Page 27 of Neap & Spring

Everyone except me.

We’ve barely spoken since that first day. When we need to communicate, we leave sticky notes on my desk in the back office. Yellow squares of paper with her neat handwriting asking about supplier contacts or reservations for the night or staffing schedules.

I respond in Sharpie, pressing too hard till it’s almost illegible, the ink bleeding through to whatever’s underneath.

Supplier list in filing cabinet. Second drawer.

Reservations tracked in system. Ask Frannie.

Staff schedules posted in kitchen. Check the board.

It’s ridiculous. We’re two adults, and we’re communicating like we’re in middle school and one of us has cooties.

But I can’t sit down with her and have a conversation like none of the past matters. Like she didn’t just disappear from my life without a word and seeing her every day doesn’t make me feel like I’m being slowly pulled apart.

So I avoid her. I come in early and leave late. I stay in the kitchen where she usually won’t follow. I time my breaks for when she’s talking to customers or Frannie has her cornered. I’ve become a ghost in my own restaurant.

And I’m so exhausted. I’m running on minutes of sleep a night, too much coffee, and anger that doesn’t have anywhere else to go but into the poor Sharpie in my office.

Roman keeps giving me looks. Cora keeps saying I look like shit. Even Frannie, who never shuts up, has been weirdly quiet around me.

They all know something’s wrong.

They just don’t know what.

Well. Except Wesley. I called him three days ago at two in the morning because I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t stop thinking and I needed to tell someone before I completely lost it.

I lift my head from the steering wheel and scrub my hands over my face. My eyes feel gritty. When I drop my hands, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror.

I do look like shit. Dark circles under my eyes. Stubble that’s gone past five o’clock shadow into full-blown scruff, though at least the mustache still looks intentional. I definitely need a haircut.

I take a deep breath and grab the six-pack along with the bag of ingredients I picked up on the way. Fresh herbs from the restaurant garden, the good olive oil from the local market, and the smoked salmon that Dad’s been asking about. The one I get from the supplier in Seattle. Not that garbage from the grocery store. Showing up empty-handed to Sunday dinner is a cardinal sin in the Reid household, and even when I’m barely holding it together, I’m still a chef.

I climb out of the truck, the door creaking as it swings open, and head up the gravel path to the house. The porch creaks under my feet as I step onto it, the wood giving slightly under my weight. Dad really does need to fix it.

I stand there for a second, hand on the doorknob, and try to pull myself together.

Slowly, I turn the knob and push the door open.

The warmth hits me first. Then the smell — garlic and butter and probably way too much salt. Dad has never met a dish he didn’t think needed more salt. The living room is small and cluttered with the evidence of four grown men who still treat this place like their childhood home, even though we all have our own places now. There’s fishing gear in the corner and Beckett’s wetsuit draped over a chair to dry. A stack of blueprints on the coffee table that must be Hayes’s.

And there, in the middle of it all, is my family.

Dad is at the stove, stirring something in a pot with his back to me. He’s wearing the usual Patrick Reid uniform of a flannel shirt, jeans worn soft from years of work, and bare feet because he refuses to wear shoes in the house. His hair is more gray than black now, but he still moves with that easy confidence that comes from a lifetime of hard work.

Wesley is leaning against the counter, beer in hand. He sees me first and nods, his eyes taking me in with that quiet assessment he does. I can see him cataloging the exhaustion on my face and the tension in my shoulders. His brows furrow, but he doesn’t say anything.

Beckett is sprawled on the couch, his hair still damp from what was probably a sunset surf session. He grins when he sees me. “Cal! Finally. We were starting to think you bailed.”

“I’m ten minutes late,” I say, setting the beer on the counter, the bottles clinking together.

“Ten minutes is basically an hour in Dad years,” Hayes quips from the armchair. His laptop is open on the coffee table, but he closes it when I walk in, the motion deliberate. “He’s been checking his watch every five minutes.”

“I have not,” Dad says, not turning around. But I can hear the smile in his voice.

“You absolutely have,” all four of us say at the same time.

Dad turns, wooden spoon in hand, and gives us that look. The one that says I can’t believe I raised such heathens, but I love you anyway. “Whatever. Dinner’s almost ready. Wash your hands and set the table, please.”