7. Callum #3
“Vivienne,” Beckett repeats finally, like he’s testing the word. He sets down his fork slowly. “As in … Vivienne Vivienne? Paris Vivienne?”
“Yeah.”
“Holy shit.”
“Language,” Dad says automatically, but there’s no heat in it. He’s still watching me, his hands folded on the table.
“Wait.” Hayes is frowning, trying to piece it together. He leans forward and rests his forearms on the table. “The consultant? The one the investors hired? That’s her?”
“Yep.”
“The one who disappeared off the face of the earth and you never heard from again?”
“That’s the one.”
Hayes sits back in his chair, running his hand over his mouth. “Well. Fuck.”
Dad doesn’t even correct him this time.
Beckett is staring at me like I’ve just told him the ocean is on fire. “How? How is that even possible? Did she know? Did you know?”
“She knew,” I say, and the bitterness in my voice surprises even me. I let go of the beer bottle to run my hand through my hair, tugging at the strands. “She looked at the file and saw my name but came anyway.”
“And you didn’t know?” Wesley asks, brows raised.
“Nope. I stupidly didn’t look at the file. I figured it didn’t matter who they sent.” I pick up my spoon then set it down again, the restless energy needing somewhere to go. “So imagine my surprise when she walked into my restaurant.”
“Jesus,” Beckett breathes.
“What did you say?” Hayes asks. “When you saw her? It’s been what — five years?”
I let out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Something along the lines of ‘you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’”
Dad winces slightly but doesn’t comment on the language.
“And what did she say?” Beckett presses.
“Not much. She said she could leave and get the investors to send someone else.” I drag a hand down my face, feeling the stubble rasp under my palm. “Seems to be what she’s good at,” I mumble then sigh loudly. “I told her to stay.”
All four of them stare at me.
“You told her to stay,” Hayes repeats slowly.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re six months away from losing everything!
” The words come out sharper than I intended, and my hand slaps the table, causing the bowls to rattle.
“Because the restaurant is doing well. The food is good. The reviews are solid. We’re getting new customers every day.
But none of that matters when you’re drowning in debt.
I need help whether I like it or not. She’s supposed to be good at this, and if she can actually save the restaurant, then I need to put my personal shit aside and let her do her job. ”
There’s a heavy tension around the table. They all know what I’m talking about. They know the debt isn’t from bad business decisions or failed ventures. They know exactly where it came from, and they know I’m still paying for someone else’s choices.
“Cal —” Dad starts, his voice hesitant.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
I’m not fine. I’m so far from fine I can’t even see fine anymore. I push my bowl away, suddenly not hungry. “We’re keeping it professional. She does her consulting thing. I run my kitchen. We barely talk. It’s working.”
“Is it?” Wesley asks quietly.
I look at him. He’s the only one who knows how bad it’s been this past week.
The countless sleepless nights. The anger that sits under my skin is like a low-grade fever at this point.
I’ve been avoiding my own restaurant because being in the same room as her makes me feel like I’m being drawn and quartered.
“No,” I admit, and my voice sounds rough even to my own ears. “It’s not.”
Dad reaches over and puts his hand on my arm. “Tell us what you need.”
That’s the thing about my family. They don’t tell me what to do. They don’t offer unsolicited advice or try to fix it without asking because they know I don’t want that. They just show up and ask what I need.
The problem is, I don’t know.
I stare down at the table. I trace the grooves worn into the wood with my fingers, my throat tight.
“I don’t know,” My voice cracks slightly.
“I don’t know what I need. I don’t know how to do this.
I don’t know how to work with her when —” I stop and take a deep breath, my chest expanding, then releasing.
“When I don’t understand why she even left in the first place.
I thought we were in —” I stop, refusing to go there.
“Did you ask her?” Hayes asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m angry,” I murmur. “Because she doesn’t get to just show up after five years and act like everything is fine. I told her the first day that we were keeping it professional and asking her why she ghosted me isn’t exactly professional.”
Beckett leans forward. “Okay, but do you want to know? Like, if you could wave a magic wand and get the answer, would you want it?”
I open my mouth. Then close it.
Would I?
Part of me wants to say no. Part of me thinks knowing would be worse. What if it’s something I can’t come back from? What if trusting her again — even just enough to ask the question — ends the same way as before? With me left holding the pieces while she walks away? Again.
“Yeah,” I say finally, despite everything. “I think I would.”
“Then ask her,” Beckett says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
“Because —” I try to find the right words. My fingers drum against the table. “Because what if the answer is that I wasn’t enough? That she got busy and successful and I just stopped mattering?”
The table goes quiet.
Dad squeezes my arm, his thumb pressing into my forearm. “Callum. Look at me.”
I do. His stare is unwavering.
“You matter,” His voice is certain. “Whatever her reasons were, they weren’t about your worth. You hear me?”
My throat is tight. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“And if she can’t see what she walked away from, that’s her loss. Not yours.”
I nod again.
“But,” Dad continues, his hand still warm on my arm, “I also think Beck’s right. You’re never going to move forward if you don’t get answers. And right now, you’re stuck. Both of you are just dancing around each other, and it’s eating you alive.”
“So what do I do?”
“You talk to her,” Dad says simply. “Not as the chef and the consultant. But as Callum and Vivienne. Two people who used to know each other. Two people who used to love each other. You ask your questions. You listen to her answers. And then you decide what comes next.”
“What if she won’t tell me?”
“Then at least you tried.” Wesley’s voice cuts in. “At least you know you did everything you could. But Cal, you can’t keep going like this. It’s killing you.”
He’s right. I know he’s right.
I can feel it in my bones — the exhaustion and the anger. I’m running on empty and have been for days.
“Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll talk to her.”
“When?” Hayes asks.
“I don’t know. When the moment’s right, I guess.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I can’t force it. But I’ll do it. Soon.”
Dad nods, satisfied with that. His hand gives my arm one more squeeze before he lets go. “That’s all we’re asking. Just don’t wait so long that it gets away from you.”
“I won’t.”
Beckett grins. “And if she’s a jerk about it, we can always key her car.”
“Beck,” Dad warns.
“I’m kidding! Mostly.” He takes another bite of cioppino, his grin still in place. “But seriously, Cal. We’ve got your back. Whatever happens.”
“We all do,” Hayes adds.
Wesley just nods, but I can see it in his eyes. The same thing I’ve always seen in all of them.
Family. Unconditional and unshakeable.
I feel lighter. Not all the way, but enough that I can breathe a little easier.
“Thanks,” I whisper to the table. “Really. Thanks.”
Dad pats my arm once more, then reaches for the bread, tearing off a piece. “Alright. Enough heavy stuff. Someone tell me something good. Anything. I don’t care what.”
“I saw Margo’s cat stuck in a tree yesterday,” Beckett offers, his whole demeanor shifting back to easy. “Took me twenty minutes to get it down. She gave me cookies.”
“What kind?” Hayes asks.
“Her famous brown butter chocolate chip. They were still warm.”
“And you didn’t bring any here?” Wesley looks offended.
“I ate them all on the walk home.”
“You’re a monster,” Hayes exclaims.
“I was hungry!”
The conversation shifts, light and easy again, and I let it wash over me and let myself just be here, in this moment, with these people who know me better than anyone.
I pick up my spoon and take a bite of cioppino. It’s too salty, like always, but it tastes like home.
I’ll talk to Vivienne. When the time is right.
But tonight, I’m just going to sit here with my family and let them remind me that no matter what happens, I’m not alone.