Page 68 of We Can Do
Chapter Twenty-Five
Noah
“Noah! You hear me?”
“Huh?” I blink Lawrence into focus. “Yeah. Of course.”
He frowns, and the busy bakery behind him feels more like a watercolor painting than real life—all the edges blurred, the sounds muffled like I’m underwater. “Then what did I just say?”
My hand moves automatically to the shelf below the counter, fingers closing around one of the coffee bags. “That we need... more coffee. I heard you.”
“We need more olive and rosemary loaves. The shelf is bare.” He tilts his head, studying me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. “You okay?”
“What? Yeah. I’m fine.” The words come out too fast, defensive. “Olive and oil loaves coming up.”
“Olive and rosemary,” he corrects, his voice patient but concerned.
“Exactly.” I weave through the maze of front-of-house staff, their bodies moving in practiced choreography around me. The kitchen door swings shut behind me with its familiar squeak,and there they are—the warm loaves on the cooling rack, their crusts golden and perfect, waiting like soldiers in formation.
The rack is heavier than usual, or maybe I’m just weaker. I carry it out to the front, my movements mechanical, muscle memory taking over where my mind has checked out. Each loaf slides into the display case with a soft scrape of crust against wood. Then I’m moving again, finding anything and everything to keep my hands busy—wiping down surfaces that are already clean, reorganizing the already organized napkin dispensers, checking the coffee levels that Lawrence just checked.
No, I’m not okay. After Alexis left yesterday, I did the only thing I knew how to do—headed straight into the bakery’s kitchen like a man possessed. My hands found the familiar rhythm of mixing and kneading, flour dusting my arms up to the elbows, but the usual meditation of bread-making abandoned me. The dough felt wrong under my palms, resistant and heavy. By the time I dragged myself upstairs to attempt sleep, my stomach was churning from the raw dough I’d been eating—pinching off pieces every time the emotions threatened to overflow. The sheets on my bed might as well have been made of sandpaper, every position wrong, every thought circling back to her.
The morning rush continues around me, customers flowing in and out like tide water, but I’m barely present. My body goes through the motions while my mind replays everything. I don’t have to wonder what she was thinking when she wrote that article. Her intentions shine through every word—she was trying to help, trying to protect me, trying to turn the tide of public opinion. But intentions don’t change outcomes. The train didn’t just miss the station; it derailed completely.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket, and I know without looking that the notifications are piling up. Comments on the article. YouTubers dissecting our relationship for content. Foodbloggers weighing in with their hot takes. Each ping another nail in the coffin of what we were trying to build together.
The anger sits in my chest like a hot coal, but even as it burns, I know the truth—it’s not really her I’m angry at. It’s the whole impossible situation. It fucking guts me. The way everything we touch together seems to combust. Lawrence was right all along. Mixing work with pleasure has tangled us up in knots neither of us knows how to untie.
I care about Alexis so damn much. The words form in my mind before I can stop them:I love her.
The thought sticks in my throat, heavy and hard to swallow. I haven’t even told her yet. Haven’t found the right moment, the right words. And now the realization of what I need to do next makes those unspoken words feel like stones in my mouth.
Seeing another business fail is not an option. The very thought makes my hands shake as I arrange pastries that don’t need arranging. Rye Again represents everything—my last shot at real success, my chance to prove that New York didn’t break me, that I can build something that lasts. But the deeper Alexis and I sink into this relationship, the more we become a target. The more negative attention will be drawn to the bakery—we’re becoming the story, not the bread.
Our personal issues are bleeding into the professional ones too. The cookbook meeting we missed last week because we were fighting. The edits she sent back with notes that felt more like relationship grievances than editorial feedback. What happens when we have another fight and she cancels a meeting? Or worse—what if she pulls out of the project entirely?
The publisher has already made their position crystal clear in emails that might as well have been written in ice. I’m not a priority author. I’m a risk they’re taking, a small bet in their larger portfolio. If they think I’ve chased my editor away, theywon’t scramble to find another one. They’ll just cut their losses and move on.
A dull ache spreads across my temples, pressing in from both sides like a vise. The rest of the morning passes in a blur of automatic movements. Lawrence keeps shooting me looks—concerned, questioning—but I avoid his eyes like they might burn me. He knows something is wrong. Of course he does. He probably knew before I did. But I’m not ready to hear his thoughts, his advice, his gentle “I told you so” wrapped in sympathy.
The truth sits heavy in my stomach: I don’t want to talk to anyone. Except for one person. The one person I absolutely shouldn’t talk to.
The moment the last customer walks out the door, their coffee and croissant in hand, I flip the sign to “CLOSED” with more force than necessary. The cleaning routine that usually takes an hour gets compressed into twenty minutes of furious activity. I move like a man on fire, scrubbing surfaces that don’t need scrubbing, restocking supplies that are already full. The staff exchanges glances as they work around me, their usual chatter subdued. Everyone can feel the tension radiating off me in waves.
The second I can escape, I’m out the door. My feet make the decision before my brain catches up—no car, I need to walk. The early afternoon air hits my face, cool enough to make me wish I’d grabbed a jacket, but I need the discomfort. Need something external to match what’s happening inside.
The walk stretches ahead of me—an hour at least to leave downtown Portsmouth, cross the bridge to Pine Island, navigate into her quiet neighborhood. My feet find a rhythm on the sidewalk, and I try to use the time to figure out exactly what I’m going to say. But every practice conversation falls apart before Ican finish it. The words tangle and knot, refusing to form into anything that makes sense, anything that will make this easier.
The bridge spans before me, and I watch the water below, choppy and gray matching my churning thoughts. A metaphor I don’t want to examine too closely. Pine Island feels different as I cross into it—quieter, more insular, like entering another world. Her world.
By the time I reach Alexis’s street, my rehearsed words have evaporated completely. I stand across from her house like some kind of stalker, just staring at the windows. They’re dark, reflecting nothing back at me. Her car sits in the small driveway, familiar and painful to see. The pansies we picked up at the nursery last week bloom cheerfully in their pots on the front porch, purple and yellow faces turned up to the weak sun. We’d laughed about something that day—I can’t remember what now, but I remember her laugh, the way it made everything else fade away.
My stomach twists violently, and for a moment I actually look around for a spot to be sick, just in case. Behind that bush? Next to her neighbor’s fence? But the nausea recedes, leaving just the hollow ache behind.
Somehow my feet carry me across the street. Each step feels like walking through wet cement, heavy and wrong. My hand shakes as I raise it to knock. The sound seems too loud in the quiet afternoon.
Please answer, my mind begs. Then immediately: Please don’t answer. Then again: Wait. Please answer.
