Page 38 of Neap & Spring

I can’t stop watching him tonight. I’ve tried so many times. I’ve looked at my notes, at the dining room, at the ocean through the windows turning dark purple as the sun disappears. But my eyes keep finding their way back to him and the way he moves. I watch him taste something and hand a plate to Roman with instructions I can’t hear but can read in his gestures, a slight tilt of his head, his hand moving in a circle.

But he hasn’t looked at me once tonight.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That this is professional. And I’m here to do a job. Not to be noticed.

But then, as if he can feel my stare, he glances up.

And our eyes meet across the open kitchen.

For a second, neither of us looks away. The dining room noise fades into background static. I can’t read his expression from here, but I feel the intensity of it.

My heart stutters.

Then his jaw tightens. I see it even from here, the way the muscle jumps. And he looks back down at the plate in front of him, his hands resuming their work like nothing happened.

I force myself to look away. My heart is beating faster than it should, a staccato rhythm against my ribs.

It’s been like this for two weeks. Him avoiding me. Me avoiding him. The two of us dancing around each other in careful circles, communicating through sticky notes and Frannie playing messenger.

It’s unsustainable.

I know it’s unsustainable.

But I don’t know how to fix it.

So I do what I’ve been doing: I stay in my corner and pretend his anger isn’t slowly crushing me.

The hours slip by faster than I expect. Service winds down around ten-thirty. The last tables linger over dessert and coffee, voices growing softer and more intimate. The kitchen starts breaking down for the night. I can hear the change in rhythm, the clatter of pans being washed and the hiss of steam.

I should leave. I should go back to the cottage, take a shower, and maybe finally do that laundry.

Instead, I stay.

I pull up the financial reports again, scrolling through line items I’ve already memorized, trying to find the missing piece. There has to be something I’m not seeing. Some explanation for why a restaurant this good is drowning.

The numbers blur together, and I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger, pinching the bridge of my nose, and lean back in my chair, feeling the tension in my shoulders from hunching over my iPad for hours. I roll my neck and it cracks loudly.

“Hey, Viv.”

Frannie’s standing by my table, purse slung over her shoulder, jacket already on. Her hair is escaping from its ponytail, wisps of red framing her face.

“We’re heading out. You good to lock up?”

I blink, glancing around the dining room. When did it get so empty? The last table must have left while I was lost in spreadsheets. The candles are out. The chairs are up on half the tables. “What?”

“The door. Can you lock it on your way out?” She hands me a key from her pocket. “Just turn the deadbolt when you go.”

“Is anyone else still here?” I glance toward the kitchen.

Frannie shrugs, adjusting her purse strap. “I’m not sure. Maybe? But the back door locks automatically, so you just need to get the front.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” I say, turning the key over in my palm.

She leaves with Becca and Morgan, their voices carrying through the open back door before it closes behind them with a thud, laughter fading as they head into the parking lot. I hear the kitchen staff filtering out through the back, calling goodnights to each other.

And then it’s quiet.

Just the hum of the refrigerators and the distant sound of waves outside.