Page 5 of Neap & Spring

The bottom falls out of my stomach.

I turn away from the window, then pace to the dresser, then back to the bed.

“What?”

“You know,” she continues, oblivious to my spiraling, “the one you were always talking about. He was at the top of the class with you or something. You said he was obsessed with his hometown. He wouldn’t stop talking about some little coastal town in — was it Oregon? California?”

“Mom —”

“What was his name? Colin? Carter?”

“Callum,” I whisper, the name slipping out before I can stop myself.

And just like that, each piece of the puzzle falls together.

The fishing docks. The lighthouse. The way this town felt familiar the moment I drove through it.

Callum wouldn’t shut up about Westerly Point.

We’d be in the middle of a brutal eighteen-hour day at Le Cordon Bleu, and he’d find a way to bring it up. The best fish tacos were at some place on the pier. His brother’s boat was called The Daily Catch. There was a bakery downtown that made sourdough better than anything in Paris. Which was sacrilege to say out loud, but he said it anyway, always grinning like he was so proud of himself.

He’d described this place so many times I could see it in my head. And now I’m here.

Now I’m here.

“That’s — that’s just a coincidence.” I’m pacing now, back and forth in the small space between the bed and the dresser.

“A coincidence?” My mom’s eyebrows go up. “Vivienne, you haven’t mentioned that boy in years, and suddenly you’re working in his hometown?”

“I don’t even know if he’s still here. He could be anywhere by now.”

But even as I say it, I know that’s not true.

“Honey,” My dad leans forward a little, his crossword forgotten. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“I’m fine. I just — I forgot something. In the car. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Vivienne —”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, I promise. Love you!”

I hang up before they can argue.

For a moment, I just stand there, phone in hand, heart hammering.

Then I’m moving.

Back down the hallway, my feet hit the floorboards harder than necessary. Through the living room. Out the front door into the cold night air.

The manila envelope is still sitting on the passenger seat where I left it, smug and unopened and about to ruin my entire life.

I grab it with shaking hands and march back inside, slamming the car door shut behind me.

In the kitchen, I drop the envelope on the counter and stare at it as if it might bite me.

This can’t be a coincidence. It can’t be. Westerly Point isn’t exactly a major city. People don’t just end up here.

I tear open the envelope and papers spill out onto the butcher block. Financial reports. Menu copies. Staff rosters. I flip through them too fast, pages catching and folding at the corners, scanning for a name. Just a single name.