Chapter 17 #2
“Oh, yeah?” His whole face transforms, genuine interest lighting his eyes. “I used to run a contracting business back in Seattle. What kind of project?”
“Nothing exciting. Shelves.”
“What kind? Floating? Or you using brackets?”
The enthusiasm in his voice for something as mundane as shelving makes me want to laugh, but not in a mocking way. It’s refreshing, actually. Someone who gets excited about the simple pleasure of building something functional.
“Come out to the truck.” I tilt my head toward the street. “And I’ll show you.”
We carry our coffees outside, the morning air still carrying last night’s rain on its breath. Michael circles my truck bed like he’s appraising a horse, running his hand along the lumber, testing the brackets between his fingers.
“Good wood selection.” He squints at the measurements I’ve penciled on one board. “You going for fixed shelves or adjustable?”
“I was thinking fixed, but?—”
“Make them adjustable.” He pulls out his phone, shows me a photo of what looks like a pantry with similar shelving. “See these tracks? You can move the brackets up or down depending on what you need to store. Your jars are different sizes, right?”
“Yeah, actually. That’s smart.”
He launches into specifics—which brackets work best, how to find studs in old buildings where nothing is quite square, a trick with washers that distributes weight better. The man clearly knows his stuff, and I find myself taking mental notes.
“You know what you’re talking about.” I pull the tarp back over the lumber, securing it against any afternoon rain. “How come you left the construction business behind?”
“Long story.” He squints into the morning sun that’s finally breaking through the clouds. “But to sum it up, I grew up on Pine Island. It’s where my family is. It seemed like a good place for both me and my daughter. What about you? You moved to Portsmouth to open a bakery, I assume, but why here?”
“Because it felt far enough from the past.”
The words escape before I can examine them, raw truth I hadn’t even admitted to myself.
Portsmouth isn’t just geographically distant from New York.
It’s psychologically distant. Far enough that I could pretend to be someone who hadn’t failed spectacularly, someone starting fresh instead of running away.
His mouth draws into a thin line of understanding. “Gotcha.”
I push my fingers through my hair, the nervous gesture I can’t seem to break. How much does he know? Pine Island is tiny, gossip travels at the speed of light there, and Alexis?—
“I know about Alexis’s review,” Michael says, apparently psychic. “And your old restaurant. What happened. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” I stare at the latte in my hand like it might provide answers. The foam art has already dissolved into abstract swirls.
“I’m not into gossip, but word travels faster than the wind on Pine Island.”
“I bet.” The chuckle comes out more genuine this time. “So does that mean you know about...”
“You and Alexis?” His eyes carry a knowing sparkle. “Hannah told me. She owns a yarn store called Knit Happens on Pine Island and she and Alexis and their friends have a weekly Chronic Pain Crafters group there.”
Right. Alexis mentioned those gatherings.
Every week, creating things with their hands while supporting each other through the unique challenges of chronic illness.
The fact that she’s told them about us doesn’t upset me.
Just the opposite—it sends warmth spreading through my chest. You don’t share something with that circle unless it matters.
I duck my face, trying to hide the smile that won’t stay down. “I really like Alexis.”
“She’s pretty damn cool.”
“Yeah.” I take a sip of my latte, working up courage for what I want to ask. “So your girlfriend also has a chronic illness...”
“Fibromyalgia.”
“Yikes.” The woman I worked with in New York—Laura, I think—had fibro. I watched her go from energetic and passionate to barely able to hold a knife some days. The kitchen doesn’t slow down for anyone, and she eventually had to walk away from her dream.
Michael leans against my truck bed, arms crossed on the rail, facing me with an openness that makes this easier. “It’s different, dating someone with a chronic illness. If you ever want to talk?—”
“Yes.” The word rushes out, too eager, too desperate. But I don’t care about playing it cool. “That would be great.”
His smile carries understanding without pity. “Do you know much about Painful Bladder Syndrome?”
I blow out a long breath that fogs in the morning air. “I feel like I’ve read everything there is about it on the whole damn internet... but I still... I’m worried I’m going to fuck it up.”
“How so?”
“It’s—well, it’s one thing in particular.
” I glance up and down the sidewalk, making sure we’re alone.
An elderly woman walks her ancient beagle half a block away, but otherwise the street is empty.
“I read all about flares, what to do when they happen, how to prevent them. But what if...” My voice drops even lower.
“What if sex is never totally pain-free for her? What if it gets worse and I never know how to help her? What if I only... hurt her?”
The shame of potentially failing her in such a fundamental way makes it impossible to meet his eyes. This isn’t about some macho need for conventional sex. It’s about the terror of causing pain to someone I care about, of not being enough when she needs me.
“I also...” The words stick in my throat like day-old bread. “It’s frustrating, you know? The whole situation. But I don’t want to show that. If I show how frustrated I am, it’ll just make her feel guilty and she shouldn’t. None of this is her fault.”
“It’s normal to be frustrated.” His voice carries no judgment. “We’re humans, and these situations suck.”
“Yeah.” I scrub my face with both hands, appreciating his words even as they don’t quite ease the knot in my chest.
“And you know what? All those things you listed could happen. Things might get worse, and you might never know how to make them better.”
The sharp inhale fills my lungs with cold air. So that’s it? We’re all just supposed to accept this hand we’ve been dealt? Alexis especially, carrying this burden every single day?
“But you know what else?” Michael continues. “You and Alexis will get through it—but only by communicating. You need to ask her what feels good, what doesn’t. Constantly check in. More than you usually would with a woman.”
Relief washes through me like warm water. “That’s what I’ve been doing.”
“That’s good. Then you’re on the right path. As far as your own frustrations... You like Alexis.”
“Of course. A lot.” My heart does this stupid little skip. “It’s early, but... I think there’s something there.”
“Cool.” He nods slowly. “If you want it to work out, then, you can’t bottle up your feelings.
If you’re feeling frustrated, tell her. She’ll be able to know either way.
Might as well not make things worse by trying to hide it.
Just make it kind, you know? There’s a tender way to tell her you’re worried or frustrated or confused. ”
“Yeah.” My shoulders drop as tension I didn’t realize I was carrying releases. “Thank you. A lot.”
“No problem. I know that was kind of direct, and we barely know each other?—”
“Not at all, it was perfect. Exactly what I needed to hear.”
He nods, studying me with those steady eyes. “Things won’t always be easy, but what relationship is?”
I snort out a laugh. “True.”
Michael pulls out his phone, checks the time. “Well, I need to head out. It was good running into you.”
“You, too. Thanks, man.” I gesture toward the supplies in my truck bed. “For all your advice.”
“Anytime.” He starts walking backwards, still facing me with an easy smile. “Let’s grab a beer soon. Catch me up on how it’s going.”
“Sounds great. See you later.”
He waves and turns, heading down the street with purposeful strides. I climb into my truck, the worn seat familiar as an old friend. The engine turns over on the second try—better than usual—and I pull away from the curb.
The weight that’s been sitting on my chest for days has lifted. Not disappeared entirely, but lighter, manageable. Michael just handed me something I didn’t even know I was looking for—permission to be human in this situation, to not have all the answers, to figure it out as we go.
The road stretches ahead, puddles from last night’s rain reflecting the breaking clouds.
I don’t know what comes next with Alexis, don’t have a detailed map for navigating her condition and our relationship.
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the fumbling in the dark is how everyone does this, feeling for light switches and hoping not to stub their toes.
Alexis and I will be alright. We can do this. I can do this.