Page 120 of Neap & Spring

I think about her mouth on mine. The way she said Yes, Chef like it was a surrender and a victory all at once.

I think about the way she pulled me closer even as she said she should leave.

And I think maybe I’m not the only one who’s terrified of what happens next.

Thunder rumbles again and I can feel it vibrate through the building and the floor beneath my feet. Through the window, I can see the first drops of rain starting to hit the glass, slowly at first, then faster until it’s coming down in sheets.

The storm is coming.

And I have no idea if we’re going to survive it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Vivienne

The rain has been falling since morning, and none of us can stop looking at it.

It’s the lightest kind of rain that can’t quite commit to a full downpour. It just drifts down in a gray mist that blurs the harbor and makes the fishing boats look like a watercolor painting. It’s completely unthreatening, barely more than heavy fog, and somehow every twenty minutes, one of us finds a reason to drift to the patio windows and stare at it anyway.

We’re standing there now — me, Frannie, Iris — coffee cups in hand, watching the delivery truck attempt to back into the alley.

It is not going well.

We ordered brand new tables. Replacements for every one we’d been shimming with cocktail napkins. Plus a few extra for the event.

And the driver is doing his absolute best to get them delivered. That much is clear. He’s a guy in his fifties with the patience of someone who has backed large vehicles into small spaces a thousand times, and under normal circumstances he would probably be fine. The complicating factor is Beckett, who has appointed himself in charge and is standing in the drizzle behind the truck with both arms up, guiding it in with the authority of someone who has absolutely no idea what they’re doing.

“Okay, back up,” Beckett calls, his voice carrying across the alley. He’s walking backward, hands raised like he’s conducting an orchestra, completely confident despite all evidence suggesting he shouldn’t be.

The truck lurches into reverse, engine growling loudly. The brakes screech as it inches back into the narrow space between the building and the dumpster.

“Little more. Little more.” Beckett’s hands are making these sweeping motions that seem more enthusiastic than helpful. “Okay — wait — hold on —”

The truck stops hard, the whole vehicle rocking slightly on its suspension.

“He’s going to hit the dumpster,” Iris says from beside me at the window. She’s leaning forward, one hand pressed against the glass like she can physically stop the impending disaster through sheer force of will.

“I don’t think so.” But even as the words leave my mouth, I’m watching Beckett’s hands with growing concern.

They’re doing something that could generously be described as contradictory. One is waving in a circle, the other is pointing emphatically to the left. Or maybe the right. It’s honestly unclear from this angle.

“Just look at his hands!” Iris says, her voice rising slightly.

“Yeah. He’s definitely going to hit the dumpster.”

The truck swings wide to the right, the driver clearly trying to give the dumpster a wider berth based on Beckett’s increasingly frantic gesturing. The dumpster is spared, mercifully, but now the back end starts drifting left, the driver overcorrects, and suddenly the entire vehicle is at a forty-five degree angle to the alley entrance.

Which is not where a delivery truck needs to be.

Beckett stops moving. His hands drop, and he stares at the truck for a long second, his expression cycling through confusion, realization, and mild horror. Then he walks in a small, tight circle, both hands coming up to grip his head like he’s trying to physically hold his brain in place.

“Oh God,” Iris mutters.

But Beckett rallies. He shakes himself out, rolls his shoulders back, and repositions himself with renewed purpose. His hands come up again, more decisive this time, like this attempt will surely be different.

“Okay,” he calls out, projecting confidence he absolutely doesn’t possess. “Okay, I’ve got it. Pull forward a little — just a little —”

The truck starts rolling forward. Slowly at first, then with slightly more confidence.