Page 90 of Neap & Spring

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. Think about it.”

She gives me a small, tired smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Then she turns and walks toward her car, parked at the far end of the lot.

I watch her go, standing on the patio in front of my restaurant, my hand still warm from holding hers, still feeling the ghost of her pulse against my thumb.

Stellan Voss.

The name rattles around in my head like a coin in an empty jar. I know I’ve heard it before. Recently, maybe? Or —

Wait.

When Vivienne and I were still talking. Back when we texted every day and I knew what was happening in her life, she’d gotten that job in New York at some fancy restaurant that was getting all kinds of press. She’d been so excited about it. It was exactly the kind of place she’d dreamed about working.

What was the name of the chef?

I pull out my phone, open Instagram with hands that are starting to shake, and search for Stellan Voss.

His profile loads slowly. Two million followers. Restaurants in New York, Miami and Los Angeles. In the bio, it lists his flagship: Voss — Contemporary American — NYC.

My stomach drops straight through the pavement.

I click through his posts with growing dread. Restaurant photos, perfectly plated food, him cooking in his whites. Him with celebrities. Him at awards ceremonies. Him looking successful and charming and like someone you’d want to work for.

Him at the James Beard Awards five years ago, holding a trophy and smiling like he owns the world.

Five years ago. Right when Vivienne went quiet.

Right before she stopped cooking.

Right when everything fell apart.

I scroll back farther, my heart pounding, until I find a photo of his kitchen team. The caption says something about his “incredible brigade” and “building the future of American cuisine.”

And there, in the back row, barely visible behind the taller cooks —

I zoom in.

Dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, a few pieces escaping at the temples because her hair never quite cooperates. It’s strict and soul sucking. Nothing like the messy style she wears every day here. She has a stillness to her that makes my palms sweaty. Her chef’s whites look too big on her frame, like she wasn’t eating properly. Her face is partially obscured by the person in front of her, but I can see her tired eyes. I can see the tension in her shoulders.

I would know her anywhere. I knew her the second she walked through my door even after years of silence, and I know her now on a three-inch screen in a restaurant I’ve never heard of in a city I’ve never been to.

Vivienne.

She worked for him.

I think about her face when I said his name. The way all the color drained from her skin. The panic in her eyes. The shaking in her hands. The way she couldn’t breathe.

She said she can’t work with him.

Not “I don’t want to.” Or “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Can’t.

Like it’s not a choice and the very thought of being in the same room as him is physically impossible.

My hands are shaking now. With anger or with fear for her, I’m not sure. Maybe both.

What did he do to her?