Page 45 of Neap & Spring

Callum sits back in his chair. I can see the hope that had flicked there for just a second extinguish like a candle being snuffed out.

“Complicated,” he repeats, and the word sounds bitter in his mouth. His lip curls slightly. “That’s all you’re going to give me?”

“I —” I don’t know what to say. My throat is closing up, and my hands are shaking. I can feel the panic building, creeping up from my chest to my throat. “I can’t —”

“You can’t.” He stands up abruptly, and his chair scrapes back with a harsh sound that makes me flinch. “Of course you can’t.”

“Callum, please —”

“I just told you everything, Vivienne.” His voice is rising now in the quiet kitchen. It’s raw and bleeding and so desperate. “Everything. The humiliation and the betrayal. I told you I’ve spent two years barely keeping my head above water because someone I trusted destroyed me. And you can’t even tell me why you stopped talking to me?”

“It’s not the same thing!” I exclaim, desperate to make him understand and afraid he’ll force me to tell him.

“Isn’t it?” He’s looking at me like I’m a complete stranger. Like he doesn’t know me at all anymore. And maybe he doesn’t. I’m not the same girl he knew all those years ago. “You left. You cut me out of your life completely. No explanation and no goodbye. Just there one day and gone the next. And now you’re standing here in my kitchen, asking me to trust you with my restaurant. You want me to let you help me, and you won’t even tell me why you’re even fucking consulting in the first place and not cooking like you’re meant to!?”

Tears are burning behind my eyes, but I blink them back. I can’t cry.

Not now.

Later.

But not now.

“I can’t,” I hate how weak my voice sounds, but I can’t bring myself to raise it against his anger. “I can’t, Callum. I’m so sorry.”

“Can’t?” His voice breaks slightly, cracks right down the middle. “Or won’t?”

I don’t answer.

We both know the truth. I could tell him. I just won’t. I can’t make myself say the words. I can’t bear to see his expression when he learns what happened.

I can’t stand the thought of him looking at me with pity. Or worse, anger that I didn’t trust him enough to tell him years ago.

He stares at me for what seems to be an eternity. And then he shakes his head, and resignation settles over his features. His shoulders drop. His hands unclench.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

He picks up his mug from the floor and walks to the sink, dumping the cold coffee down the drain.

“Callum.”

“Lock up when you leave.” He doesn’t look at me. He just rinses out the mug and sets it in the drying rack.

“Please, let me explain.”

“I’m tired, Vivienne.” He finally turns to face me, and the exhaustion in his eyes is overwhelming. “I’m tired of being left in the dark. I’m tired of people I care about walking away without explanation. I’m tired of feeling like I’m not worth the truth.”

Each word is a knife.

“You are,” I whisper. “Callum, you are worth —”

“Then tell me.” His voice isn’t angry anymore. It’s just sad and defeated. “If I’m worth it, then tell me.”

I open my mouth.

And nothing comes out.

The silence stretches between us, and I watch the light die in his eyes once again.