Page 28 of Neap & Spring

We move like a well-oiled machine. Wesley grabs plates from the cabinet, the ceramic clinking softly as he stacks them. Beckett unfolds himself from the couch to get silverware, his bare feet padding across the floor. Hayes clears the dining table, gathering up more blueprints and stacking them carefully on the side table.

I head to the kitchen and set my bag down on the counter. “Dad, I brought your salmon,” I call out. “The good stuff.”

I move to the sink and turn on the tap, scrubbing my hands probably harder than necessary, watching the soap foam up and disappear down the drain.

“My favorite child!” Dad calls back before appearing next to me, his hand landing on my shoulder. “Hey, kiddo,” he says quietly.

I’m thirty-two years old. I haven’t been a kid in two decades. But when Dad calls me kiddo, I’m ten again.

“Hey, Dad.”

He studies my face, and I try so hard to hide the barely contained chaos that’s been living under my skin for a week. But I know he sees it. His thumb presses into my shoulder hard.

I meet his eyes, and the knot in my limbs loosens just a fraction more.

He squeezes my shoulder once, and I nod.

That’s all we need. He goes back to the stove, and I dry my hands on a dish towel before carefully laying it back on the counter.

“Alright, sit down. It’s ready,” Dad calls out, and we all move to the table like we’ve done a thousand times before.

The dining table is scarred wood, nicked and worn from years of family dinners, homework sessions, and late-night card games. It’s too small for five grown men, but we make it work.

I move to help Dad bring the food over. There’s a pot of something that smells like cioppino, a tomato and seafood stew, with steam rising from the surface. A loaf of rye bread that’s probably from Margo’s cafe on Main Street. A bowl of salad that looks like it came from a bag.

“You know I could have cooked.” It’s the same thing I say every Sunday.

Dad gives me the same look he always does, handing me the bread basket. “Everyone needs a break from work sometimes, Cal. Even chefs.”

“Cooking isn’t work when it’s for family.”

“Sit. Eat. Let someone else take care of you for once.”

It’s not worth arguing over. It never is.

Dad starts ladling cioppino into bowls, passing them around the table. The ceramic is hot when it reaches me, and I have to use both hands to take it from Hayes. Steam rises, carrying the smell of tomatoes and garlic and seafood.

“Alright. High and low. Who’s starting?”

It’s our thing and has been since we were kids and Dad decided dinnertime was for more than just eating. One high from the week, and one low. No skipping and no half-assing it. The Reid family version of therapy, except with more bread and less crying.

Usually.

“I’ll go,” Beckett volunteers. He’s reaching for his third piece of bread before his bowl even arrives, tearing off a chunk and popping it in his mouth. “High: I caught a perfect barrel at Sunset Beach yesterday. Like, a full ten seconds inside the tube. It felt like flying.”

“Ten seconds?” Wesley looks impressed. “That’s solid, Beck.”

“Heck yeah it is.” Beckett grins, his whole face lighting up. “Best ride I’ve had all month.”

“I still don’t think I fully understand what a barrel is,” Dad admits, “but I know when you’re excited about something, it’s good.”

Hayes shakes his head, smiling. “It means he was inside the wave, Dad. The curl part. It’s like, the whole point of surfing.”

“That’s incredible, Beck,” I say.

“Thanks.” Beckett’s grin is wide and genuine. “It felt good to finally nail it.”

Then, Beckett’s grin falters slightly. He sets down his bread, his fingers fidgeting with the crust. “Low? Uh, my sponsor dropped me.”