Page 9 of We Can Do
If I were already an employee at the publishing house and not a contractor, I would be honest about mine and Noah’s incompatibility. As it stands, I’m not in a position to turn things down. So Noah has saved my ass—something I never thought would happen.
Looking down at my project, I see that the hot water bottle cover I’ve been making looks more like a baby hat with a weird extension from it. The stitches are uneven, some too tight, others too loose. Embarrassed, I rotate it so my friends can’t see how badly I’m butchering what should be a simple pattern.
“Oh, hey.” Devin’s fingers fly as she knits a scarf in variegated blue yarn. “Alexis, I saw you coming out of that new bakery in Portsmouth the other day. Rye Again, right? Isn’t it so good?”
I blink at her, wondering what else she saw. “Yeah. It’s... good.”
Hannah, ever perceptive, cocks her head at me. I can tell by her probing look she knows something’s off, but lucky for me, she doesn’t ask. “Are you reviewing it?”
“Mm hmm.” I bob my head and stare intently at my disaster of a project. “Yep.”
A loaded silence falls across the group. The girls and I have been meeting in Hannah’s knitting shop for nearly a year now after closing. The weekly get together for crafting an excuse to do what we’re really here for: offering support and understanding for what it means to live with a chronic illness.
For years, we’ve each walked down pretty lonely paths, spending countless hours in doctors’ offices trying to get a diagnosis. We know what it’s like to be misunderstood by people closest to us. To be told we’re being dramatic, that the pain is all in our heads.
It wasn’t until Hannah started this group that I really felt like I’d found my people. These women have been by my side through thick and thin. Doctor’s visits. Surgeries. Heartbreaks. Career ups and downs. There’s nothing we can’t share with each other.
So why do I find myself not wanting to share about Noah?
“That’s perfect,” Flick says, rescuing me from the silence. “Because you’re editing that bread cookbook, right? You’re like a bread expert by now.”
“Not quite.” I force a smile, my mind drifting to Noah’s office shelves full of books on bread. There must be very few people who know as much about bread as Noah Reynolds does.
“They have different kinds of sourdough,” Devin is telling the group, her needles clicking in steady rhythm. “And the owner said he’s working on getting a gluten free one in.”
A strange thrill runs through me at the mention of Noah. His good looks have been haunting my dreams while my days have been spent worrying about him destroying my career. At night...
Okay. So I’ve hadthosekinds of dreams about him. Ones where we’re in Rye Again after closing and he locks the door, shutting everyone else out before coming up to me, those dark eyes intense, winding his fingers through my hair and?—
“You probably tried everything there, didn’t you?” Maya asks, jerking me back to reality.
It takes me a second to remember how to talk. Once I do, though, I can’t hold back from gushing about Rye Again. “It’s amazing. I took a few loaves home and ate a whole one for dinner that night. They all taste different, but with each one the crust is crisp and perfectly caramelized. The interior is just chewy enough, with an open crumb structure that’s almost lacy. It lasts in your mouth long enough that you’re savoring it but not waiting for the bite to end...”
I trail off, suddenly aware that I sound like I’m writing a review. “It’s good,” I finish lamely.
The women all laugh. “It does sound amazing,” Hannah says, already pulling out her phone. “Michael’s going into Portsmouth this week. I’ll ask him to pick some up for me.”
“We should all go together sometime,” Devin says. “Their coffee is fantastic.”
“Lattes?” Maya asks hopefully.
“They only have French press.”
Maya makes a face like she’s bitten into a lemon, and everyone laughs.
“They’re the best French Presses in the world,” Devin pushes. “I swear. One taste and you’ll forget about caramel lattes forever.”
“Yeah, right,” Hannah giggles. “When hell freezes over.”
I pick my hot water bottle cover up again, examine the mess I’ve created, and start to undo it. The yarn makes soft ripping sounds as I pull out an hour’s worth of work. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Devin watching me. She can probably tell something’s off—I’m usually the one with neat, even stitches.
This whole thing with Noah has me unwinding faster than a loose scarf a cat’s got a hold of. Even though I have not received a call, I am still concerned that he will shit-talk me to thepublisher. I’m also equally worried thinking about working with him. The guy hates me—has every reason to—and he’ll probably be looking for any trip up to use against me. I am going to have to make sure to stay on guard around him.
I could share all of this with my friends, but I’m always the one they come to for advice, the one who stays strong. It’s more comfortable when the focus is on other people.
“Did you guys hear Annie William is dating the lawyer’s son?” Maya asks, pulling us into gossip territory. “What’s his name, with the dimples?”
“Hot Jesse?” Flick asks, perking up.
