Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Alexis
I tap my fingers against the worn wooden table, reading over the review one more time. “The crust is perfectly crisp and caramelized, offering a satisfying crunch with every bite. The interior is an airy, chewy delight, with just the right amount of tanginess...”
My fingers hover above the keyboard. There has to be more to say about Rye Again, but every word I’ve written is true. The bakery deserves every bit of praise, and it has nothing to do with trying to make amends with Noah. The bread is genuinely extraordinary.
I reach for the caraway and coriander rye loaf sitting beside my laptop—one of several Noah sent home with me last week.
The plastic wrap crinkles as I tear off another piece.
I’ve been rationing them, slicing and freezing portions to make them last, but the temptation to devour everything at once is strong.
The complex flavors bloom on my tongue, the caraway seeds providing little bursts of earthiness against the tang of the rye.
My fingers return to the keyboard. Perhaps I should mention the way the bread holds up days later, how the flavors actually deepen with time?—
The pain strikes without warning, sharp and vicious, like someone’s driven a hot knife through my pelvis. My hand flies to my abdomen as I double over.
“Shit.” The word escapes through clenched teeth.
I wait, breathing shallow, counting the seconds until the acute pain fades. But when it does, it leaves behind that familiar, awful throbbing in my bladder. My eyes squeeze shut as the reality settles over me like a heavy blanket.
Another flare. Already.
My mind immediately starts cataloging everything I’ve done in the past few days, searching for the trigger.
But I’ve been so careful. No acidic foods, no alcohol, plenty of water.
I’ve been religious about my morning dilator routine, taking all my medications on schedule, doing every single physiotherapy exercise my doctor prescribed.
These measures are supposed to prevent flares, or at least space them out more.
Except when they don’t work at all.
I push myself up from the chair with painstaking slowness, each movement sending fresh waves of discomfort through my pelvic floor.
The ten feet to the refrigerator might as well be a mile.
My bare feet shuffle across the cool tile, one hand braced against the counter for support.
The freezer door feels impossibly heavy as I pull it open and retrieve one of the gel ice packs I keep ready for moments like this.
The initial contact of cold against my lower abdomen makes me gasp, but I press it firmly against the thin fabric of my shirt.
With my free hand, I fill the kettle, the simple act of turning on the tap requiring more concentration than it should.
While waiting for the water to heat, I lean against the counter, trying to breathe through the frustration that threatens to overwhelm me.
This is the second flare in two weeks. They’re getting closer together, lasting longer, hitting harder. The tears that prick at my eyes aren’t just from physical pain—they’re from the exhaustion of dealing with this unpredictable condition that hijacks my life without warning.
At least I’m home. The thought provides minimal comfort as the kettle begins its low rumble. If this had hit while I was at my co-working space in Portsmouth, I’d be facing a twenty-minute drive across the bridge to Pine Island, every pothole and bump in the road pure agony. Small mercies.
The kettle’s whistle pierces the quiet kitchen. I pour the steaming water into my hot water bottle with shaking hands, careful not to overfill it. The familiar ritual of preparing my pain management tools is almost meditative—ice pack, hot water bottle, my softest blanket, my phone within reach.
I make my way to the couch in careful, measured steps.
Sinking into the cushions brings both relief and a fresh wave of discomfort as the pressure shifts.
I arrange myself into the position I’ve perfected over years of practice—slightly reclined, knees bent, alternating the ice pack and hot water bottle against my abdomen.
It’ll take a good while of alternating the ice pack and the hot water bottle before I feel any better, and even then I won’t be a hundred percent.
Tomorrow’s meeting with Noah looms in my mind.
The thought of canceling makes my chest tight with anxiety.
This cookbook project is everything right now.
If I can land the full-time editing position with the publisher, I can finally leave restaurant reviewing behind.
No more long car rides to remote restaurants, no more sitting through three-hour tasting menus, no more activities that aggravate my condition.
I’d have control over my schedule, the ability to work from home when needed, to structure my day around my health instead of the other way around.
I reach for my phone, ready to call my doctor’s office, then notice the time displayed on the screen. Seven-thirteen PM. Of course. The office closed over an hour ago.
“Damn it.” The word comes out as a defeated whisper. There’s nothing to be done tonight except manage the symptoms and hope for improvement by morning.
My thumb hovers over the Chronic Pain Crafters group text. These women understand what it’s like to have your body betray you without warning, to have to cancel plans and rearrange your life around an invisible illness that most people don’t understand. I type out a message:
Flaring. :( Ugh.
The responses come almost immediately, my phone buzzing with notification after notification. Hannah, Maya, Flick, and Devin all check in with variations of sympathy and offers of help. Their quick responses warm something in my chest that has nothing to do with the hot water bottle.
I consider their offers. The freezer has emergency meals—soup, mac and cheese, things I can heat and eat without much effort. There’s no pet to feed, no plants that need immediate watering. But the thought of spending the evening alone with my pain and frustration feels unbearable.
Some company would be nice
Devin’s response is instant:
What kind of pizza do you want?
A laugh bubbles up despite everything. Of course she’s already on her way.
The next thirty minutes pass in a blur of position adjustments and breathing exercises.
When the front door opens—I gave them all keys months ago for situations exactly like this—relief washes over me.
Devin enters first, a large pizza box balanced in her hands, followed by Flick carrying her cat Catherine in one of those clear bubble backpacks.
“How are you feeling?” Devin’s voice is soft, understanding.
I push myself up to sitting, trying not to wince. “Pretty shitty.”
She sets the pizza box on my coffee table. “I’m sorry. Are you all done with work for the day?”
“No.” The admission comes with a fresh wave of frustration. “I still need to finish my Rye Again review. It’s due tomorrow. Maybe I can wake up early and get it done... If I’m over this flare by then.”
Flick unzips the backpack, releasing Cat, who immediately starts her routine inspection of my living room. The gray cat rubs against the couch leg, purring already. “Can you tell your editor that you’re flaring and it has to wait?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to do that.” My voice carries the weight of past experiences. “I can’t keep delaying work because of flares.”
The looks they exchange are full of understanding.
These women get it in a way most people never will.
We’ve all learned the hard way that chronic illness doesn’t care about deadlines or career ambitions.
The working world keeps spinning whether we can keep up or not.
Every sick day is a calculation—is this bad enough to risk my reputation?
Can I push through without making things worse?
Who will pick up my slack, and will they remember it the next time an opportunity comes up?
“How’s Sebastian?” I ask Flick as she sets Cat’s backpack down and starts rummaging for something in her purse.
“He’s fine. At the emergency clinic tonight.” She glances around for Cat briefly, then renews her digging.
My curiosity is getting the better of me and I glance at Devin who just shrugs and walks to the other room. “Wha?—”
Cat chooses that moment to leap onto my lap, immediately kneading her paws into my thighs. The repetitive motion and rumbling purr provide an unexpected focal point for my scattered attention.
“Hey, kitty cat.” Sighing, I scratch behind her ears, earning an even louder purr.
“Those biscuits are the best medicine in the world,” Flick declares with mock seriousness.
“Better than your THC-infused brownies?”
“Well...” She grins and produces a sealed plastic bag from her purse. “They’re equal.”
“Oh!” I widen my eyes in surprise. So that’s what she was looking for.
From the kitchen comes the sound of plates being pulled from cabinet. “You got some more bread from Rye Again?” Devin calls out, and I know she’s spotted the partial loaf on my counter.
“It’s from last week. I’ve been rationing it.”
Flick places the bag on the table then settles onto the far end of the couch, careful not to jostle me. “Why don’t you just go back for more?”
The question makes me squirm internally. “Because that would mean admitting to Noah that I love his bread.”
Her forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Don’t you, though?”
“I do, but—I—I don’t want...” The words tangle in my throat.
“Okay.” She huffs out a laugh. “What sort of weird competition is going on between you two?”
“It’s not a competition, it’s...” I shift the ice pack to a better position, buying time. “We were at odds before, because of the review I wrote about his last place. But we cleared the air. Things are fine now. The review I wrote for Rye Again is a good one. Really good.”