Page 34 of Neap & Spring

Dad nods, satisfied with that. His hand gives my arm one more squeeze before he lets go. “That’s all we’re asking. Just don’t wait so long that it gets away from you.”

“I won’t.”

Beckett grins. “And if she’s a jerk about it, we can always key her car.”

“Beck,” Dad warns.

“I’m kidding! Mostly.” He takes another bite of cioppino, his grin still in place. “But seriously, Cal. We’ve got your back. Whatever happens.”

“We all do,” Hayes adds.

Wesley just nods, but I can see it in his eyes. The same thing I’ve always seen in all of them.

Family. Unconditional and unshakeable.

I feel lighter. Not all the way, but enough that I can breathe a little easier.

“Thanks,” I whisper to the table. “Really. Thanks.”

Dad pats my arm once more, then reaches for the bread, tearing off a piece. “Alright. Enough heavy stuff. Someone tell me something good. Anything. I don’t care what.”

“I saw Margo’s cat stuck in a tree yesterday,” Beckett offers, his whole demeanor shifting back to easy. “Took me twenty minutes to get it down. She gave me cookies.”

“What kind?” Hayes asks.

“Her famous brown butter chocolate chip. They were still warm.”

“And you didn’t bring any here?” Wesley looks offended.

“I ate them all on the walk home.”

“You’re a monster,” Hayes exclaims.

“I was hungry!”

The conversation shifts, light and easy again, and I let it wash over me and let myself just be here, in this moment, with these people who know me better than anyone.

I pick up my spoon and take a bite of cioppino. It’s too salty, like always, but it tastes like home.

I’ll talk to Vivienne. When the time is right.

But tonight, I’m just going to sit here with my family and let them remind me that no matter what happens, I’m not alone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Vivienne

Ididn’t go to the restaurant this morning.

I told myself it was because I needed a day to work from the cottage to organize my notes, compile data, and start drafting the preliminary report for the investors. All true. All very professional reasons to stay away.

The real reason was that I couldn’t face another morning of Callum pretending I don’t exist.

So I stayed in the cottage and made coffee in the little kitchen with the mint green stove I still haven’t used for actual cooking. I carried my mug to the small table by the window, my laptop already open, spreadsheets glowing on the screen, and tried to make sense of numbers that didn’t add up.

My back ached from yesterday’s service and hours of sitting at that corner table pretending I wasn’t watching Callum move through his kitchen. It was so achingly familiar, I had to keep looking away. But my eyes kept drifting back to him anyway. I guess they hadn’t gotten the message.

The weekend had been long. And lonely.