Page 122 of Neap & Spring

“I’m keeping the doorway clear,” Frannie counters, pressing herself flat against the frame to let him through but not actually moving from her spot. She stays exactly where she is, arms now crossed, watching the mayhem unfold from her perfectly dry vantage point.

“That’s not what ‘clear’ means,” Roman calls back over his shoulder, already disappearing into the kitchen.

Callum is everywhere at once without appearing to rush. He carries two chairs at a time with the ease of someone who has moved furniture in this building a hundred times, then disappears into the dining room, reappears, goes back to the truck, does it again. He’s soaked within minutes and doesn’t seem to notice or care. His hat is pushed back on his head, water dripping off the brim. His jaw is set with the focus of a man working through a checklist.

I am watching him way more than I should be.

I stare open-mouthed at the way water runs down his forearms, following the lines of his tattoos. The way his wet shirt clings to his shoulders and chest.

My mind offers up, entirely without my permission, the memory of those same forearms braced on either side of me on the prep table, his mouth clamped around me.

I force myself to look away and focus on the clipboard in my hands and on the floor plan that’s starting to curl at the edges from the humidity.

Patrick materializes at some point with two large paper bags of groceries balanced in one arm and a cardboard carrier tray holding what appears to be coffee for the entire team in the other. None of us actually see him arrive. He just simply appears like he’s been summoned, drawn by some parental instinct that senses when people are cold and wet and running on empty.

“Coffee,” he announces, setting the coffee carrier down on the nearest dry surface just inside the door. “And actual food, because I know none of you have eaten today.”

“Dad, you didn’t have to do that.” Callum shouts over the rain, but Patrick waves him off.

“Coffee’s for everyone. That includes you two,” he declares, nodding at the delivery driver and his partner, who look momentarily stunned by the inclusion. “Cream and sugar is in the bag if you need it.”

The driver’s partner actually looks like he might cry.

Patrick then produces a stack of folded moving blankets that the driver apparently needed and couldn’t find, and Patrick had somehow located in approximately ninety seconds, origin unknown.

“These were in the storage closet, second shelf, behind the extension cords.” Patrick shrugs, handing them over like he isn’t some magician.

The driver takes them, bewildered. “How did you —”

“Lucky guess.” Patrick is already moving, grabbing one end of a four-top. “Where does this one go?”

From there, he’s just part of the operation, carrying tables alongside the driver’s partner. He doesn’t get in the way. He just slots himself into the rhythm naturally.

At one point, he and Iris end up on opposite ends of a two-top that needs to go through the side door. They navigate it without a word, turning it on its side in perfect synchrony, tilting at exactly the right angle to clear the frame, then setting it down gently once they’re through.

Wesley works with the solid posture of someone who’s spent his life hauling heavy things on unstable surfaces. He’s got the stance for it — knees bent, back straight, core engaged, lifting with his legs. When a box of glassware threatens to slip from Cora’s grip, he’s there before anyone else even notices, steadying it with one hand while reaching for his end with the other. He and Patrick have an unspoken rotation, trading off the heavier items without discussion, just a nod here and there to confirm who’s taking what.

Hayes does the work of approximately two people without a single comment. At one point, I watch him hoist a table over his head single-handedly to clear the doorframe then set it down on the other side like it weighs nothing. He doesn’t even pause to catch his breath, just turns and heads back out for the next one.

Beckett does the work of approximately half a person, loudly and with extensive commentary.

“This one goes in the back left,” he explains, walking alongside me with a folding chair held at chest height. He’s got it gripped with both hands like it might try to escape, taking careful steps to avoid puddles, his tongue slightly out in concentration.

“I know,” I say, consulting the floor plan I’ve got balanced on my clipboard. “I have the layout right here.”

“Right, but if you think about the traffic flow” — he adjusts his grip on the chair, nearly dropping it, then recovers with a little hop — “you want to leave clearance on that side for the server stations, so probably the back left is actually —”

“Beckett.” I don’t look up from the clipboard.

“— the optimal position when you consider the beverage runs and the distance to the kitchen, which means —”

“Beckett.”

“Right, yeah, we’re in agreement.” He nods vigorously, water flinging from his hair.

I point to the back left corner where I’ve already marked it on the floor plan with tape. He walks over, sets the chair down with exaggerated care, then steps back to assess his work. He tilts his head, considering the placement from multiple angles like he’s arranging a museum installation, squinting one eye.

“Perfect,” he declares, hands on his hips. “Exactly where it needed to go.”