Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Alexis
“I mean, it cost so much.” Flick holds up the mangled skein, smokey blue and plum fibers tangled beyond salvation. “And it was a special order skein from India.”
“So you’re getting rid of the cat, right?” Maya asks, not even glancing up from her knitting needles.
Flick’s jaw drops. “What? No.”
Hannah chuckles, the sound warm as the herbal tea she’s always brewing for us. “She’s kidding, Flick. We know you aren’t getting rid of Cat, no matter how many expensive skeins she destroys.”
A chuckle ripples through our Chronic Pain Crafters meeting like a wave—Maya first, then Hannah, Devin, Flick, and finally me. I’m the last to laugh, and only because I force the sound through my throat.
While my fingers are busy crocheting a cover for my hot water bottle and my friends are busy discussing life updates, I’m sitting here worrying about the upcoming meeting with Noah.
After finding out that I’m his new editor, he canceled our morning meeting and told me he needed to regroup.
His voice on the phone had been clipped, professional, each word careful and measured.
I figured that would be the end of that.
He’d tell the publishing house that I’m insufferable and I would never be offered a job through them again.
Word would spread through the publishing world—it’s smaller than people think—and all future chances of editing cookbooks would go down the drain.
I’d have to kiss my hopes of quitting freelancing and my part-time job at the paper goodbye.
For two days, I assumed this was exactly what happened. Until I opened my email and found a message from Noah asking if we could dive into work on Saturday.
My relief is... only part of the picture.
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 had those kinds 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 the publisher.
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.
“Oh, that’s his name?” Maya snorts into her tea.
Hannah bobs her head and giggles. “Yeah. It’s on his birth certificate. Hot Jesse.”
I turn my attention to my cup of tea—chamomile with honey—trying to get into the conversation but finding it hard when my thoughts keep drifting back to Saturday. By the time the evening is over and we’re putting the cushions and chairs back in their places, I’m almost glad to go home.
“Goodnight,” Hannah says as we spill onto the sidewalk. She locks up the shop with a jingle of keys.
There’s a round of goodbyes—quick hugs, promises to text—and we head off in our various directions. Devin ends up walking next to me.
“Where did you park?”
“At the end of the block.”
“Me, too.” She smiles, and it’s definitely not a coincidence.
We walk slowly down the quiet street, our footsteps echoing off the historic buildings.
Pine Island is the furthest thing possible from a party town at night.
After New York’s constant noise and Portsmouth’s moderate bustle, I wanted a real separation of work and home.
I also wanted to be surrounded by nature—something a big city couldn’t provide.
So I ended up here, on an island with a few thousand people, where everyone knows everyone else. Your business is never your own, but I don’t mind it too much. It’s so different from working in New York and growing up on the outskirts of Chicago though.
“Want to get a drink?” Devin nods at Nectar Bar, one of the few spots still open at this hour.
“Sure.” I could use a little alcohol.
We slip into the tiny cocktail bar—twelve small tables maximum, exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs strung across the ceiling. We order two martinis and take them outside to a wrought iron bench. Above us, bats dip into the streetlights’ glow for bugs.
“You okay?” Devin asks, cutting straight to the point.
I knew this was coming. And while I felt weird opening up with the whole group, being one on one makes me feel more relaxed.
“I know the owner of Rye Again. Noah Reynolds.”
“Oh, really?” Her eyes sparkle. “You two dated? He’s totally your type.”
“What? No!” My face burns hot. “What makes you think that?”
“The look on your face when you brought him up.”
Deciding I don’t want to know what she means by that, I press on. “He was the chef at this Italian restaurant in New York. Italian street food. Small place, very trendy.” I take a fortifying sip. “I left him a bad review, and the place went under not long after.”
Her dark eyes widen. “Oh my God.”
“There’s more. The cookbook I’m supposed to edit? About bread?”
“No,” she gasps, already understanding.
“Yep.” I take a hearty sip of my drink, the gin burning down my throat. “He’s the author.”
“Wait—but...” She grabs at the air in front of her, brow furrowing like she’s trying to do some complicated math. “And you went there to do a review of Rye Again? Did you know? Were you two set up?—”
“Nope, and nope. Elaine had no clue. Neither did I.” I lean back against the cold iron bench.
“Wow,” she breathes. “That’s three.”
“Huh?”
“Three ways for you two to meet,” Devin explains, counting on her fingers. “You met in New York, then you met reviewing his new place, and then—if neither one of those meet ups had happened—you would have met by editing his book.”
“Oh, come on. You’re saying this is destiny?”
Of course she is. Devin, while a practical physiotherapist by day, is a mystical, sage-waving yoga teacher by night. Her apartment smells permanently of palo santo. While usually I don’t buy that the universe has some sort of plan for me, this time she might have a point.
“Three, huh?” I twist my lips and think on it. “It seems more like a cruel joke than anything else. We don’t get along.”
“Yet.”
I roll my eyes hard. “That’ll never change. I’m shocked that he hasn’t requested the publisher pair him with someone else. Maybe he’s keeping me on in order to torment me.”
“When do you see him next?”
“Saturday.” I tap my long nails on the bench, a nervous habit from high school. “It’s our first official day of work.”
“How about I come with you?”
“To the meeting?” I can’t hide my skepticism. “Thanks, but that would be really obvious, you know? Me bringing my friend? Like I need backup?”
“He doesn’t need to know I’m there. I can sit at a table and eat bread the whole time.” She holds up a hand in mock solemnity. “It’ll be hard, yes, but I’m willing to sacrifice myself for the greater cause.”
I burst into laughter, and her giggles join in. The image of Devin stationed at a nearby table, working through loaves while keeping watch, actually makes me feel better.
“As long as I’m not inconveniencing you,” I say.
“You’re not. It’s been a while since any of us have had a medical emergency, so I need to show support some other way.”
“Ugh. Knock on wood.” I settle for rapping my knuckles against the iron bench.
Knowing Devin will be close by during the meeting already makes me feel better. Maybe Noah and I will actually get along. Find neutral ground.
Even if we don’t, at least we’ll be making something awesome together. A book that will move both our careers forward. Then, when it’s done, I’ll never have to see him again.
“Thank you, Devin. A lot.”
“No problem.” She holds up her martini. “Cheers.”
“To what?”
Her eyes sparkle. “To this project. To what comes next, whatever it may be.”
Whatever it may be.
The words feel like a promise or a spell that will define my future. This project is full of opportunity—my ticket out of restaurant reviewing, which gets harder with my IC. The long dinners, not being able to use the bathroom when needed, having to eat trigger foods.
So it doesn’t matter how much Noah and I dislike each other. I’ll do what it takes to make this collaboration work.
Finished with our drinks, we stand up from the bench.
I hug Devin, breathing in her perpetual scent of lavender. “Thanks for hanging out. And for offering to come with me tomorrow.”
“Of course. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I walk back to my car, feeling more optimistic about tomorrow. The street is empty, silent except for my footsteps and distant waves. When I’m almost there—parked under the big oak—I hear it.
A crack. Sharp. Decisive.
A branch snapping behind me.
I jump and spin around, searching the shadows between buildings, the dark spaces under trees. Nothing moves. No one’s there. But I get the strange feeling that I’m being watched. The same feeling I’ve been having for weeks. Pine Island is always quiet after dark. I’m probably just being paranoid.
Just in case, I quicken my pace. My keys are already in my hand. I breathe a sigh of relief as soon as I get in and lock the doors.
Several times within the last couple of weeks, I’ve felt like I was being watched.
At my co-working space in Portsmouth—that prickle on the back of my neck.
Walking through the grocery store parking lot.
Even going into Knit Happens last week. Am I just super stressed and on edge? Am I losing my mind?
Maybe, but better to be safe than sorry. So from here on out, I’ll make sure to watch my back and stay on guard. And maybe get some pepper spray for my keychain too.