Page 67 of We Can Do
I see all my hopes for an editing career going down the drain, a flower plucked before it’s even bloomed. And Noah, his book that he’s worked so hard on?—
“My agent called to tell me...” He paces back and forth, his shoes squeaking on the clean floor, staring at the tiles like they hold answers.
“To tell you what?” I slowly ask, each word careful. My heart pounds faster, blood rushing in my ears.
“To tell me about an article that just came out about the bakery. That you wrote.” He stops pacing and spins to face me, his eyes hard.
I stare back at him, my mind struggling to catch up. Wait. He’s mad?
No. This doesn’t make any sense. The article I wrote about overzealous cancel culture in the foodie world—the one I spent three nights perfecting, fact-checking every claim—paints Noah and Rye Again in a positive light. It defends him against the unfair attacks, explains the context of what happened at his restaurant in New York. It’s supposed to make him happy. I wrote it for him.
So why the hell is he staring daggers at me?
My stomach lurches, acid rising in my throat. “Yeah, it was... it was supposed to be a surprise.”
He rakes his fingers down his face, the gesture rough, frustrated, and sighs so deeply his shoulders rise and fall.
“It’s supposed to be positive, Noah. It?—”
“This is supposed to be positive?” He extends his phone to me, arm rigid, prompting me to take it. The screen is cracked in one corner from when he dropped it last week. “Have you checked the comments on your article yet?”
“No, I...” The article—bought by a popular online news outlet after I pitched it to three different places—was supposed to come out tomorrow. I guess they moved it around and forgot to tell me. Or I’ve been so distracted by work and Noah, by these stolen moments in the bakery, that I overlooked the email.
With each comment I read, my stomach drops even further, like descending into a dark pit. The article is blowing up, but not in a good way. There are close to a hundred comments already, time-stamped within the last two hours, and only a few of them are positive. All the others are people claiming I’m biased for writing about a bakery owned by the guy I’m dating. They say this just proves Noah is using preservatives and I’m trying to help him cover it up—which doesn’t even make sense! The logic is completely twisted, but the mob doesn’t care about logic.
And, of course, some commenters reference the article Noah wrote about me and other food writers months ago, the one where he called us “vultures picking at the bones of honest businesses.” They’re calling us hypocrites. I’m under attack just as much as Noah is, with calls for me to leave the business altogether because I don’t know what I’m talking about. Someone has even found my other reviews and is dissecting them for signs of bias.
It’s like Elaine’s claim that I shouldn’t have written the review about Rye Again because of my personal connections, but it’s so much bigger. It’s monumental. It’s viral. Enough to ruin both mine and Noah’s careers. The internet mob has found its next target, and it’s us.
“Noah, I...” My voice is raspy, cracking on his name. So many words trying to get out at once that they just get jammed in my throat and I end up saying nothing at all. My hands shake as I hold his phone.
He massages his temples with both hands, still not looking at me, his jaw clenched tight. “This is bad. It’s really bad.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, but it wasn’t my intention. I?—”
“I really don’t need to hear it.” Finally, he does look at me, and I almost wish he hadn’t. Gone is the warmth and care that have been so intrinsic to his looks—the soft eyes that crinkle when he smiles, the way he looks at me like I’m somethingprecious. They’re replaced by a coldness that rivals what he showed me when I walked in to review Rye Again that first day, when he recognized me and his face shuttered completely.
My body goes numb, pins and needles spreading from my chest outward, and I doubt my ability to stay sitting straight up. The chair feels unsteady beneath me. That one expression says so much, but to sum it up: everything between us has changed. In an instant. Like a switch has been flipped.
“The bakery doesn’t need this kind of press.” He crosses his arms, creating a barrier between us. His voice is flat, professional, like I’m a stranger. “You know how hard it’s been for me to even make it this far. How many long days, how many failed batches, how many mornings I’ve wondered if anyone would even show up. An article like this can sink a business. One bad news cycle and suddenly no one wants to support the ‘controversial’ bakery.”
“I know,” I whisper, my throat tight. “I’m so sorry.”
He sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion and something else—disappointment maybe. “I need to cancel our plans for tonight. We can talk in a few days, once you’re done with the front matter’s edits.”
I stare at him, a queasy feeling squirming in my stomach like something alive and unhappy. We’d planned to go to a movie tonight, that new romantic comedy at the arts theater, the one with the reclining seats. We were going to share popcorn and hold hands in the dark like teenagers. But clearly now he wants nothing to do with me. He can’t even look at me directly, his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
I want to try again, to explain myself better—how I spent hours crafting the article to defend him, how I thought I was helping. But a small amount of pride shines through the frustration and pain, a tiny flame that refuses to be extinguished. I’m not about to get on my knees and beg for him to listen tome. Not when he’s already decided I’m guilty without letting me explain.
The fact that he’s talking to me like I’m nothing but his editor—and an editor he can’t stand, at that—pushes tears to the surface. They burn behind my eyes, threatening to spill. Yes, I messed up. Fine. I can own that. The article has backfired spectacularly. But he doesn’t have to be such a brutal asshole about it. He doesn’t have to look at me like I’m a stranger who’s wronged him.
Gulping past the lump in my throat, I stand and grab my things with shaking hands. The manuscript pages scatter slightly, and I gather them clumsily, shoving them into my bag without caring if they wrinkle. My coffee—his coffee that he gave me—sits abandoned on the table. “Fine.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t turn to me as I walk past him and to the door. I can feel the rigidity in his body as I pass, like he’s turned to stone. The bell above the door chimes cheerfully, a mocking sound.
The warmth and care that filled this room only five minutes ago has now evaporated into nothingness.
It might as well have never been there at all.
