Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Devin
“You have to toss it in the air, right?” Not waiting for Maya’s response, I throw the pizza dough into the air.
The disc spins upward, flour dusting down like snow, and for a half second, I think I’ve got it.
My hands position themselves beneath the spinning circle, ready to catch it like I’ve seen in a dozen cooking shows, but the dough has other plans.
The whole thing flops onto the counter with a wet slap, one edge hanging over the side.
“Damn it,” I mutter, peeling the drooping section back onto the granite.
Maya laughs, the sound bright against the electropop pulsing from her speakers. “I’m pretty sure throwing it around isn’t required.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I work the dough back into something resembling a circle, my fingers pressing and stretching the edges.
The kitchen smells like olive oil and fresh basil, and late afternoon light streams through the windows, catching the flour particles still floating in the air. “What kind of toppings did you get?”
“Pepperoni, basil...” She pulls everything out of her fridge, containers and packages crowding the counter. “I also have black olives.”
“That’s good?” I raise a doubtful eyebrow, picking up the container and examining it like it might contain something suspicious.
“It’s delicious.” She bumps my hip with hers as she reaches past me for the cheese.
“Then let’s go for it.” With the dough finally back in an acceptable shape—more oval than circle, but close enough—we sprinkle it with cheese, the mozzarella falling in white ribbons across the surface.
Maya arranges pepperoni slices while I tear basil leaves, releasing their spicy, peppery scent.
The olives go on last, dark spots against the red and white landscape we’ve created.
Sliding the pizza into the oven requires both of us maneuvering around each other in the narrow space between counter and stove.
The heat hits my face as the door opens, and I guide our creation onto the rack.
When the door closes with a satisfying click, I hold my hand up for a high five and Maya gives it a smack that echoes through the kitchen.
“Now all we need to do is make sure it doesn’t burn,” she says, wiping her floury hands on a dish towel decorated with tiny pineapples.
“The hardest part—not forgetting about it.” I sink into one of her kitchen chairs, the woven seat creaking slightly under my weight.
My energy levels are pretty good today, a solid seven out of ten, but that still means I need to pace myself.
Too many times I’ve felt this good and pushed forward, convinced I could handle just one more activity, one more hour on my feet.
Then boom—steering myself right into a flare that knocks me flat for days.
“I’m setting a timer.” She taps on her phone with flour-dusted fingers, the screen lighting up with fifteen minutes counting down.
She places it on the counter between the olive oil bottle and a half-empty wine glass from earlier, then turns to face me, arms crossed.
That look in her eyes—I already know what’s coming next.
“So. You and Oliver. Alexis said you had coffee with him at Rye Again.”
Of course she did. The island’s information network operates faster than any internet connection.
Which means all of our friends know by now.
Which means the whole island probably knows, not because my friends would share my business, but because Mrs. Patterson was definitely at Rye Again with her book club, and Tommy from the marina probably stopped in for his afternoon espresso, and they all would have noticed Oliver and me sitting together.
I shift in my chair, the wood protesting again. “News travels fast around here.”
“You know how it is.” Maya pulls out the chair across from me, its legs scraping against the tile. “But seriously, how was it?”
“He asked if I’m seeing anyone,” I tell her, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them. The memory of that moment floods back—his fingers wrapped around his coffee cup, the careful way he posed the question, like he was testing ice to see if it would hold his weight.
Her eyes widen, and she leans forward, elbows on the table. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath, feeling my heart pick up speed the same way it did when Oliver asked.
Those crisp blue eyes watching me over the rim of his cup, that soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
I’d done my best to keep my guard up, to maintain that protective distance I’ve cultivated over the years, but Oliver’s always been good at sneaking past my defenses.
He doesn’t even have to try—just sits there with that earnest expression, and suddenly I’m twenty-three again, falling for him all over.
“What do you think about that?”
“I told him I don’t date... and left it at that.” The words had felt both protective and hollow when I’d said them, a shield made of paper.
“Wow.” She sits fully in her chair now, settling in for what she clearly recognizes as a significant conversation. “So how do you... I mean I’m trying to figure out how you feel about him.”
“Me too.” I laugh, the sound coming out more frustrated than amused, and bury my face in my hands. Through my fingers, I can see the late afternoon light painting golden stripes across the table.
She folds her arms on the table, her expression thoughtful, considering. “You guys were together for so long.”
“Five years. And it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.
Another five years.” I bite my lip, tasting the faint metallic tang of worry.
“But that feels like nothing. I still think about him all the time. Wonder what he’s doing, if he’s happy, if he ever.
..” I trail off, then force myself to continue.
“He apologized for the way he treated me.”
“Really? That’s big.”
“I know,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m glad he did, and I... Yeah, I’m interested in him. A lot,” I breathe, the admission making my chest tight.
“But?”
“It’s hard, you know? A part of me wants to get to know him again, wants to see who he’s become, but I feel like I’ll be betraying myself if I do.
” Everything that I’ve been holding in since Oliver walked back into my life at the pizzeria spills out in a rush, words tumbling over each other.
“And what if we get back together? My family will freak out. When I was home for Christmas, I told them Oliver had moved to town and they all completely shit on him. Mom and Jemma actually tried to set me up with a guy I had a huge crush on in high school. Made me go on a date with him and it was horrible.”
“Wow. Really?” She frowns and shakes her head. “I can’t believe Jemma would do that to you.”
“Yeah, and we had an argument over it too. I didn’t tell you guys about it because it was embarrassing.
Aside from that, though, I haven’t even told Jemma about getting coffee with Oliver because she’s not going to believe that he’s changed.
She still calls him ‘that asshole’ whenever his name comes up. ”
“Why is it so bad to not know what they’ll say? Do you think they’ll judge you?”
“Probably.” I fiddle with a tassel on one of the placemats, twisting the threads between my fingers until they form a tiny rope.
“Oliver was so awful to me, but not all the time. There were good times, too—really good times. Mornings when he’d bring me tea in bed, nights when we’d talk until dawn about everything and nothing.
That’s all I ever talked about with my family, though.
The bad times. The dismissive comments about my health, the way he’d roll his eyes when I needed to rest, how he’d make plans without considering whether I’d have the energy.
So they hate him. If they find out that I’m talking to him they’ll probably stage an intervention.
Jemma would drive up from Portland. Mom would book the first flight out. ”
Maya chuckles, but it’s gentle, understanding. “They’re protective.”
“Yeah. They’re good to me.” I release the tassel, watching it unwind slowly.
“What did you mean about betraying yourself?”
“Oliver really messed me up.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact, but my chest tightens around them.
Maya waits, her silence an invitation to continue. Of course—she didn’t know me before Oliver. She only knows this version of me, the one with walls and rules and a carefully maintained distance from romantic entanglements.
“I didn’t used to doubt myself when I got flares,” I clarify, my voice steadier now.
“That only started happening after Oliver, because he always doubted them. ‘Are you sure you’re not just tired?’ he’d ask.
‘Maybe you’re overthinking it.’ Like I couldn’t tell the difference between normal exhaustion and my body rebelling against me.
And I don’t date because... Okay, I know I act like I just don’t want a relationship, like I’m perfectly content with my plants and my routines and my solo Netflix nights, but sometimes I think maybe that’s not the whole story. ”
“You’re right. It’s not.”
I stare at her, my hands stilling on the table.
“You want a boyfriend, Devin. I can tell. I see the way you look at happy couples.” Her voice is gentle but certain, like she’s stating an obvious fact.
My face warms, heat creeping up my neck, and I turn my gaze to the table.
The wood grain blurs as I focus on it, anything to avoid her knowing look.
Am I really that obvious? Do I stare too long at Alexis and Noah when they share those private smiles?
Do I envy Flick and Sebastian being so connected they finish each other’s sentences?
And seeing how Michael takes care of Hannah, knowing what she needs sometimes before she even knows herself.
A buried longing twists around my heart.
“You’re saying you haven’t dated because of how Oliver broke your heart?” She prods, her tone still gentle but persistent.
“Exactly.” I nod, the movement sharp, decisive.
“It’s great that he apologized, and yes I want to know what could happen next between us—God, I want to know so badly it keeps me up at night—but isn’t it harmful to revisit a relationship with someone who is responsible for fucking you up?
It would be me telling myself that what happened in the past doesn’t matter.
That all those nights I spent doubting myself, all those times I pushed through exhaustion because I didn’t want to disappoint him, all of that just gets erased? ”
“Come on. You’re smarter than that.”
I slowly shake my head at her, trying to grasp what she’s getting at. The music shifts to something slower, more atmospheric, and the kitchen feels smaller suddenly, more intimate.
“If you decide what happened in the past no longer has a hold on you, then that’s the way it is.
” She taps on the table for emphasis, her fingernail clicking against the wood.
“You aren’t bound to the perspective you had all those years ago.
You were different then. He was different.
Hell, the whole world was different. You get to decide what matters right now and what doesn’t. ”
“Yeah.” The truth of it sinks in slowly, like water into dry soil. “You’re right.”
“I think you should go for it. People change. Look at Alexis and Noah. She wrote an article that helped kill his restaurant and he replied by writing a response tearing into food reviewers.” She laughs, the sound filling the kitchen.
“He absolutely hated her and she wasn’t really fond of him either.
Now they live together and are having a baby.
They’re disgustingly happy. Anything can happen. ”
A little bit of hope bubbles to the surface, fragile as soap film, but I’m still not completely sold.
In an ideal world, everything Maya is saying would be true.
People would change, forgiveness would be simple, and second chances would always work out.
But I’m worried I can’t hold myself to that perspective shift, worried that old patterns will resurface the moment things get difficult.
And I’m even more worried that if I take the leap and chase after Oliver, if I let myself be vulnerable again, he’ll end up hurting me even worse than he did before. This time, I might not recover.
Also... “I don’t know if I forgive him,” I tell her, the admission sitting heavy between us.
“That’s fair. You only just reconnected. Can you see yourself possibly forgiving him in the future?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly, testing each word.
“Yes, he apologized, but I need more. I need to know why he did the things he did back then. And I need to see that he’s really changed, not just in words but in actions.
In how he responds when I have a bad day, when plans have to change, when my body doesn’t cooperate. ”
“For sure, and that takes a while. You have to spend more time together to see if he’s truly different. Real change shows up in the small moments, not the grand gestures.”
The timer on her phone goes off, its cheerful chime cutting through the music.
She gets up to check on the pizza, and I’m left with my thoughts, feeling a little lighter somehow.
My breaths come a little easier, as if the confession has created more room in my chest. Maya is right—I don’t need to rush into anything with Oliver.
I can take it slow, get to know this new version of him, test the waters carefully before diving in.
I just have to be careful, because falling for him again is risky.
The days when I could turn my heart over to someone simply out of love, without thought or reservation, are gone.
Those days ended when Oliver walked out five years ago.
I’m too cautious now, too shuttered, too aware of all the ways a heart can break.
I want more, of course. I want to tear down those rotting, splintered shutters and let some light in. I want to feel the warmth again. I want to open up to a man again, to share lazy Sunday mornings and whispered midnight confessions, to build something real and lasting.
And if it’s going to be any man, I really do want it to be Oliver.