Page 104 of Neap & Spring

My mind races. What do I say? What’s safe? What can I share without revealing too much? Without opening doors I can’t close again?

Callum shifts next to me, and when I glance at him, he gives me a small nod. His eyes are steady on mine. Like he’s saying It’s okay. Whatever I say is okay. However much or little I want to share.

I take a breath.

“High …” I think about the week and the long hours working with Callum side by side. The business plan we built together. The walk on the beach and his head against mine and the way his hand felt in mine. “We submitted the business plan to the investors. We worked really hard on it, and it felt good to finally send it off.”

Several people nod approvingly.

“Cal told us about that. That’s great news,” Wesley says, the happiness he feels for his brother apparent in his tone.

“How long did that take you?” Hayes asks with professional interest.

“We had ten days to put together a comprehensive plan with financial projections, implementation timelines, and contingency strategies.”

“Ten days?” Hayes looks genuinely impressed. “That’s insane. I can barely write a basic proposal in ten days.”

“It was — yeah. It was a lot.” I glance at Callum, and he’s watching me with an expression that makes my chest tight. “But we did it. Together.”

“And it’s good,” Callum adds, his voice firm, his eyes never leaving mine. “Really good. If the investors don’t see that, they’re idiots.”

Heat blooms in my chest and spreads through my ribs and down to my fingertips.

“What’s your low?” Patrick asks gently, giving me an out if I need it. His tone saying that I can keep it simple. Or not answer at all.

This is harder.

So much harder.

I look around the room. At Wesley, who just admitted he’s struggling with Sloane taking over her father’s business. At Beckett, who’s trying to hide how hard the sponsorship loss hit him, how scared he is about money. At Hayes, living on takeout because he can’t afford to push his landlord harder. At Iris, getting priced out of her apartment and working herself to exhaustion to make ends meet.

They all shared real things. Hard things. Vulnerable things.

And they’re all still here and still looking at each other with love and acceptance and the absolute certainty that whatever the problem is, they’ll figure it out together.

I look at Callum. He’s watching me so patiently, like he’ll wait as long as I need. He’ll sit here all night if that’s what it takes. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

This is a safe space. These people don’t judge. They just help carry things.

“I haven’t cooked anything in five years,” I whisper to the floor.

The words feel strange coming out of my mouth. Foreign. Like they belong to someone else. I’ve never said them out loud before. Not to my parents during our Sunday calls. Not to the other consultants I’ve worked with. Not even to myself, really. I’ve just lived around the truth, skirted it, avoided it, pretended it wasn’t there taking up real space in my life.

But now it’s out there. Hanging in the air between me and these people I hardly know.

My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. I’m positive they can see my pulse jumping in my throat. I want to take it back. I want to laugh it off, make a joke, and redirect to something safer.

But Callum’s hand finds mine. His hand wraps around it and squeezes hard.

So I keep going.

“Until today,” I continue, my voice shaky. “The dip I brought — that was the first thing I’ve cooked since I stopped working in restaurants. I spent all day on it. I failed five times before I got it right. I couldn’t even turn on the stove without —” I stop myself. That’s too much. That’s crossing into territory I’m not ready to share. Not yet. Maybe not ever. “It took me all day to make a simple cheese dip.”

There. I said it. The truth.

Part of it, anyway.

I wait for judgment and for the questions I can’t answer. I tense, anticipating for the atmosphere to shift into something uncomfortable and pitying.