Page 88 of Neap & Spring

I’ve seen panic attacks before. Beckett had one after a bad wipeout when we were teenagers. A line cook lost it during a particularly brutal service years ago right after we opened. But this is worse.

This is Vivienne.

And I don’t know how to fix it.

“In through your nose,” I whisper just for her, forcing myself to stay steady for her. “Out through your mouth. With me. In —” I breathe in, exaggerated and slowly, making it loud enough for her to hear over her own gasping.

She tries to match me and fails. Her breath hitches and breaks off in a gasp.

“You’re okay. Try again. In —”

We do it together. Once. Twice. Three times. I keep my eyes on her face, watching for any sign that it’s working.

Slowly, so slowly, her breathing starts to even out. The color comes back to her face in patches, pink blooming across her cheeks and nose. But her eyes are still wide and terrified.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps out, her voice ripped raw. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t — I wasn’t —”

“Don’t apologize. Just breathe.”

“I should be — I’m not usually —”

“Vivienne. Stop apologizing and just breathe.”

We stand there for what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few minutes. Me breathing with her. Her gradually coming back to herself.

Coming back to me.

Finally, she opens her eyes and looks straight at me.

“We can’t work with him,” she says. Her voice is stronger now but still shaking at the edges.

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a plea. A desperate, terrified plea.

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Callum. Not him. Please, anyone else. Just not him.”

“Okay,” I say again, more firmly this time. “We won’t. I’ll tell Frannie to keep looking. We’ll find someone else. There are hundreds of chefs out there. We don’t need him.”

She looks surprised. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

I want to demand an explanation. I need to know what the fuck happened. I need to understand what could make her react like this, and I need to fix it immediately.

“You’re not going to ask why?”

I think about Wesley and Roman telling me to back off again. And how pushing her obviously hasn’t worked. She’ll tell me when she’s ready, or she won’t. I need to trust her even when I don’t understand.

I also think about her face right now. The absolute fear in her eyes. She’s still shaking.

And I know that whatever happened, asking her to relive it in this moment would be cruel. But I want to give her the choice.

“Do you want to tell me why?”

She shakes her head quickly.

It hurts. It fucking hurts.