7. Callum #2
It’s our thing and has been since we were kids and Dad decided dinnertime was for more than just eating. One high from the week, and one low. No skipping and no half-assing it. The Reid family version of therapy, except with more bread and less crying.
Usually.
“I’ll go,” Beckett volunteers. He’s reaching for his third piece of bread before his bowl even arrives, tearing off a chunk and popping it in his mouth. “High: I caught a perfect barrel at Sunset Beach yesterday. Like, a full ten seconds inside the tube. It felt like flying.”
“Ten seconds?” Wesley looks impressed. “That’s solid, Beck.”
“Heck yeah it is.” Beckett grins, his whole face lighting up. “Best ride I’ve had all month.”
“I still don’t think I fully understand what a barrel is,” Dad admits, “but I know when you’re excited about something, it’s good.”
Hayes shakes his head, smiling. “It means he was inside the wave, Dad. The curl part. It’s like, the whole point of surfing.”
“That’s incredible, Beck,” I say.
“Thanks.” Beckett’s grin is wide and genuine. “It felt good to finally nail it.”
Then, Beckett’s grin falters slightly. He sets down his bread, his fingers fidgeting with the crust. “Low? Uh, my sponsor dropped me.”
The table goes quiet.
“What?” Wesley sets down his spoon, the metal clinking against the bowl. “I thought that deal was solid.”
“Yeah, well.” Beckett shrugs, trying for casualness and not quite pulling it off.
“Apparently ‘not enough social media presence’ and ‘lack of competitive results’ means they’re going with someone younger.
Which is bullshit because I’m twenty-eight and I just placed third in —” He cuts himself off.
“Whatever. It’s fine. I’ll find another one. ”
“It’s not fine,” Dad says immediately, leaning forward. “How much were they paying you?”
“Dad.”
“Beckett.”
Beckett sighs, his hands flat on the table now. “Thirty-five hundred a month. Plus gear.”
Hayes lets out a low whistle.
“I’ve got savings,” Beckett says quickly. “And I’m teaching surf lessons. I can cover rent for a few months while I figure it out.”
“What about that shop on the pier?” Wesley asks. “The one that just opened. They were looking for someone to teach lessons and run the rental side.”
“Westerly Surf Co?”
“Yeah. The owner’s a friend of mine. I could put in a good word.”
Beckett perks up slightly. “That’d be — yeah. That’d be good.”
“And Beck,” Hayes says, looking up from his cioppino. “Be serious about the social media thing. You need better content and better photos. I can help with that. I know a photographer who owes me a favor.”
“You’d do that?”
“You’re my twin brother. Of course I’d do that.” Hayes shrugs like it’s obvious. “Besides, you’re talented as hell. You just need better marketing.”
“Language,” Dad says mildly, but he’s smiling. He looks at Beckett. “We’ll figure it out. You’re not in this alone.”
Beckett’s throat works. He picks up his water and takes a long drink, and when he sets it down, his eyes are a little too bright. “Thanks.”
“Hayes,” Dad says, turning to him. “You’re up.”
Hayes sets down his water glass with the precision he brings to everything, the glass finding the exact spot on the table where it was before. “High: I finished the designs for the waterfront development project in Crescent Bay. The client loved them. It’s going to be the biggest thing I’ve done.”
“That’s huge,” I say, and I mean it. Hayes has been working toward something like this for years.
“Thanks.” There’s pride in his voice, the kind Hayes doesn’t show often. “Low: the project’s probably going to mean a lot more travel. I might need to be on-site three or four days a week for the next six months.”
“That’s a lot of driving,” Wesley says, his spoon pausing halfway to his mouth.
“Yeah.” Hayes runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “I’m already driving from Dunmore to Crescent Bay most days, but with this new project I’m going to need to be on-site up and down the coast at different jobsites. I won’t have a real home base for a while.”
“Then use the shed.” Dad offers while tearing off a piece of bread, the crust crackling. “I converted it into an office this winter, insulated it, put in a heater. You need somewhere to land between sites, and you’re not going to get any real work done out of that tiny apartment.”
Hayes blinks. “You built an office? Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I had to do something with the space. I had the time, and I figured one of you would need it eventually.” Dad’s voice is casual, but I can see the way he’s watching Hayes. “It’s yours if you want it. Saves you the drive a couple days a week.”
“Dad, I can’t just —”
“Shut up, Hayes. You’re not imposing.” Dad’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Besides, I like having you boys around. The place is too quiet otherwise.”
Hayes looks like he’s trying to figure out how to argue and coming up empty. His hands fold together on the table, then unfold. “That’d actually help a lot. Thank you.”
“Good. Settled.” Dad looks at Wesley. “Wes?”
Wesley’s been quiet, working on his cioppino like he’s got nowhere else to be.
He glances up and wipes his mouth with a napkin, the movement unhurried.
“High: We had good fishing this week. Caught enough halibut to cover Cal’s order and then some.
I sold the rest at the market and made a decent profit.
And we landed a big contract this week. That new hotel in Crescent Bay wants me as their primary seafood supplier. It’s a year-long contract.”
“Wes, that’s enormous news,” Hayes says, straightening in his chair.
“Seriously,” I add. “That hotel’s a big deal. How many covers do they do a night?”
“Three hundred, give or take.” Wesley shrugs like it’s nothing, but I can see the pride in his eyes. “They want daily deliveries. It’s good money.”
“Good money?” Beckett laughs. “Dude, that’s massive. You’re basically the biggest fisherman in the area now.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You are,” Dad says firmly, pointing his spoon at Wes. “You’ve worked hard for this, son. You should be proud.”
Wesley ducks his head slightly, uncomfortable with the praise the way he always has been, ever since we were kids. Two years older than me and still the worst at accepting a complement. His hand wraps around his beer bottle. “Thanks.”
“And the low?” Dad presses gently.
Wesley hesitates. He takes a drink and sets his bottle down carefully. “The boat needs a new engine. The quote came back at twelve grand.”
I choke on my water. “Twelve grand?”
“It’s a marine engine. They’re not cheap.”
“Wes, that’s —” Beckett starts.
“I’ll figure it out,” Wesley cuts him off. “With the new contract, I’ll have the money in a few months. I can pull from savings now and replenish it.”
“Or,” Hayes says carefully, leaning forward, “you could let us help.”
Wesley’s jaw tightens. His fingers drum once against the table then still. “I’m not taking money from you guys.”
“It’s not charity,” I say. “You’ve been giving me fish at cost for three years. Let us help with this.”
“Cal, your restaurant is —”
“Probably doing better than your boat engine situation,” I lie. “How much can you put toward it?”
Wesley looks like he wants to argue, but Dad gives him a look. The look.
“Six grand,” Wesley says finally, his voice tight. “I can cover six right now.”
“I’ll cover two,” I say.
“I can do three,” Hayes offers.
“That’s eleven,” Beckett says, doing the math. “I can cover the last thousand.”
“Beck, you just lost your sponsor.”
“And I’ve got savings. I told you.” Beckett leans back in his chair.
“Besides, if your boat doesn’t work, Cal doesn’t get fish.
If Cal doesn’t get fish, the restaurant suffers.
It’s an investment in my brothers’ businesses.
And Hayes —” He pauses, thinking. “Hayes benefits from the general goodwill this generates within the family.”
Hayes points at him. “That is a fact.”
“Also,” Beckett continues. “I love you guys and want to help, even though you are all annoyingly self-sufficient.”
Wesley’s throat works. He looks around the table at all of us, and I can see him trying to come up with an excuse to refuse. His hands flatten on the table, pressing down like he needs the solid surface. “I’ll pay you back.”
“We know you will,” Dad says simply. “No big deal. That’s what we do. We help each other.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Wesley nods once, jerkily, and goes back to his cioppino, but his shoulders are looser than they were a minute ago.
Dad lets the moment settle, then he looks at me.
“Cal.”
Here we go.
I set down my spoon. The metal clinks against the bowl, and it’s too loud in the quiet. “High: The restaurant had a good week. Numbers were solid. We’re finally nailing the plating on the new special for this month.”
“That’s great, Cal,” Dad says warmly.
“Really great,” Hayes adds. “What’s the special?”
“Pan-seared halibut. Brown butter sauce, fennel and citrus salad.”
“Sounds incredible,” Beckett says. “When can I come try it?”
“Anytime. You know that.”
“And the numbers being solid,” Wesley says, leaning forward slightly, “that’s a big deal. You’ve been working your ass off.”
“Language,” Dad murmurs, but he’s nodding. “Wes is right. You should be proud of that.”
I should be. I know I should be.
But the high feels hollow when I know what’s coming next.
I pick up my beer and take a long drink, feeling the cold liquid slide down my throat. When I set it down, my hand stays wrapped around the bottle, the cold anchoring me.
Dad’s watching me carefully. He has to know. They all have to know.
“And the low?” Dad asks gently.
I take a breath.
“Vivienne’s back.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Beckett’s fork stops halfway to his mouth, suspended in air. Hayes sets down his water glass with a soft clink. Wesley doesn’t react, because he already knows, but his eyes are on me and full of concern.
Dad doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just stares at me and waits.