Chapter 18 #2
The smell hits me first—cedar and pine and something else, maybe Danish oil.
The space is organized chaos, tools hanging from every surface, wood shavings carpeting the floor, and there, along one wall, the desks.
They’re gorgeous. Each one unique, the natural grain of the wood preserved and highlighted, knots and whorls turned into features rather than flaws.
These aren’t the pressed-particle-board pieces I’ve been buying from IKEA my whole adult life. These are furniture. These are art.
“How much for this one?” I run my hand along a piece made from what looks like reclaimed barn wood, smooth as silk despite its rustic appearance.
He names a price that makes my stomach drop. It’s more than I make in a month from the paper. Even with my freelance articles, even being careful with money, there’s no way I can justify this. My income is too unpredictable, too dependent on Elaine’s whims and which publications accept my pitches.
“Can you knock some of that off?” Devin’s response is immediate, her voice taking on that negotiating tone I’ve heard her use at the farmer’s market.
The woodworker scratches his beard, considering. “I could go down two hundred.”
“That’s not much.” Devin frowns, already moving toward the other pieces, but something in her body language suggests she’s not really interested in looking. “Do you have anything cheaper?”
She takes another step toward the door, and I realize this is strategy, not genuine disinterest.
“How about three hundred off?” the man calls out, and I can see him calculating, probably remembering that Devin’s bought at least three pieces from him in the past year.
Devin’s gaze cuts to mine, eyebrows rising in question.
“That’s good,” I blurt out before he can change his mind. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”
He helps us load the desk into Devin’s car—it barely fits, even with the seats down—and then we’re bouncing back down the driveway, the whole transaction completed in less than ten minutes.
Classic Devin. She can be all flowing scarves and gentle yoga speak one minute, then turn into a shark when business is involved.
“Thanks,” I tell her as we reach the main road.
She flashes me a grin and winks. “I figured he would give you a discount. I’m a pretty regular customer at this point. Maybe too regular. I might have a furniture addiction.”
“Well,” I laugh, the first genuine laugh since opening that box, “your shopping habits are working well in my favor. Thank you. For suggesting this and bringing me here, too.”
“Anytime.” Her smile softens into something more genuine. “Do you need to go back to your house now, or would you like to grab some coffee? We have time before your afternoon deadline.”
“Actually, what if we get coffee in Portsmouth? I could use the distraction.”
“At Rye Again?” She casts me a knowing look, one eyebrow arched.
“No,” I laugh, though the thought of Noah’s bakery makes my chest tight with longing. “I need to write a review of that new place on Market Street—Sunrise Café. Although there’s no way it’ll be as good as Rye Again’s sourdough. Nothing is.”
“Are you sure you aren’t a little biased?”
“Maybe.” I find myself pulling out my phone, hoping for a text notification I might have missed. The screen remains stubbornly blank. No new messages. The disappointment is ridiculous—we texted just this morning. “Do you ever... worry that you like someone too much?”
“Uh, yeah. Every single time. Remember when I first started dating David? I practically stalked his Instagram going back three years.”
I burst into laughter. “Yeah. Same. Except Noah barely has social media.”
We fall into comfortable silence, the tires humming against the pavement as we cross the bridge to the mainland.
The water sparkles on either side, boats bobbing in the distance.
I make a decision and type out a text to Noah, telling him about the box, the threatening note.
I need to tell someone besides Devin, and his opinion matters to me more than I want to admit.
The three dots appear immediately—he’s typing. Just knowing he’s there, on the other side of the phone, responding to me, makes my chest loosen.
Are you okay? Do you want me to come over? I can leave the bakery.
My heart swells at his concern.
I’m fine, I’m with Devin. Let’s talk tonight?
I smile when I see the dots appear again.
I’ll call you later. Promise.
“Are you worried he might be like Miles?” Devin’s question is quiet, careful, pulling my attention from the phone.
I suck in a sharp breath. She knows some of it—that Miles and I had a bad breakup, that he was controlling about my health. But not everything. Not the worst parts.
“No,” I say slowly, really examining the feeling. “He doesn’t act like Miles. Miles was always trying to fix me. And then—after we broke up—he wrote this article.”
The words taste bitter, like bile rising from somewhere deep.
“It was titled ‘How to Support Partners with Chronic Pelvic Pain.’ Published in Men’s Health.
He made it sound like it was all my fault for not trying harder to ‘overcome’ the pain and maintain a normal sex life.
Like I was choosing to be sick. Like I wasn’t doing enough. ”
“Are you shitting me?” Devin’s explosion is immediate and fierce.
Her hands tighten on the steering wheel until her knuckles go white.
“I didn’t know that! I mean, you told me that he’s a journalist, but.
.. God, Alexis, that’s awful. What an absolute asshole.
That’s a violation. That’s—that’s abuse. ”
“Yeah.” I press my lips together, willing the familiar sting to fade.
It’s been almost five years since the article was published, but talking about it brings it all back—the humiliation of seeing our private life dissected for strangers, the rage at his betrayal, the crushing knowledge that it would live on the internet forever.
“Are you afraid Noah would do something like that?” Devin’s voice has gentled.
My inhale is deep, cleansing. “No. I trust him.”
The words surprise me even as they leave my mouth.
But they’re true. Bone-deep true. Noah has never once suggested I’m not trying hard enough.
Never implied that my condition is something to be overcome rather than accepted.
When I told him penetrative sex was off the table during flares, he just nodded and asked what would feel good instead.
No disappointment. No frustration. Just acceptance.
“I know it’s complicated,” I add, needing to voice the reality. “Me being his editor, our messy history with the reviews... but I think we can navigate it. Things feel so easy with him. He—he makes me feel safe. Like I can just be myself, flares and all.”
“Wow.”
“What?” I turn to see her shaking her head, a small smile playing at her lips.
“I’ve never heard you talk about someone like that. You sound... settled. Happy.”
“I guess Noah is... different.” The smile that spreads across my face is involuntary, unstoppable.
“So what’s next? You keep learning how to bake from him?” We’ve reached the edge of downtown, passing the veterinarian’s office with its cheerful painted paw prints in cotton candy colors—Flick putting her signature yarn colors stamp on Sebastian’s practice—taking the bridge to the mainland.
“We’re ready to start working on the book’s front matter. The introduction, modifications to recipes for different dietary needs. Technical stuff like that. But I want to keep testing the recipes myself. I’m kind of the ideal guinea pig—the book is specifically geared toward sourdough newbies.”
“And that’s you.”
“That’s me,” I chuckle. “I didn’t even know what a starter was two weeks ago.”
“You sure you don’t want to stop at Rye Again?” Devin checks as we pass the turnoff. “We’re so close.”
“I don’t want to look too desperate.” I grimace, even though every cell in my body wants to say yes, wants to see him even for just a minute. “Plus, I’ll see him later. I can wait.”
“No problem. You won’t, though.”
“Won’t?”
Devin laughs lightly. “Look desperate. I’m pretty sure Noah’s crazy about you.”
My heart does a little skip. It seems so basic, so simple—two people who like each other equally, who are on the same page. And yet it’s also impossibly rare. I’ve dated enough to know that timing and feelings rarely align this perfectly.
I’m just praying I don’t screw it up somehow.
That I don’t chase him away with my baggage, my health issues, my complicated relationship with trust. We’ve already overcome so much—my review of Street Cucina that helped destroy his first restaurant, the awkwardness of me being assigned to review Rye Again, the discovery that I’m his editor.
This new chapter of our relationship is still so fresh, so fragile.
I want it to be a long chapter. I want it to fill pages and pages.
Maybe even the rest of the story.