Page 94 of Neap & Spring

“You look nice,” he whispers, like he can read my thoughts.

“I didn’t know what to wear to a family dinner.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable in. It’s just my family. Very low stakes.”

It doesn’t feel very low stakes. It feels very high stakes. It feels like I’m about to be evaluated and measured against some standard I don’t even know.

Callum must see the panic in my face because he reaches out and takes my hand once with a quick and reassuring squeeze.

“You’re going to be fine,” he insists. “I promise.”

The evening air smells like whatever is cooking inside, and it makes my stomach contract with hunger. I can hear everyone through the walls. Voices and laughter and the low rumble of what I think is a sports broadcast.

I stand on the porch for a moment, dish in both hands, and try to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

Callum opens the front door, and sound and warmth spill out onto the porch before we even step foot into the house.

“I’m telling you, if you just let me handle the —”

“You can’t handle it. You almost burned down —”

“That was ONE TIME —”

“Incoming!” Callum calls out, and the voices stop immediately.

The house smells like garlic and tomatoes. The living room opens directly into the kitchen, all one big space with warm wood floors and mismatched furniture that works together. There are photos everywhere. I recognize younger versions of Callum in several of them. A fishing rod is leaning against the door frame. A stack of what looks like blueprints sits on the coffee table that someone has pushed aside to make room for a beer. A surfboard is propped up against the wall by the TV.

Callum steps back to let me in, and his hand finds the small of my back as I pass. Just a brief moment of contact through my sweater. His palm presses gently, guiding me over the threshold like I might bolt if he doesn’t anchor me.

I’m not going to read into that. I’m absolutely not going to read into the way his touch makes my spine straighten and makes me feel steadier. I’m not going to think about how his hand lingers for just a second longer than necessary before falling away.

“Everyone, this is Vivienne.”

The man at the stove has to be the dad. He looks so much like what Callum will look like in thirty years that it makes my heart squeeze. He has the same eyes and the same way of holding himself. He has a wooden spoon in one hand and a dish towel over his shoulder, and he’s watching me with a welcoming warmth that feels completely unconditional.

The man is in his sixties, with graying dark hair and the same cutting expression as his sons. He’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, and when he smiles, it’s so genuine I can’t help but smile back.

“Vivienne. Cal’s told us a lot about you.” He shakes my hand firmly. “I’m Patrick. Welcome to chaos.”

“Thank you. I brought —” I hold up the dish. “It’s just a dip.”

“Perfect. We can never have too much food around here.” Patrick takes the dish from me, peering at it appreciatively through the plastic wrap. “This looks great. Did you make it?”

My throat goes tight before it closes up completely.

“Yeah. I — Yes.”

The word comes out barely above a whisper. I want to explain that it’s the first thing I’ve cooked in years. And it took me six tries and most of my sanity. I want to scream that I cried into the fourth batch. I want to explain that this simple dip represents hours of fighting my own panic, forcing myself to be in a kitchen and turn on a stove and touch food with my hands instead of just analyzing spreadsheets about it.

But I don’t say any of that.

“Homemade. Even better.” Patrick’s smile is completely oblivious to my internal crisis. “I’ll get this warming.”

I watch him head toward the kitchen, my heart pounding harder than it should be. It’s just a dip. It doesn’t matter.

But it does matter to me. It’s the first thing I’ve cooked in years, and now it’s being carried away to be judged by people I don’t know. People who matter more than anything to Callum. People whose opinions might actually mean something to me.

What if it’s terrible? What if I messed up the ratios? What if —