8. Vivienne #2
Social media presence: 237 followers, last post three months ago. Need an aggressive campaign. Partner with food bloggers/influencers?
I can do this. I can sit here and do my job and not think about the way my heart aches when I watch him move through his kitchen.
But my eyes drift back to him, and I watch him plate a dish, the halibut special, pan-seared with crispy skin, fennel and citrus arranged in a perfect fan, brown butter sauce drizzled in precise lines. It’s gorgeous. Restaurant-week, James-Beard-level gorgeous.
I miss this.
I miss cooking.
I miss the heat of the kitchen, the rhythm of service, and the way time disappears when you’re in the zone. I miss the satisfaction of creating something beautiful and delicious and evanescent.
I miss the version of myself who could do this without her hands shaking and panic clawing up her throat.
My hands are shaking now, and I press them flat on the table, willing them to stop.
I look away before the grief can pull me under.
I force my eyes back to my notes and tell myself to focus. On the data. The things I can control.
The social media presence is nearly nonexistent.
In today’s restaurant landscape, that’s unacceptable.
I know Callum thinks the food should speak for itself, and maybe ten years ago he’d be right.
But people discover restaurants online now.
They want to see the space, the food, and the vibes before they commit to making a reservation.
They want to feel like they’re discovering something special.
And you can’t discover what you can’t find.
The menu is incredible, but it doesn’t change often enough.
Seasonal ingredients are important, yes, but the same dishes week after week means regulars get bored.
Food media wants innovation and evolution.
They want a reason to write about you more than once, and right now, there’s no story to tell beyond “Callum Reid makes really good food.”
And there is basically no marketing. No partnerships with local hotels.
No presence at food festivals. No outreach to critics or influencers who could amplify what he’s built here.
He’s relying entirely on word of mouth and location, which works to a point, but it’s not enough.
Not when you’re carrying the kind of debt that could sink you in six months.
Service continues around me. Frannie seats tables with her bright smile, chatting with regulars, remembering names and favorite dishes.
The servers move through the dining room with practiced efficiency.
Becca stops by a table near me, laughing at something a customer says, her whole face lighting up.
Morgan refills water glasses and asks about dessert.
Frannie stops by my table between seating guests, setting down a glass of wine I didn’t order. “From Roman,” she says with a knowing smile. “He says the consultant works too hard and needs to relax.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“He’s the best.” There’s something in the way she says it, wistful and a little fond, that makes me think something is going on between the hostess and the sous chef. She catches me watching, and her cheeks flush slightly. “Anyway. Let me know if you need anything else.”
She heads back to the hostess stand, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear, and I take a sip of the wine. It’s good. A local white that’s crisp and bright, with notes of green apple and citrus. I make a note of it, my fingers steadier now.
Becca appears a few minutes later with a small plate, setting it down with careful precision. “Halibut special. Chef’s insisting everyone try it tonight before the special changes next week.” She sets it down with a warm smile. “Let me know what you think?”
She gives me a little wave and moves on to the next table, and I’m struck by how normal this feels. How welcomed I feel, despite everything.
I look down at the plate. The halibut is perfect. Skin crispy and golden, the flesh flaky and white. The fennel is paper-thin, almost translucent. The citrus gleams. The brown butter sauce pools perfectly around it.
I pick up my fork and cut into the fish. The skin cracks under my fork, giving way to tender flesh.
I take a bite, and it’s perfect. The halibut is buttery and rich, the skin salty and crisp. The fennel adds a bright anise note. The citrus cuts through the richness. And the brown butter is exactly right. Nutty and sweet and complex.
I close my eyes.
This is the kind of food that reminds me why I fell in love with cooking in the first place.
This is the kind of food that breaks my heart all over again.
Morgan stops by later to refill my water, chatting about how busy they’ve been and how the weather’s supposed to be beautiful this week. Easy, friendly conversation that makes me feel less like an outsider and more like — I don’t know — part of something.
It’s Frannie and the front-of-house staff who’ve made these two weeks bearable. They don’t know the full story. They don’t know why Callum looks at me like I’m an enemy. But they’ve been kind anyway.
In the kitchen, Roman and the line cooks work in synchronized chaos, calling out orders and plating dishes with the kind of rhythm that only comes from working together for years. I can hear Roman’s voice over the noise, saying something that makes one of the line cooks laugh.
And Callum. Always right at the center of it all.
I can’t stop watching him tonight. I’ve tried so many times.
I’ve looked at my notes, at the dining room, at the ocean through the windows turning dark purple as the sun disappears.
But my eyes keep finding their way back to him and the way he moves.
I watch him taste something and hand a plate to Roman with instructions I can’t hear but can read in his gestures, a slight tilt of his head, his hand moving in a circle.
But he hasn’t looked at me once tonight.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That this is professional. And I’m here to do a job. Not to be noticed.
But then, as if he can feel my stare, he glances up.
And our eyes meet across the open kitchen.
For a second, neither of us looks away. The dining room noise fades into background static. I can’t read his expression from here, but I feel the intensity of it.
My heart stutters.
Then his jaw tightens. I see it even from here, the way the muscle jumps. And he looks back down at the plate in front of him, his hands resuming their work like nothing happened.
I force myself to look away. My heart is beating faster than it should, a staccato rhythm against my ribs.
It’s been like this for two weeks. Him avoiding me. Me avoiding him. The two of us dancing around each other in careful circles, communicating through sticky notes and Frannie playing messenger.
It’s unsustainable.
I know it’s unsustainable.
But I don’t know how to fix it.
So I do what I’ve been doing: I stay in my corner and pretend his anger isn’t slowly crushing me.
The hours slip by faster than I expect. Service winds down around ten-thirty.
The last tables linger over dessert and coffee, voices growing softer and more intimate.
The kitchen starts breaking down for the night.
I can hear the change in rhythm, the clatter of pans being washed and the hiss of steam.
I should leave. I should go back to the cottage, take a shower, and maybe finally do that laundry.
Instead, I stay.
I pull up the financial reports again, scrolling through line items I’ve already memorized, trying to find the missing piece. There has to be something I’m not seeing. Some explanation for why a restaurant this good is drowning.
The numbers blur together, and I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger, pinching the bridge of my nose, and lean back in my chair, feeling the tension in my shoulders from hunching over my iPad for hours. I roll my neck and it cracks loudly.
“Hey, Viv.”
Frannie’s standing by my table, purse slung over her shoulder, jacket already on. Her hair is escaping from its ponytail, wisps of red framing her face.
“We’re heading out. You good to lock up?”
I blink, glancing around the dining room. When did it get so empty? The last table must have left while I was lost in spreadsheets. The candles are out. The chairs are up on half the tables. “What?”
“The door. Can you lock it on your way out?” She hands me a key from her pocket. “Just turn the deadbolt when you go.”
“Is anyone else still here?” I glance toward the kitchen.
Frannie shrugs, adjusting her purse strap. “I’m not sure. Maybe? But the back door locks automatically, so you just need to get the front.”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” I say, turning the key over in my palm.
She leaves with Becca and Morgan, their voices carrying through the open back door before it closes behind them with a thud, laughter fading as they head into the parking lot. I hear the kitchen staff filtering out through the back, calling goodnights to each other.
And then it’s quiet.