Page 35 of Neap & Spring

Saturday, I’d driven into the larger town an hour north, Crescent Bay, just to be around people who didn’t know me and didn’t know Callum. I’d walked through a bookstore and ended up leaving with two books I didn’t need: a cookbook I’d probably never use but couldn’t stop myself from buying, and a romance novel that would definitely make me cry. I sat in a coffee shop and pretended to work while really just watching strangers live their normal lives. A couple sharing a muffin. A teenager doing homework. An old man reading the newspaper with reading glasses perched on his nose. All of them so settled, like they’d never once considered that anywhere else might exist.

Sunday, I unpacked exactly nothing. My suitcase still sits open on the floor of the bedroom, clothes spilling out in a mess that would horrify my mother. I’ve been living out of it for two weeks now, and I desperately need to do laundry, but unpacking feels like admitting I’m staying.

And I don’t know if I’m staying.

I’d almost left. Sunday morning, I’d sat on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hand, the investor’s number pulled up, ready to call and tell them I couldn’t do this. That there was a conflict of interest and they needed to send someone else immediately.

My thumb had been a millimeter from the call button.

But then my mom called.

Our regular Sunday call, right on schedule.

I answered with a shaky breath, pressing the phone to my ear maybe a little too hard. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”

How was I? I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten a dinner that wasn't takeout. Or the last time I'd turned the stove on for anything at all. But that wasn't what she was asking.

“I’m okay,” I said instead.

She asked how the job was going, and I almost told her the truth — that I was barely holding it together. Sleeping in three-minute chunks. Dreading every morning because it meant another day of Callum’s cold silence.

Instead, I said, “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Just — the owner. It’s Callum’s restaurant, Mom. Callum. From Paris.”

There was a pause. A long one. I could hear her breathing. I could picture her sitting in her favorite chair in the living room, processing, probably waving my father over before putting me on speaker.

My mother knew about Callum. Both my parents did. I’d talked about him constantly during culinary school. He was my rival and my competition but also the one person who could match me in the kitchen and drive me crazy doing it. They’d heard stories for months after graduation too, back when we were still talking and I’d tell them about his texts from Westerly Point and the restaurant he wanted to open someday. How different our lives were becoming but how we stayed close anyway.

What they didn’t know was why we stopped talking and why I’d suddenly stopped mentioning his name. That whole part of my life just disappeared, and they never really asked. That’s just how my family works. We love each other. We show up for each other, but we don’t dig. We don’t ask the hard questions or push on the tender spots. We keep things light and easy. And somewhere along the way, I think we all just decided that was enough.

“Oh, honey,” my mom said finally. “That must be hard.”

“It is.” My voice cracked slightly.

“Do you want to come home?”

God, I wanted to say yes. I wanted to pack my bag and drive back to Chicago and hide in my childhood bedroom and pretend none of this was happening.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“Vivienne.” My mom’s voice was firm but kind. “You’re good at your job. One of the best. And you don’t run from hard things.”

Except I do. I’ve been running for years.

But I didn’t say that.

“The circumstances don’t change your ability,” she continued. “You can do this. Even if it’s hard. Especially if it’s hard.”

My dad chimed in from the background. “Tell her we believe in her.”

“Your father says he believes in you. And so do I.”

I sat there, phone pressed to my ear, listening to the ocean outside the window.