Chapter 26 #2
Five minutes isn’t enough time for the full hair and makeup routine that usually armor me against the world, but it’ll have to do.
In my bedroom, I peel off the wearable blanket.
The pajama pants go too, replaced with jeans that feel foreign after a week of elastic waistbands.
A clean shirt from the depths of my drawer.
I drag a brush through my hair, wincing at the tangles, and pull it back into a ponytail that at least looks intentional.
I catch myself reaching for my makeup bag, then stop. The friends waiting for me at Knit Happens have seen me at my absolute worst. They’ve held my hair during flares that had me crying on bathroom floors. They don’t need my mascara. They just need me to show up.
“I’ll drive.” Devin jingles her keys when I emerge.
As soon as I open the passenger door and settle into the passenger seat, a familiar scent wraps around me like an accusation.
Coffee. But not just any coffee. The specific blend that only comes from Rye Again.
My stomach clenches. “Did you go to Rye Again?”
I try to sound casual as she backs out of my driveway, but my voice cracks on his bakery’s name.
“Uh, yeah. I did.” She glances at me, guilt flickering across her features. “But only to see how heartbroken Noah is,” she adds quickly.
“It’s fine, Devin. You can go there.” I hate how desperate I sound when I ask, “Did he... look heartbroken?”
“Soooo heartbroken! He looks like he hasn’t slept all week, and when he saw me he got this mournful look in his eyes. Like I was reminding him of you.”
I smile, but it’s a sad, twisted thing. “Thank you.”
“I mean it.” She turns onto Main Street.
The information sits heavy in my chest. Noah looks heartbroken.
He hasn’t been sleeping. Part of me thinks good.
But the larger part, the part that still loves him despite everything, wants to drive to Rye Again right now and wrap my arms around him.
To fix whatever’s broken. But he’s the one who ended things.
He chose his bakery, his book, his reputation over us.
So why should I care if he’s suffering the consequences?
The lights of downtown come into view, and Devin parks across from Knit Happens. The yarn shop glows warm against the evening. Through the windows, I can see our friends already gathered.
The moment we walk through the door, I’m ambushed by love.
“Alexis!” Maya bounces up and wraps me in a hug that smells like vanilla perfume.
“Want some hot chocolate?” Hannah’s already at the kettle, not waiting for an answer. “Marshmallows?”
“We were worried about you.” Flick rushes over, her hands fluttering like she wants to touch me but isn’t sure if she should.
The warmth that floods through me has nothing to do with the shop’s cozy temperature. This is what I’ve been missing, hiding in my house like a wounded animal. These women who show up, who understand without explaining, who love me even when I’m at my worst.
“I’m okay.” I accept the mug Hannah presses into my hands and sink onto my usual cushion. “And I’ll get even better.”
It’s hard to imagine that future from where I’m sitting, but I know it’s true. Hearts heal. They have to.
“So what have you been doing?” Flick asks from across our circle, her knitting needles already clicking. “Busy with work?”
“And baking my feelings.” The laugh that escapes is real, surprising me.
“What about the sourdough book? Are you...” She trails off, probably seeing something in my face.
“I have to finish it.” The words come out on a sigh. I stare into my hot chocolate where tiny marshmallows bob like life rafts. “It’s my only in right now for a full-time editing job.”
That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway. That this is about my career, about securing a position at Kitchen Lore Publishing. Not about the fact that editing Noah’s book is the last thread connecting us.
“How does that work with Noah?” Hannah’s question is gentle.
“We’re doing it all through email. We don’t have to see each other.”
Flick’s lips twist into a frown. She’s holding something back.
“What?” I press.
“Are you sure this book is your only opportunity? Is editing cookbooks really what you want to do? I’m just asking because you’ve never talked about it like you, you know...”
“Actually like it.” Devin finishes the thought.
The truth sits heavy on my tongue. “I mean, I don’t love it.” My fingers tighten on the warm ceramic. “But I need a job that will replace restaurant reviewing.”
The chronic pain makes restaurant reviewing unsustainable. The long dinners, the rich foods that might trigger flares, the travel. I need something stable, something I can do from home when my body rebels. Editing seemed like the answer.
“Of course.” Maya nods, understanding.
“Does it have to be editing at a publishing house?” Flick asks.
“What else would it be?” The words come out slower than intended.
“I’m just worried you’re putting too much pressure on yourself.” Flick adjusts on her cushion. “You know, putting all your eggs in one basket. You’re getting more think pieces, right? You could slowly transition out of reviews and into more of those while still looking for the right editing job.”
The word “right” sticks like a splinter. “You’re saying you don’t think Kitchen Lore is the right place for me? The job is full time. With benefits.”
Benefits. The magic word for anyone with chronic illness.
“Yes, and that is great. I want that for you.” Flick holds up her hand in a gesture of peace. “But there are other jobs like that, yes?”
I hesitate. “Yes.”
She tilts her head. “Is working on this cookbook with Noah really what’s best for you? Is the payoff really worth it? What if you could quit this project and still find another full-time job somewhere else?”
“I see what she’s saying.” Maya sets down her knitting. “You don’t look like you’re doing well, Alexis.”
“I’m not.” The tears come then, hot and sudden.
Hannah reaches across our circle to squeeze my hand. “There are other options.”
The breath I release is shaky. They’re right, all of them. It’s not just the potential job at Kitchen Lore that has me death-gripping this cookbook project. It’s the excuse to read Noah’s words, to see his notes in the margins, to pretend we’re still connected.
“I’ll quit the book.” The words bring a wave of relief so intense it makes me dizzy. “You guys are right. I’ll look for another job.”
They descend on me then, a tangle of arms and sympathy and the kind of love that doesn’t need words.
“So are we gonna craft, or what?” I laugh, watery and emotional, but real.
“I’d much rather talk about island gossip.” Devin settles back on her cushion. “Mary Clemmons told me she saw John Cone leaving Heather Porter’s house the other morning.”
Maya gasps. “What? His divorce isn’t even finalized yet!”
“So what?” Hannah waves dismissively, but she’s leaning forward, ready for details. “He’s legally separated.”
And just like that, we’re off. Speculation flies around the circle—everyone talking over each other in the comfortable chaos of friendship. The kind of easy gossip that makes small-town life bearable.
I smile to myself, something loosening in my chest for the first time all week.
The last couple months have been a rollercoaster that’s left me dizzy and bruised.
But sitting here, surrounded by women who’ve seen me at my absolute worst and still show up, I remember this: some things don’t change.
Even in the stormiest seasons when it feels like I’m drowning, I have this.
These women. This place where I’m understood without explanation, loved without condition.
They are my anchors when everything else is drift.