Page 63 of We Can Do
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, and I’m pleased to see she’s smiling just as big as I am. Her eyes have that soft look that makes my chest tight.
“Are you hungry?” Taking her hand—her fingers cool from the evening air—I lead her into the apartment.
“I am.” She stops short just inside the door, her eyes widening as she takes in the transformed space. “Wow. It’s so... cute in here.”
“You like it? It’s not too cheesy?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I press my lips together to prevent more nervous questions from escaping.
“It’s awesome.” Her gaze travels from the checkered tablecloth to the vintage prints, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “And you made pizza?” She moves closer to the counter where I’ve set out plates and the salad I threw together.
“Yep.” I kiss her cheek, breathing in that moment of simple closeness. “I’ll cut you a slice. Would you like some wine?”
“Uh...” She sets her purse down on my couch, her movements careful, deliberate. “I would, but technically I’m supposed to be starting an elimination diet, and alcohol is the easiest thing to eliminate first.”
“Oh.” My gaze drops to the pizza—loaded with wheat in the crust and dairy in the cheese. Two of the biggest inflammatoryfoods I could have chosen. My stomach sinks. “I can make something other than pizza?—”
“No, no.” She settles into one of the chairs Lawrence and I brought up from the bakery storage room, her hand reaching out to touch mine briefly. “I can’t do the whole thing now. With food reviewing, that would be impossible. So I’ll do what I can and skip drinking. I’ll have to do the full elimination diet when I’m not reviewing restaurants.”
“And when will that be?”
A pause stretches between us, heavy with implication. “Whenever I get a full-time job where I don’t have to test food out.”
The weight of her words settles over the room like flour dust, a reminder of just how much is riding on my sourdough cookbook. Its success could change everything for both of us—her chance at a stable editing position, my validation as more than just a baker.
“Gotcha.” I turn to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of sparkling water instead of the wine I’d carefully selected earlier. As I pour her a glass, I notice the shadows under her eyes, the way her shoulders seem to carry invisible weight. “You feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.” But her smile is tight, not reaching her eyes the way it did during our kiss.
My chest twists with concern. “What did your doctor tell you?”
She sighs, her fingers tracing patterns on the checkered tablecloth. “That flares can change over time. There’s no medication adjustment that can help, but if they stay this long I can try Botox or shooting lidocaine into my bladder through a catheter.”
The defeat in her voice cuts through me.
“But what about the elimination diet? He said?—”
“That it’s the best thing to try now.” She nods, but there’s resignation there. “Because triggers can also change over time.”
I process this as I retrieve the pizza from the oven, the heat from the pan warming my hands through the mitt. Using the pizza cutter with perhaps more force than necessary, I divide it into slices, the cheese stretching in golden strings.
“Starting the elimination diet now would get in the way of work, but you know that could be a temporary thing. If you figure out what’s causing the uptick in flares, you could have them under control sooner than you think. It could prevent more flares in the future, lower stress. I know how much they stress you out.”
Her eyebrows draw together, creating that little crease between them that appears when she’s upset. “I don’t need your medical advice, Noah,” she snaps.
The sharpness in her tone hits me like cold water. It’s completely different from how she usually speaks to me, and judging by the way her eyes widen, she’s as shocked as I am.
I’m the one feeling the sting, though. I’m just trying to be supportive. Sitting across from her, I watch the candlelight flicker across her features as I sort through how to respond.
The words come out before I can stop them. “Are you being this defensive because of what your ex said about you?”
She goes completely still. “What are you talking about?”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. We haven’t talked about Miles, haven’t discussed that article, and now I’ve stepped directly into a minefield.
“I, uh...” Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “I read the article that Miles wrote.”
Pain flashes across her face like lightning. “Where did you find that?” Her voice has gone hollow, cold as January air.
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. “Um, online. I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
