Page 6 of Neap & Spring

A photo slides out from between two pages and skids across the counter. It’s an exterior shot. A newer building right on the waterfront. The evening sun is hitting it just right, the ocean stretched out behind it, and even in a photograph it’s unmistakably beautiful.

And below it, typed in neat font:

Neap & Spring.

Chef/Owner: Callum Reid.

The photo drops from my hands and floats across the counter.

Callum.

I’m here to save Callum’s restaurant.

“Oh my God,” I say out loud, to no one, to the room, to the universe that clearly has a sick sense of humor.

I need — I don’t know what I need.

Wine. That’s what I need.

My hands are trembling so badly it takes three tries to twist the corkscrew into the bottle from Margo’s basket. The cork comes out with a pop that’s too loud in the quiet kitchen. I don’t bother with a glass. I drink straight from the bottle. The wine’s terrible, but I don’t care.

I move to the sink and grip the edge of the counter, staring out the window at the dark ocean. The wine bottle dangles from my other hand.

Tomorrow morning, I have to walk into his restaurant and face him for the first time in five years.

And he’s going to know I’m coming. The investors would have told him. He’ll have seen my name in the consultation files. Has he been dreading this as much as I am right now? Or does he not care anymore?

He’s had time to prepare. Time to decide how he feels about seeing me again.

I’ve had ten seconds.

I set the wine bottle down and walk back through the cottage, out the front door, and onto the porch. The cold air hits me, and I welcome it, needing something to cut through the panic rising in my chest.

The ocean is loud and relentless out here. The waves crash and retreat and crash again, over and over like they don’t know how to stop.

I sink down onto the porch steps and pull my knees to my chest.

The wooden steps are cold and slightly damp. The string lights overhead sway in the wind, their glow shifting and dancing across the porch. From here, I can see a few scattered lights from other houses down the beach. People inside living their normal lives.

I should call the investors and tell them I can’t do this. Tell them to send someone else.

But I know I won’t.

I signed a contract. I’ve built my entire reputation on being the person who shows up and fixes things, no matter how impossible it seems.

And some small, stupid part of me needs to see him. I need to know if he’s okay.

Is he happy? Does he hate me?

I need to know.

“This is fine,” I say out loud. The wind tears the words away as soon as they leave my mouth. “This is totally fine.”

But it’s not fine.

Nothing about this is fine.

I wrap my arms tighter around my knees and let myself sit there in the cold, watching the dark water, knowing that tomorrow morning, ready or not, I have to walk through those doors and pretend like my heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of my chest.