Page 176 of Neap & Spring

“You’ll see,” he sings, and pushes open the back door.

The cool evening air hits me like a wave after the oppressive heat of the kitchen. I suck in a breath, feeling sweat evaporate off my skin, and follow Callum out into the alley behind the restaurant. The sun is setting, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and pink and purple. I can hear the ocean in the distance, that constant crashing I’ve fallen asleep to every night for five years.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he leads me around the side of the building, his hand still firmly clasped in mine.

“You’ll see, Vivi!” he says, laughing. “Just please be patient.”

We’re walking down the familiar path now, the one that leads from the restaurant’s back lot down to the beach. The path we’ve walked hundreds of times over the past five years — after particularly brutal services when we needed to decompress, on lazy Sunday mornings with coffee and pastries from Margo’s, late at night when neither of us could sleep.

Past the building and the parking lot where my car is parked next to his truck like always. Down the weathered wooden steps that lead to the sand, the boards groaning slightly under our weight.

And then I see it.

The exact spot where we sat the day after we sent that business plan. Where we walked down from Margo’s cafe and ended up sitting in the sand, watching the sunset. I had pulled my knees up to my chest and told him I could get used to this — the town, the ocean, the pace of it all. I leaned my head on his shoulder and felt, for the first time in years, like I might actually be safe.

There are rose petals scattered across the sand, deep red, almost burgundy in the fading light, and candles in glass jars creating a circle of warm flickering light that pushes back against the gathering darkness. And in the center, a blanket spread out on the sand, corners weighed down with smooth stones so the ocean breeze doesn’t disturb it.

My free hand flies to my mouth. “What is this?”

“Come here.” His voice is soft as he tugs me forward across the sand.

My feet sink slightly with each step, the sand still warm from the day’s sun. The ocean is calm tonight, the waves gently kissing the sand, barely more than a whisper against the shore. The sky is deepening from orange to indigo.

We reach the blanket, and Callum guides me down, his hands steadying me as I sit. I pull my knees up to my chest automatically. But this time, instead of sitting beside me, he settles behind me, pulling me back against his chest. His arms come around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder, both of us facing the water.

For a moment we just sit there, breathing in sync, watching the last of the sun disappear below the horizon.

“Do you remember what I told you that night?” he asks quietly, his breath warm against my ear. “About the tides?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Tell me.”

I take a shaky breath. “Neap tides are moderate. Everything is controlled and manageable.” I feel his arms tighten around me. “Spring tides are the opposite. The highest highs and the lowest lows.”

“And what did I say I wanted?”

“A restaurant that could hold both.” My voice is barely above a whisper now. “A space that understood the ordinary days and the extraordinary ones and belonged to the rhythm instead of fighting against it.”

“Yeah.” I feel him nod, his stubble scratching slightly against my temple. “That’s exactly what I said.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I can feel his heart beating against my back, faster than normal.

“Five years ago,” his voice is low and serious, “we were in the middle of a spring tide. Everything was at its most extreme. The restaurant was drowning in debt I didn’t know how to pay. You were carrying trauma you thought you’d never be free of. We’d lost five years because we were both trying to protect each other from our own worst instincts.”

I nod, not trusting my voice to stay steady.

“And then the storm came,” he continues. “The literal one that nearly tore that death trap cottage apart around you. And the metaphorical one. You finally telling me about Stellan and me having to sit with the fact that you’d been protecting me all those years. Then both of us having to figure out if we could actually build something together or if we’d broken it too badly to fix.”

“We didn’t break it,” I whisper.

“No.” His lips brush against my temple. “We didn’t.”

He shifts slightly, his voice going softer.

“And then” — his voice catches slightly — “then John Castellano’s estate paid off the debt. Just like that. Hundreds of thousands of dollars gone. And suddenly I could breathe again. Suddenly the restaurant was actually mine. And you” — his arms tighten around me — “you told me you were staying. In this little town. With me.”

One of his hands moves from my waist, reaching for something beside us on the blanket. I hear the rustle of fabric and feel him shift slightly behind me.