-first onto the floor. My fingers close around the phone just as it threatens to vibrate right off the nightstand. Flick’s name glows on the screen.
“Hey.” My voice comes out rough with sleep. I push tangled hair from my eyes, trying to focus. “What’s up?”
“Hi, I’m at the hospital.” The words tumble out between ragged breaths. “With Devin.”
The fog of sleep evaporates instantly. I bolt upright, my spine straightening like someone’s yanked a string attached to the topof my head. My heart hammers against my ribs. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“She’s okay—I think. We were supposed to have coffee before she went to work this morning, but she didn’t show up. I went to her house and she was passed out in the living room. She hit her head when she fell.”
My limbs turn to water. I grip the phone tighter, as if it’s the only solid thing in the world. “O—okay. What did the doctors say?”
“Nothing yet. I’m in the waiting room and they’re running tests on her.”
The tremor in Flick’s voice makes my chest tighten. She’s always the steady one, the rock we all lean on. Hearing her this shaken sends ice through my veins.
“Um, okay.” I’m already moving, muscle memory taking over. My free hand grabs yesterday’s jeans from the hamper—they’ll have to do. “I’m on my way there now. Do you need me to bring anything?”
