Page 96 of Neap & Spring

“Is it that obvious?”

“You have the look. I had it too, the first time.” She marks her page and closes her book, resting it on the edge of the couch. “Just a heads up. They’re going to ask you a thousand questions and tease Cal mercilessly, and Patrick is going to try to feed you until you literally can’t move. But they mean well.”

“How long have you known them?”

“Since preschool. Beck and I have been friends since we were four.” She adjusts her glasses, a small smile playing at her lips. “So, twenty-four years of this chaos.”

Twenty-four years.

I can’t imagine having someone in my life for that long. I can’t even begin to imagine the kind of friendship that builds over two decades of showing up for each other. Not to mention the history where you don’t have to explain yourself because they already know and understand.

I’ve never had that. I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to build it.

“That’s — Wow, that’s really nice,” I whisper.

“It’s something.” Iris glances toward the kitchen, where Beckett is now arguing with Hayes about how much salt to add to something. “He’s a disaster, but I guess he’s my disaster at this point.”

The warmth in her voice makes me smile.

“So you’re the one saving Neap & Spring,” Iris continues, turning back to me.

“Trying to. We’ll see if it works.”

“Cal seems more relaxed than he has in years. So whatever you’re doing, it’s helping.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t explain that most of what I’m doing is just showing up and hoping I don’t make things worse.

From the kitchen, I hear Patrick’s voice. “Vivienne, what do you want to drink? We’ve got beer, wine, water, soda —”

“Water’s great, thank you,” I call back.

“You sure? Cal brought a pretty decent Pinot —”

“Dad, let her settle in before you start pushing wine on her,” Callum says.

“I’m not pushing! I’m offering!”

“It’s the same thing!”

Iris leans closer to me. “See? Loud.”

But she’s smiling, and so am I. Maybe this won’t be as terrible as I thought.

The food is served the same way Callum described it to me once, late at night when we were both exhausted and homesick and talking about what we missed most. Everything is brought to the center of the table and bowls are passed around in a practiced rhythm, and it’s just assumed everyone wants seconds of everything and thirds of most things.

The food is incredible. Callum made his “famous” bolognese, which Patrick claims is just his own recipe that Callum stole. Callum denies the accusation with increasing volume, and it devolves into a five-minute argument about who actually invented the sauce and whether adding red wine was Patrick’s innovation or Callum’s. There’s garlic bread that’s perfectly crispy on the outside and soft inside and a simple green salad with a vinaigrette that tastes homemade.

And my dip.

My dip, which Patrick heated up and put out with crackers and vegetables, along with my bread, like he knew I was going to bring it and was fully prepared. There’s also a plate of Beckett’s contribution: grocery-store cookies — the cheap kind with too-bright frosting and sprinkles — which Hayes announces with great ceremony should be illegal at a dinner with two classically trained chefs.

The table is too small for seven people, so we’re crammed shoulder to shoulder, elbows bumping every time someone reaches for bread or picks up their fork. We’re passing dishes back and forth in a coordinated chaos that they’ve clearly perfected over years. Decades, probably. I’m wedged between Callum on my left and Iris on my right, which feels strategic — like they’ve positioned the two people least likely to overwhelm me as my buffers. My human shields against the pandemonium.

They keep eating the dip. Everyone keeps going back for more.

I try not to watch every time someone reaches for it. I force myself not to hold my breath waiting for a verdict and analyze their expressions for signs of politeness versus actual enjoyment.

“This is really good,” Hayes praises, spreading a generous amount on a piece of bread. “What’s in it?”