Page 126 of Neap & Spring

Now the boxes are mostly empty except for a few cold slices that nobody has the energy to reach for. Beckett is slouched in his chair, picking pepperoni off a slice, eating them one at a time. Hayes has his head propped on one hand, eyes half-closed, looking like he might fall asleep sitting upright. Wesley is leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, looking more alert than anyone else but still tired around his eyes.

Iris and Frannie claimed the two stools by the dish station, their legs swinging as they pass a bottle of water back and forth. Cora is sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back against a cabinet, scrolling through her phone with glazed eyes.

Callum is at the head of the table, still in his chef’s whites, going over his notes one more time even though we’ve been over them seventeen times already. His pen taps against the paper in an anxious rhythm. Roman is beside him, contributing occasional commentary between bites of pizza.

Amara and Marcus have integrated seamlessly into the frenzy. Amara is perched on the edge of the table itself, one leg folded under her, gesturing animatedly as she tells a story about a dinner service that went so wrong it somehow was “legendary.”

“— and then the fire marshal shows up,” she declares, “right in the middle of service, because apparently someone called about the amount of smoke coming from the kitchen!”

“Was there actually a fire?” Beckett asks sleepily.

“No! That’s the thing! It was just the duck fat we were rendering, but it was smoking like crazy because the hood vent had stopped working that morning.”

“How did you not notice the hood vent stopped working?” Callum looks up from his notes, his face deadly serious like he could not even imagine such a thing.

Amara grins. “Oh, we noticed. We just didn’t have time to fix it because we were in the middle of a hundred and twenty-cover night.”

“That’s insane,” Roman laughs.

“That’s Saturday nights in a city restaurant, baby.” Amara shrugs. “You just keep moving and hope nothing actually catches fire.”

Marcus, sitting quietly beside her with a slice of margherita, adds, “The fire marshal was actually really cool about it. He just made us open all the windows and told us to get it fixed before next service.”

“And did you?” Hayes asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Of course not.” Amara laughs cheerfully. “We had reservations the next night! We fixed it on Monday.”

Everyone laughs, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen.

Patrick is leaning against the counter near the coffee station, sipping from a mug and watching all of us with that small smile fathers get when they’re watching their kids do something they’re proud of.

I’m wedged close to Callum in the small space, my own slice of pepperoni going cold on a paper plate in front of me. I’m too tired to eat, but also too wired to stop moving. My leg is bouncing under the table in a nervous rhythm I can’t quite control, the anxiety of tomorrow vibrating through me.

Callum’s hand finds my thigh under the table, resting his weight on my leg, and the bouncing stops immediately.

I glance at him sideways. He doesn’t look at me as he focuses on his notes, but his thumb starts to move in a small circle.

“Alright,” Patrick yawns, pushing off from the counter and setting his mug down with a soft clink. “I’m going to head out before you all start running through the menu one more time.”

“We should run through it one more time,” Callum says immediately, looking up at everyone.

“No,” everyone says in unison.

Callum looks around the table, genuinely bewildered. “We have a big day tomorrow, and —”

“And we’ve run through the menu six times today,” Roman interrupts. “We know it, Chef. We’re ready.”

“But —”

“Callum.” Amara leans forward, catching his eye. “The menu is perfect. The timing is perfect. The plating is perfect. If we go over it one more time, we’re going to start second-guessing ourselves, and that’s when mistakes happen.”

Callum looks like he wants to argue, but then his shoulders drop slightly. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.”

“I know I’m right.” Amara slides off the table, stretching her arms over her head. “What we all need is sleep. Real sleep. Not that thing where you lie in bed running through prep lists in your head until you pass out.”

“I don’t do that,” Callum protests, but there’s no conviction in it.

Everyone looks at him.