Page 7 of Neap & Spring

A gull cries somewhere in the darkness. The string lights flicker in the breeze.

And I stay there, on those porch steps, until the cold drives me back inside and I can’t avoid sleep anymore. Until there’s nothing left to do but face what’s coming.

Shit.

CHAPTER THREE

Callum

The best part of my day happens before anyone else shows up to ruin it.

Five-thirty a.m., and the restaurant is mine. Just mine. No staff asking questions I don’t have answers to. No suppliers calling about late payments. And no investors breathing down my neck about quarterly projections. Just me, the kitchen, and the smell of coffee that’s probably too strong, but fuck it, I’m tired.

I’m already on my third cup.

My hands wrap around the mug and the ceramic is hot enough to hurt a little, but I hold it there anyway, letting the heat wake me up. I didn’t sleep last night. Again. I spent the whole night staring at the ceiling of my apartment and running numbers in my head that don’t add up no matter how many times I rearrange them.

My shoulders ache in a deep, bone-tired way that comes from years of standing over a stove, and my back is filled with tension I can’t shake from carrying the weight of this place for so long I’ve forgotten what it feels like to stand up straight.

I roll my neck, and something cracks loudly.

It doesn’t help.

I take the stairs down from my apartment above the restaurant, dumping me out into the back hallway of Neap & Spring. It’s the same routine every morning, but the repetition keeps me sane. Or at least keeps me from completely losing it.

I unlock the back door first. The heavy steel one that opens to the alley where deliveries come in. The lock sticks a little, like it always does, and I have to jiggle the key, putting my shoulder into it. I make a mental note to fix it, but I’ll probably forget about it by lunch. The door finally gives and swings open, and the salt air hits me immediately, cutting through the stale heat of the hallway.

It’s still dark out, but I can hear the waves hitting the rocks below the restaurant, rhythmic and relentless. For just a second, I close my eyes and let the sound of the water wash over me.

Then I get back to work.

I leave the door propped open and move through the space, my hand trailing along the wall out of habit.

The dry storage is first in my routine. I flip the light switch, and the fluorescents flicker to life, buzzing in that annoying way that means I need to replace them soon. I look over the shelves stocked with oils and vinegars from a supplier in Oregon who actually gives a shit about quality. I double-check everything else is in its place, carefully running my hand along one of the shelves as I pass, fingers catching on a label that’s peeling up. I press it back down, smoothing it flat.

I turn down the hallway to the walk-in and pull the heavy door open. Cold air spills out, and I breathe it in like it’s the first real breath I’ve taken all morning. I step inside and just stand there for a second, letting the cold seep into my skin.

The produce came in yesterday. I reach out and run my fingers over the carrots, still dirty from the farm. The fennel has its fronds still attached. There are beets the size of my fist. A flat of strawberries that smell like summer sit by the door. I grab one and turn it over in my palm before popping it in my mouth. It’s sweet, a little tart, and the juice bursts on my tongue.

Perfect.

My brother’s catch is here too.

Wesley owns a fishing boat — The Daily Catch — and he’s been supplying the restaurant with fish since I opened. He’s the best fisherman in Westerly Point, though he’d punch me if I said that out loud. He dropped this catch off last night after his run, probably still smelling like fish guts. He texted me at midnight — Got you the good stuff. Left it in the cooler. You’re welcome — even though I haven’t been able to pay him for the last three deliveries.

I crouch down and open the cooler, my knees protesting. The halibut is laid out on ice. Four perfect fillets, skin still on with flesh so white it almost glows in the fluorescent light. I run my finger along one, feeling the firmness of it and the way it springs back when I press down. It’s fresh. Really fresh.

I close the cooler carefully and push myself back to standing, one hand braced on the metal shelf, my knees cracking again. I’m thirty-two and my body already feels old, worn down by too many years of this.

I head back out, letting the walk-in door seal shut behind me with a satisfying thunk.

The dining room is next.

I push through the swinging door from the kitchen and hit the lights. They come up slowly — dimmers set low because I’m not a monster — and the space reveals itself in pieces. The tables, the chairs, the bar with the brass fixtures I spent way too much money on. The windows that look out over the water. In an hour or so, they’ll be catching the sunrise and it’ll look like the whole place is on fire.

This is the moment. Right here. When the lights come up and the restaurant is clean and quiet and full of possibility. Before service and its chaos. Before I have to think about how many reservations we have tonight or whether we’ll make enough to cover payroll this week.

Right now, in this moment, Neap & Spring is just a restaurant. My restaurant. And it’s beautiful.