Page 121 of Neap & Spring

“No, not that much!”

The kitchen door bangs open and Callum leans out, one hand braced on the doorframe. He’s still in his chef’s whites from morning prep, a dish towel thrown over one shoulder, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows despite the cold drizzle.

He looks at the truck then he looks at Beckett, who’s now making what can only be described as jazz hands at the increasingly bewildered driver.

Callum looks at the truck again, which is now somehow at an even worse angle than before, nearly perpendicular to where it should be, and groans. He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s asking for patience from some higher power.

“Hayes,” he calls out, projecting his voice back into the kitchen. His eyes are still closed. “Wesley. Good Lord, anyone with a valid driver’s license, please.”

“I heard that!” Beckett shouts from the alley, pointing an accusatory finger at Callum, rain dripping from his extended arm. “I have a valid license!”

“Having one and knowing how to use it are two different things,” Callum shouts back.

Hayes appears in the doorway, takes in the situation in approximately two seconds — the angled truck, his twin’s enthusiastic incompetence, the driver’s growing desperation — hands his coffee to Callum without a word, and walks out into the rain. He doesn’t even bother with a jacket. He just steps into the drizzle like it’s not even there even though his shirt immediately darkens with moisture.

He positions himself at the alley entrance, makes brief eye contact with the driver through the side mirror, and begins directing with small, calm gestures. Left hand up. Right hand steady. A slow curl of the fingers. The truck straightens out and slides into the alley on the first try, missing the dumpster by a good three feet.

Hayes drops his hands and steps back, satisfied. Rain streams down his face, and he wipes it away with one hand, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead.

Beckett has been watching this entire performance, his own hands now hanging uselessly at his sides. He’s still standing in his original position, getting progressively more soaked, his expression cycling through several stages of realization.

“Yeah.” He gestures vaguely at the now-perfectly-parked truck. “That’s what I was going for.”

Hayes turns to look at him, water dripping from his nose. “You were facing the wrong direction.”

“I was establishing the general concept.” Beckett crosses his arms defensively, which only makes water squeeze out of his sleeves.

“You were facing the wrong direction, Beckett.”

“Conceptually I was —”

“Please, for the love of God, just unload the truck,” Callum says from the doorway, still holding Hayes’s coffee. His voice has the tone that means the discussion is over and further argument will not be entertained.

Hayes and Beckett both look at him.

Then they look at each other, having what appears to be an entire conversation in the span of two seconds through nothing but eyebrow movements and the slight tilt of their heads. Some twin language I’ll never understand.

Then they’re moving, breaking into simultaneous motion like they’ve just remembered Callum is their big brother and it’s his restaurant and his delivery and his very important event tomorrow.

Hayes is already at the truck’s rear door, reaching for the handle. Beckett scrambles after him, nearly slipping on the wet pavement in his hurry to be useful, his shoes making a squelching sound with each step.

What follows is forty-five minutes of organized madness in the rain that involves everyone and a great deal of opinions about the most efficient way to carry a four-top table through a doorway in the rain without it getting wet.

The driver and his partner handle the heavy lifting off the truck. They have a dolly and a system. They try to make it very clear they do not need our help with polite professionalism. What they do need is for someone to hold the door and guide the tables through the restaurant to wherever they’re going. And stay out of the way.

What they get instead is a large group of people who all have different ideas about the best route from the alley to the dining room, none of whom agree, and all of whom are now soaking wet.

The rain has picked up. Not dramatically, but enough that by the time Iris and I have made two trips carrying chairs in from the truck, we are both definitively damp, and by the time Frannie has made one trip and stood in the alley for four minutes debating with Roman about the chair situation, she is drenched and has declared the heavy lifting someone else’s problem.

“I’m doing logistics from here on out,” Frannie announces, backing up until she’s framed perfectly in the doorway, one hand braced on each side of the frame.

“Is that an option?” Iris asks, already turning to head back out into the rain. She pulls her hood up as she goes, water immediately beading on the fabric and dropping onto her face.

“It’s an essential job, I think.” Frannie shifts her weight, settling into her position with the air of someone who has found their calling.

Roman comes through carrying a massive box of what looks like microgreens, water streaming off his shoulders. He has to turn sideways to fit through the doorway, adjusting his grip as he navigates around Frannie’s strategically positioned body.

“You’re standing in the doorway,” he huffs, not even breaking stride as he passes.