But I don’t. My feet finally unstick from her porch. Slowly, painfully, like pulling off a bandage hair by hair, I turn around. The walk back to the sidewalk feels endless. Each step away from her door is a betrayal of everything my heart wants.
I walk away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alexis
I sit back in my kitchen chair and study the last paragraph of my latest think piece. The cursor blinks at me, waiting for one more brilliant insight about how technology influences modern dining experiences. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but the words refuse to come. Not because I don’t have anything to say—I could write ten thousand words about QR code menus alone—but because finishing means I’ll have nothing left to distract me.
Normally, I wouldn’t pick up extra freelance work. Between the paper and cookbook editing, my plate stays full. But that was before. Now, empty hours stretch ahead like landmines, each one threatening to detonate into thoughts of Noah.
It’s been exactly one week since he stood on my porch and ended everything. Seven days of existing in this house like a ghost haunting my own life. Instead of making the drive across the bridge to my co-working desk in Portsmouth, I’ve created a closed circuit between my kitchen table and the new standing desk. Bedroom to kitchen to living room. Kitchen to bedroom. The path worn into my routine like grooves in an old record.
I close my laptop with more force than necessary. Elaine isn’t completely done with me, despite everything. She’s assigned me to review and compare a handful of ice cream shops scattered around Portsmouth. Add that to the technology think piece that TasteTech Weekly requested, plus Noah’s cookbook, I’ve stayed pretty busy.
Busy and antisocial. Aside from a few texts here and there, I haven’t talked to my friends. Certainly, I haven’t talked to Noah.
My chest tightens. The manuscript sits in a folder on my laptop like a ticking bomb. Every edit, every margin note, every tracked change is another excuse to see his words, to imagine his voice reading them aloud. Professional distance is impossible when every recipe carries his fingerprint, every instruction sounds like him teaching me in his kitchen.
I’ve been good about keeping our correspondence strictly professional. Clinical, even. “Please see attached notes on Chapter 4.” “The index needs reformatting.” “Confirmed receipt of your latest revisions.” Each email drafted and redrafted until every trace of emotion has been scrubbed clean.
But I’m still his editor. Still tethered to him by this project that feels like holding onto a rope that’s slowly cutting through my palms.
I push myself up from the chair, joints protesting after hours of sitting. The standing desk was supposed to help with that, but I’ve barely used it. Too much effort to move my laptop, my notes, my carefully constructed fortress of busy work.
My reflection catches in the microwave door as I fill the tea kettle. The woman staring back looks like she’s been living underground—pale, hollow-eyed, hair pulled back in the same ponytail from yesterday. Or was it the day before?
The irony isn’t lost on me as I set the kettle on the burner. After weeks of painful flares, my body has finally calmed down. Now that Noah and I are done, the inflammation has retreatedlike it was all some cosmic joke. I’m free to have as much sex as I want with exactly no one who matters.
The thought brings the tears I’ve been holding back all morning. They come in waves now, triggered by the smallest things. The sight of sourdough at the grocery store. A couple holding hands on the street.
I swipe at my eyes with the sleeve of my oversized cardigan and pull down my tea box from the cabinet. The collection has grown since I started the elimination diet. Ginger for digestion. Chamomile for sleep I don’t get anyway. Peppermint for the nausea that comes from crying too hard. Citrus green for... what? Hope? Energy? The ability to feel like a functional human being again?
I hover between the ginger and citrus green, unable to make even this simple decision. The workday is almost over, which terrifies me more than any deadline. Busy is safe. Busy means no time for the crushing weight of Noah’s absence to fully settle. When I stop moving, stop typing, stop pretending to be fine, that’s when the hurt rushes in like high tide.
My eyes drift to the counter where four loaves of sourdough sit in various stages of staleness. Yesterday’s attempt. Or was it Tuesday’s? The elimination diet means I can’t eat them—I’ve cut out gluten first, which feels appropriate. Symbolic even. Cutting out the foundation of everything Noah taught me, just like cutting him out of my life.
Except I haven’t really, have I? I’m still baking his bread. Still editing his book. The starter—Starter Stan, still wearing the tiny sweater my friend made—sits on the counter, fed and bubbling despite everything.
Maybe I’ll bake another loaf today. It’s become my ritual, something to do with my hands while my mind spins.
The knock at the door cuts through my spiral. I set the tea box down, frowning. Nobody knocks anymore. Delivery driversleave packages on the porch. Neighbors text before stopping by. The last person to actually knock was?—
No. I forcibly shut down that train of thought as I pad across the living room in my fuzzy socks.
I peek through the peephole. Devin stands on my porch, arms crossed, looking like a woman on a mission.
Oh no. Tonight is our Chronic Pain Crafters meeting.
For a moment, I consider pretending I’m not home. I could slip away from the door, hide in my bedroom until she leaves. But that’s not how our friend group works. If I don’t answer, Devin will text the others. They’ll show up in force and barge in with a spare key.
I look down at myself. The wearable blanket I ordered online has become my uniform. It’s essentially a fleece cocoon with sleeves. Underneath, I’m wearing pajama pants and a tank top with a coffee stain shaped like Italy.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
“Alexis! I know you’re there.” Devin’s frustrated, yet concerned voice carries through the door.
With a deep breath that does nothing to prepare me for human interaction, I open the door.
