Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Noah
The mop water swirls down the drain in a satisfying whoosh, and I lean against the sink for a moment, letting the quiet settle over the bakery.
Every surface gleams under the overhead lights—counters wiped clean of flour dust, display cases sparkling, floors mopped to a shine that’ll last maybe an hour into tomorrow’s morning rush.
The lingering scent of today’s rosemary focaccia mixes with the sharp tang of cleaning solution.
My shoulders ache as I hang the mop in the supply closet.
The YouTube video from three days ago needs final touches before I can upload it, and the thought of more screen time makes my eyes burn already.
But that’s the deal I made with myself when I started the channel—consistency matters more than perfection.
The stairs to my apartment creak under my weight, each step feeling twice as steep as it did this morning at four-thirty.
By the time I reach my door, my legs are reminding me that I’ve been on my feet for nearly twelve hours straight.
The apartment greets me with its usual sparse welcome—white walls, minimal furniture, and video and editing station set up and ready.
My laptop waits exactly where I left it this morning, power cord snaking across the scratched wood surface. I grab a sparkling water from the fridge, the cold can biting into my palm, and drop into the chair with less grace than intended. The cushion protests with a squeak.
The video file opens, and I watch myself demonstrate the windowpane test for the hundredth time.
My on-screen self stretches the dough between his fingers until it’s translucent, explaining hydration levels in what I hope sounds like enthusiasm rather than exhaustion.
A few seconds need trimming here where I fumbled with the bowl.
The audio crackles during one transition—noise reduction takes care of that.
Another spot where my explanation runs too long gets cut down to the essentials.
While the final version processes, I pull out my phone and navigate to last week’s video.
The view count looks decent—not viral by any means, but steady.
My thumb hovers over the comments section.
I should know better by now, should just let the numbers speak for themselves, but there’s always that hope that today will be different.
That today the comments will just be about bread.
The top comment punches me in the gut before I can brace for it.
“Don’t trust this dude. His old place closed because he was using preservatives. Total fake.”
My tongue feels thick in my mouth, like I’ve been chewing on cotton. The comment has forty-three likes and a string of replies I can’t bring myself to read. My finger hovers over them, but I pull back. If people are defending me, great. If they’re piling on, I don’t need to know the specifics.
The sparkling water tastes flat as I force down a sip.
One preservative incident. One night when the kitchen assistant messed up and I made a panic decision to use store-bought dough.
Three years ago. And still, every few weeks like clockwork, someone drags it up, waves it around like proof that everything I do is fraudulent.
I scroll to the next comment, hoping for something about the actual recipe, the technique, anything else.
“You’re so stupid. I can’t believe you’re dating Alexis after she ruined you. You’re both going down.”
The can slips in my grip, catching myself before it tips. My chest tightens as I reread the words. How do they even know about me and Alexis? We’ve been careful, keeping our relationship separate from our work. But of course someone noticed. Someone always notices.
The phrase “you’re both going down” sits heavy in my stomach. Is this connected to the strange incidents at the bakery? The canceled orders, the ruined starter, all the “coincidences” that keep piling up? And Alexis mentioned getting threatening messages too.
I close YouTube before I can read more, tossing my phone onto the table harder than necessary. It skitters across the surface, stopping just short of the edge.
The laptop screen glows in the dimming afternoon light. I need to do something, anything, to stop the spiral of thoughts.
I reach for my phone and send Alexis a text.
Hey, there’s a movie on the lawn at the park tonight. Would you like to go?
Seconds later, little dots appear, indicating that she’s texting back. I smile, mood already improved.
Until her text comes through.
Hi, you! I wish I could, but I have a deadline to meet. :( I’ll be writing all night.
I type back, trying to not let yet another day of our conflicting schedules get to me.
That’s okay. Let me know if you need anything! Happy writing.
Switching to my laptop, my fingers find the keyboard, and before I’ve consciously decided, I’m typing Alexis’s name into the search bar.
It’s become a habit over the last few weeks—reading her old reviews, her articles about food trends, even her college newspaper pieces. There’s something soothing about seeing her voice in print, the way she describes flavors and textures with precision and warmth.
Nothing I haven’t read before comes up in the basic search, so I add more terms. “New York” and “University of Illinois,” where she went to school.
Link after link, I follow the breadcrumbs deeper into the internet’s memory. An interview she did with a chef in Brooklyn. A roundup of her favorite pizzerias from 2019. A mention in another critic’s blog post about emerging voices in food writing.
Then something different catches my eye—an article from a men’s lifestyle magazine, five years old. The author’s name, Miles Rhingold, triggers a vague recognition I can’t quite place. But it’s the title that makes me pause:
“How to Support a Partner When Sex Is Painful for Them.”
My heartbeat picks up as I click through.
The opening paragraphs seem genuinely helpful, discussing communication and patience.
But as I read on, the tone shifts. Subtle at first, then increasingly obvious.
The author talks about his partner’s “unwillingness to pursue treatment,” her “resistance to maintaining a normal intimate relationship.” By the end, it’s clear he’s painting himself as the long-suffering boyfriend held hostage by his partner’s condition.
The words blur as anger builds in my chest. This isn’t support—it’s a public shaming disguised as advice. My finger scrolls faster, looking for something, anything that might explain why this came up in my search about Alexis.
The comments section loads, and there it is, buried between other responses:
“You’re an asshole for writing about Alexis in this way. Complete lies.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I have to read it three times before it fully sinks in. This Miles person—he dated Alexis. And then he wrote this, put her personal medical information out there for anyone to read, twisted it to make himself look like a victim. What a bullshit thing to do.
My hands shake as I navigate to his social media profiles.
I tell myself to stop, that this is invasive, that I’m crossing a line.
But my fingers keep clicking, scrolling back through years of posts.
Barcelona vacation photos. Craft cocktails at trendy bars.
Food pics that try too hard to be artistic.
Then Alexis’s face appears on my screen, bright and laughing at a Brooklyn pizzeria, Miles’s arm around her shoulders. Another scroll reveals them kissing at what looks like a New Year’s party, sparklers blurring in the background. She looks younger, her hair longer, but that smile is unmistakable.
I push back from the table, the chair scraping against the floor.
Fuck. My stomach churns with a mix of anger and nausea.
Not because she had a relationship before me—of course she did.
But because of what he did to her afterward.
The violation of it. The cruelty. Blaming her for her chronic illness.
The glass from the cabinet feels cool in my hand as I fill it with water from the tap.
I drain it in one long pull, staring out the window at the trees losing their leaves.
The setting sun paints everything golden, but all I can see is Alexis’s face when she told me about her condition that first time, the vulnerability in her eyes, the way she braced for rejection.
Did she see this article? Of course she did. Someone would have told her, shown her, unable to resist being the bearer of bad news. How long did she have to live with people knowing these intimate details about her? Is this why she left New York?
The parallel hits me like cold water. We were both driven out of the city by words on a screen. Her review of Street Cucina became the catalyst for my downfall, though she was just doing her job, reporting what she experienced. But Miles—he knew damn well what he was doing. He wanted to hurt her.
I set the empty glass on the counter, my grip so tight my knuckles have gone white.
The urge to call Alexis, to tell her I know, that I understand, wars with the certainty that I can’t.
This isn’t my secret to acknowledge. She chose not to tell me about Miles’s article, and I have to respect that.
If she wants me to know, she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
But keeping this to myself feels like swallowing glass. Every time she mentions feeling judged for her condition, I’ll know there’s this deeper wound she’s not talking about. Every time we’re intimate and she apologizes for what she can’t do, I’ll wonder if she’s hearing Miles’s words in her head.
My hands grip the edge of the counter, and I stare at the water droplets still clinging to the inside of the glass.
Even if I never say a word about what I’ve discovered, something tells me this article, this painful piece of Alexis’s past, isn’t done with us yet.
These things have a way of surfacing when you least expect them, like old wounds that never quite healed right.
The laptop screen has gone dark on the table, the video upload probably complete by now.
But I can’t bring myself to move, to check, to continue with the normal evening routine.
All I can do is stand here at the sink, holding onto this secret that isn’t mine to hold, worrying about what other shadows from our pasts might be waiting to emerge.