Page 144 of Neap & Spring

Callum’s arm drops from the back of the booth and crosses loosely over my shoulders, his hand coming to rest on my collarbone. His thumb moves in small circles against the bone.

I look out at the water with Callum’s arm warm across my chest, letting myself sink into it, and everything in me goes very quiet.

I think about every city I’ve driven into alone. Every Airbnb key in a lockbox. Every restaurant where I knew no one and had to introduce myself over and over. Every Sunday call home from a different area code. Countless jobs and not one piece of furniture. Not one place I could point to and say “that’s home.”

This doesn’t feel like any of that.

I think about the cottage bed and the twenty minutes I sat there not knowing if my legs worked.

And again, I’m really glad I put my shoes back on.

The door opens, and a rush of warm wet air comes through it. I’m still looking toward the water when I catch Wesley, who has been quietly nursing his beer for the last twenty minutes, going completely still in my peripheral vision.

I follow his eyeline to the door.

Sloane Castellano is coming through it with her sister, laughing loudly at something she said, shaking rain out of her black hair. I’ve had coffee with her twice now, spreadsheets open on the table between us, talking through the operational mess her father left behind. She’s hilarious and sassy and a little guarded but takes notes on everything, which I respect.

She scans the bar quickly, and her face opens into a surprised smile when she sees me. She raises a hand. I wave back.

Her eyes don’t move to the rest of the table. Or if they do, it’s for less than a second before she and her sister move toward the bar.

“She’s everywhere,” Wesley growls, almost to himself in the tone one would use to file a complaint with the universe. “Every. Single. Time. Why is she everywhere!”

He’s up before anyone can say anything and crosses the bar toward her.

We all watch in silence.

Sloane turns when he gets close, like she sensed him coming, and she doesn’t look surprised. They’re too far away to hear what they’re saying. But the shape of it is clear enough. Her shoulders squaring, his jaw clenching, both of them angled slightly away from the room like they know they’re being looked at and have decided to keep their conversation private.

Wesley says something and Sloane says something back, then they move together toward the far side of the room with the energy of two people who are definitely arguing, and then they’re gone, the bar swallowing them up.

The table is quiet.

The jukebox fills the silence, something twangy with a steel guitar.

Then Frannie says, “Okay so does anyone want another round?” and everyone looks at their glasses and finds reasons to say yes, and that’s that. Subject closed.

Callum leans slightly toward me, his mouth brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Who was that?” he asks, low enough that it doesn’t carry. “I think I saw her at the event tonight.”

“That’s Sloane,” I answer. “Sloane Castellano. I’ve been helping her with her dad’s fishing operation.”

He looks toward the bar where Wes disappeared and then back to his drink.

He hums, and there’s a world of understanding in that single sound.

I wait for more, but there isn’t any.

The next hour goes soft at the edges the way late nights do when everyone is warm and full and slightly past their second wind. Beckett starts a sentence twice and doesn’t finish either one, losing his train of thought mid-word. Iris has her head tipped back against the booth, eyes half closed, still smiling at whatever the last thing was that made her laugh. Frannie and Cora have moved into the quiet comfortable register of people who have run out of new things to say and are fine with that, content just to be. Even Roman has slowed down, his bandaged hand resting on the table, his stories getting shorter and less animated.

Roman stands up around midnight with the energy of a man who has just remembered somewhere he urgently needs to be. “I should go,” he announces. “My hand.” He holds up the bandaged hand. “Doctor said to rest it.”

“The doctor said that four hours ago,” Frannie points out.

“It’s cumulative, I think.” He’s already pulling on his jacket, looking at Frannie with exaggerated concern. “You need a ride?”

Frannie looks between me and Callum, his arm still across my shoulders, my body leaning into his, and then back to Roman. “Sure,” she says, in a tone that has absolutely nothing to do with needing a ride. She gathers her jacket, trying very hard to look casual. She leans down and hugs me, her mouth near my ear. “Text me,” she whispers. And then they’re gone, the door slamming shut behind them.

Beckett stretches both arms above his head until his back cracks audibly. “I’m out,” he says. “Early paddle tomorrow.” He stands and ruffles Callum’s hair on the way past like they’re twelve before pointing at me. “Good to see you, Viv.” Then he looks at Iris. “Come on, bookworm.”