Page 73 of We Can Do
The chronic pain makes restaurant reviewing unsustainable. The long dinners, the rich foods that might trigger flares, the travel. I need something stable, something I can do from home when my body rebels. Editing seemed like the answer.
“Of course.” Maya nods, understanding.
“Does it have to be editing at a publishing house?” Flick asks.
“What else would it be?” The words come out slower than intended.
“I’m just worried you’re putting too much pressure on yourself.” Flick adjusts on her cushion. “You know, putting all your eggs in one basket. You’re getting more think pieces, right? You could slowly transition out of reviews and into more of those while still looking for the right editing job.”
The word “right” sticks like a splinter. “You’re saying you don’t think Kitchen Lore is the right place for me? The job is full time. With benefits.”
Benefits. The magic word for anyone with chronic illness.
“Yes, and that is great. I want that for you.” Flick holds up her hand in a gesture of peace. “But there are other jobs like that, yes?”
I hesitate. “Yes.”
She tilts her head. “Is working on this cookbook with Noah really what’s best for you? Is the payoff really worth it? What if you could quit this project and still find another full-time job somewhere else?”
“I see what she’s saying.” Maya sets down her knitting. “You don’t look like you’re doing well, Alexis.”
“I’m not.” The tears come then, hot and sudden.
Hannah reaches across our circle to squeeze my hand. “There are other options.”
The breath I release is shaky. They’re right, all of them. It’s not just the potential job at Kitchen Lore that has me death-gripping this cookbook project. It’s the excuse to read Noah’s words, to see his notes in the margins, to pretend we’re still connected.
“I’ll quit the book.” The words bring a wave of relief so intense it makes me dizzy. “You guys are right. I’ll look for another job.”
They descend on me then, a tangle of arms and sympathy and the kind of love that doesn’t need words.
“So are we gonna craft, or what?” I laugh, watery and emotional, but real.
“I’d much rather talk about island gossip.” Devin settles back on her cushion. “Mary Clemmons told me she saw John Cone leaving Heather Porter’s house the other morning.”
Maya gasps. “What? His divorce isn’t even finalized yet!”
“So what?” Hannah waves dismissively, but she’s leaning forward, ready for details. “He’s legally separated.”
And just like that, we’re off. Speculation flies around the circle—everyone talking over each other in the comfortable chaos of friendship. The kind of easy gossip that makes small-town life bearable.
I smile to myself, something loosening in my chest for the first time all week. The last couple months have been arollercoaster that’s left me dizzy and bruised. But sitting here, surrounded by women who’ve seen me at my absolute worst and still show up, I remember this: some things don’t change. Even in the stormiest seasons when it feels like I’m drowning, I have this. These women. This place where I’m understood without explanation, loved without condition.
They are my anchors when everything else is drift.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Noah
I rub my eyes, trying to wipe away the blurry vision, though it does no good. Blinking, I move on to the next line of my equipment chapter. It’s probably the fourth—or is it the thirtieth? —time that I’ve rewritten it, and it still doesn’t feel right.
Then again, nothing feels right in my life anymore. So what am I expecting? Everything to magically make sense again?
Sighing, I stand, about to leave my office for a cup of coffee, when my laptop beeps with a notification. Immediately, my chest tightens. Ever since Alexis's last article came out, messages have been my worst enemy. More often than not, it’s someone calling me a hack and demanding that I retire. When it’s not that, it’s another publication asking me to write a response to Alexis's article.
Or it’s my agent, chiming in and encouraging me to write that response—which, no way in hell will I do. Alexis and I have both been dragged through enough mud.
Leaning over, I glance at the screen. It’s not a troll, though. It’s Alexis.
