Chapter 23 #2
“Were you not going to tell me you read it? And why did you even read it?” Her eyes are glossing over with tears that she’s fighting not to shed.
“Because I stumbled across it, and I couldn’t not read it.” I rake my fingers through my hair, probably leaving it standing in all directions. This conversation is spiraling completely out of control, the romantic evening I planned crumbling like over-baked bread.
“And you decided to make assumptions without even asking me about my side of the story?”
I lean forward, desperate to make her understand.
“I can tell he’s an ass, Alexis. Written word can’t hide it.
I know he’s full of shit. And I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that I read it and didn’t tell you.
I figured—I didn’t plan on telling you, because I knew there was no point, and then it just came out of my mouth right now, and.
.. I’m sorry,” I finish lamely, the words feeling completely inadequate.
Her eyes drop to her untouched pizza. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I suck in a labored breath. This rough day has turned into a complete disaster, and we haven’t even tried the pizza that’s slowly cooling between us.
“What I hate the most about that article,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “is that no one gets to hear my side of the story. No one knows about what I went through.”
My shoulders drop as understanding hits me. “I get it. That’s how I felt when your review of Street Cucina came out. I used store bought dough once, and no one ever got to hear why I did it. I just ended up looking like a total fraud.”
Her brow furrows. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
We sit there, gazing at each other across the table while Big Night’s soundtrack continues its romantic Italian serenade, completely at odds with the tension in the room. Still, looking at her face in the candlelight, I let myself hope. Maybe this night isn’t a complete disaster.
“I have an idea,” I say, trying to inject some energy back into my voice.
“What?”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the checkered tablecloth, feeling the slight tackiness where Lawrence might have spilled something earlier.
“Maybe it’s not too late to share your side of the story.
Have you ever thought about pivoting and switching to health journalism?
You could kill two birds with one stone.
Get out of food reviewing and become a voice for women like yourself who are struggling with chronic illnesses. ”
She’s already shaking her head before I finish, her hair swaying with the movement.
“I don’t want to do that. Thank you, but.
.. no. It’s not for me. I still want to work in food, I just can’t keep doing the reviewing.
It’s too hard on my health. An editing job is what I need. I’ve already figured this out.”
Sitting back in my chair, I hear the old wood creak under my weight. The helplessness of not being able to fix this settles over me, but it’s her life. She knows what’s best.
“I understand,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I won’t butt in again, but I’m here if you ever want to brainstorm.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
One song ends in the background—something slow and romantic—and another begins, equally romantic but doing nothing to ease the awkwardness.
We eat our pizza in near silence, and somehow it tastes like it’s missing something crucial despite having all the right ingredients.
The mozzarella seems rubbery, the sauce too sweet, the crust just a vehicle rather than the perfect foundation I’d aimed for.
“What would you like to do after dinner?” I ask, grasping for something, anything, to salvage the evening. At least she hasn’t stormed out.
Her lips twist—that expression she makes when she’s thinking—and her eyes drift toward her purse. “You know what? I’d really like to bake.”
“Oh, yeah?” A chuckle escapes me, releasing some of the tension that’s been coiling in my chest.
“Yeah.” Her eyes light up for the first time since the conversation went south. “I just need to forget about today, and I brought my starter.”
She reaches for her purse, pulling out the familiar jar. But this time, it’s wearing what can only be described as a sequined skirt, glittering in the candlelight like a tiny disco ball.
I nearly spit out my water, barely managing to swallow before laughing. “Wow. So it has a whole wardrobe now.”
“Flick made it.” She adjusts the skirt with careful fingers, making sure it sits just right around the jar. “I figured tonight was a night for dressing up.”
“I’m honored,” I chuckle, and it’s genuine this time.
She smiles back at me, really smiles, and her hair falls across her face in that way that makes my heart skip. The conflict of our previous conversation seems to evaporate like steam from fresh bread. Peace settles back over us, fragile but real.
Moving without conscious thought, as if pulled by some invisible force, I stand up.
My chair scrapes against the floor as I walk around the table.
When I reach her, I cup her face gently and press my lips to hers.
Her mouth is soft, welcoming, a gentle embrace that makes me want to freeze time and stay in this moment forever.
The kiss deepens, her hand coming up to rest against my chest, when suddenly—CRASH! The sound comes from directly below us, from the bakery.
Alexis breaks our kiss, her eyes wide with alarm. “What was that?”
I frown, my mind racing through possibilities—equipment falling, someone breaking in, maybe Lawrence forgot to secure something. “I’m not sure, but I’m going to check it out.”
“I’m coming with you,” she says in that tone that brooks no argument.
“Okay, but stay close.”
We hurry down the outside stairs, our footsteps clanging on the metal. The night air is cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the apartment. I can see lights from the street, but something seems wrong—there’s too much light coming from the bakery’s front windows.
When we round the corner to the front entrance, my stomach drops.
The large front window—the one that says “Rye Again” in that vintage font I spent weeks choosing—has been completely destroyed.
A giant rock, maybe the size of a basketball, sits among the glittering shards covering the dining room floor.
Glass fragments catch the streetlight like scattered diamonds, spread across tables and chairs, crunching under our feet as we approach.
Alexis gasps beside me, her hand flying to her mouth. I pull out my phone to call the police. She looks at me with tears streaming down her face.
“Oh, Noah, this has to be all my fault.” She stares at the mess eyes wide, concern written across her face.
“Why do you say that?” I pause, phone halfway to my ear.
“Between my review of Street Cucina and you getting hassled about preservatives, then the strange notes and the box of negative reviews that showed up at my door. You’re being targeted because of me.” She wraps her arms around her waist, like she’s trying to hold herself together.
I pull her into my arms, feeling her shake against me. “Alexis, honey, this is no one’s fault except for the person that’s doing these things. Don’t blame yourself.”
She sniffles against my shirt, her voice muffled. “I’ll try but I just feel so responsible.”
I give her one more squeeze before releasing her to dial the police. The dispatcher’s voice is calm and professional as I explain what happened. They promise to send officers right away but remind me not to enter the building until it’s been cleared by the police.
I end the call and look at the destruction again. Thousands of dollars in damage, hours of cleanup, and who knows what this will do to business tomorrow. But right now, all I care about is the woman beside me.
We stand on the sidewalk, the broken glass glittering in the storefront, waiting for the police. I pull Alexis close again and kiss her softly, tasting the salt of her tears. “Thank you for being here tonight,” I whisper against her lips.
She tilts her head back to look at me, her eyes searching mine in the glow of the streetlights. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
“Neither would I.”
Finally. Something we’re in perfect agreement on.