Page 92 of Neap & Spring

I made myself stop, get myself under control and start over.

I burned the fifth attempt. I left it in too long because I couldn’t stand to be near the oven and the heat and the smell and the memories that came with it. Memories of standing at a station, trying not to flinch, trying to be perfect, trying to be invisible.

My phone rang while I was staring at the blackened edges. My parents. Right on schedule like always. I answered their FaceTime standing in the middle of the cottage kitchen looking like I’d been run through the ringer and had to spend twelve minutes convincing them I was fine and that yes I was eating and no they didn’t need to fly out and the dark circles were just allergies and no I hadn’t been crying, like I said just allergies. I told them I loved them and hung up and stood there for a moment in the quiet.

Then I started again.

The sixth attempt is sitting in my passenger seat.

It took me all day. All day to make a simple cheese dip and a loaf of bread that any competent cook could throw together in twenty minutes. I probably could have made it in my sleep five years ago.

But I’m not a competent cook anymore.

I’m barely functional in a kitchen.

Callum’s text from last night is still sitting unanswered in my phone. Just an address and a time. Not even a question mark. No I hope you’re coming. Just the information.

My hands are still slightly floury where I didn’t wash them well enough after the final attempt at the bread. I wipe them on my pants — which does nothing but spread white dust on my black leggings — and pick up the dish from the passenger seat. The bowl is covered in plastic wrap and is still faintly warm. The bread is wrapped separately in a clean dish towel.

Callum used to make this for us in Paris during late nights in the communal kitchen when everyone else had gone to bed and we still had two practicals to study for. When neither of us could focus anymore, he’d make this dip with roasted garlic and olive oil and whatever soft cheese he could find. He’d tear bread into chunks instead of slicing it because he said slicing it made it too formal for two exhausted people eating at midnight. We’d eat it standing up, leaning against the counter, not even bothering with plates.

On the nights he had crab, he’d fold it in at the end. There was a market three streets from the school he was obsessive about. It was a tiny place with a hand-painted sign and a fishmonger who apparently recognized Callum by the second week. He’d go before our early practicals, before most of the city was awake, and come back with a paper bag that smelled like the sea. He said it was the one ingredient that made the whole dip taste intentional instead of improvised. He said it reminded him of home.

I found crab at the corner market this morning. I don’t know what made me reach for it, but the second I did, I knew I had to make this dip. Callum’s dip.

Now I’m supposed to walk into a house full of Callum’s people and pretend I’m fine and I’m the kind of person who belongs at a family dinner. I have to pretend this isn’t a pity invite from a man who watched me have a panic attack in the middle of Main Street.

I could leave. I could text Callum some excuse. Say I’m not feeling well and drive back to the cottage and eat crackers for dinner like I have every night this week.

My hand is on the key in the ignition, and I’m ready to make a run for it, when I hear laughter. It’s loud and uncontrolled, floating out through the open windows. And underneath it, Callum’s voice, saying something I can’t quite make out, followed by more laughter.

He sounds happy and relaxed. A completely different version of the tense, exhausted man I’ve been working with for the past several months.

This is his place. His people. The life he chose when he came back here.

And I don’t belong here.

Before I can turn the key, the front door opens, and Callum steps out onto the porch.

My heart does a complicated flip in my chest. Then another. Then forgets how to beat all together.

He’s not in his chef’s whites. Instead, he’s wearing jeans and a dark green henley that I’ve never seen before, the color making his eyes look dark even from here. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing the tattoos that cover his entire arm from wrist to shoulder. His hair is still damp, like he showered recently. And he’s barefoot despite the cool evening air. He’s completely at ease in a way I’ve haven’t seen him since I arrived in Westerly Point.

This is Callum at home. Callum relaxed. Callum in his safe space.

And the mustache. God, the mustache. It’s dark and neatly trimmed, framing his mouth in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. I catch myself wondering, just for a second, what it would feel like. Would it be soft? Rough? Would it tickle against my lips or would it be barely noticeable?

He looks toward my car immediately, and our eyes meet through the windshield.

I watch him say something over his shoulder, then he’s walking down the porch steps, across the front yard, and straight to my car.

Too late to leave now.

He taps on my window, and I roll it down.

“Hi,” he says gently like he’s afraid he’ll startle me.

“Hi.”