8. Vivienne #3
Just the hum of the refrigerators and the distant sound of waves outside.
I sit there, staring at numbers that refuse to make sense with blurry eyes. My leg bounces under the table. I chew on my bottom lip.
And then I can’t sit anymore.
I stand up — my chair scraping against the floor too loudly in the empty space — and before I can talk myself out of it, I walk toward the kitchen.
The space is clean. Everything is put away and wiped down, the stainless steel gleaming under the overhead lights. It smells like dish soap and residual garlic.
I step inside slowly. My footsteps are too loud on the tile, and I can hear my own breathing.
I slowly run my hand along the counter as I move into the space. My fingers trail across the surface, feeling every microscopic imperfection in the steel.
There’s a pan hanging from the rack above the island. I reach up and wrap my fingers around the handle.
I used to know this. I used to know the weight of every pan, the feel of every knife, and the way heat builds in a kitchen that’s in full swing of service.
My hand tightens on the handle, and I lift it slightly off the hook.
And I let myself drown in the grief and the loss that tugs at my chest every day. I let myself be pulled under by the weight I’ve carried around every day since I walked away from the thing I loved most because someone made me feel powerless and afraid.
I’m standing in Callum’s kitchen, holding one of his pans, and I can’t even remember what it feels like to cook without fear.
The thought consumes me.
“What are you doing?”
The voice comes from behind me, and I jump, my hand flying away from the pan like I’ve been burned. The pan swings on its hook, metal clanging softly against metal.
I spin around, my heart suddenly in my throat. It’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears.
Callum is standing in the doorway to his office, looking exhausted. His chef’s whites are rumpled now. The top button is undone, exposing his collarbone. His hair is a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it. There are dark circles under his eyes that I can see even from here.
He looks surprised to see me. Maybe as surprised as I am to see him.
We just stare at each other for a long moment in complete silence.
“I —” My voice comes out shaky. I clear my throat and bring my hand up to my chest, pressing against my sternum where my heart is still racing. “Frannie asked me to lock up. I didn’t think anyone was still here.”
“I’m always here.” He says it simply. Then his eyes drop to the pan still swinging slightly on its hook, and surprise flickers across his face. “What were you doing?”
“Nothing. I just —” I step away from the counter, putting distance between myself and the equipment. My hands don’t know what to do. I clasp them together then let them fall to my sides. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come back here.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You shouldn’t have.”
We stare at each other across the kitchen. The space between us feels enormous and impossibly small all at once.
I should leave. I should apologize again and walk out and let him have his kitchen back.
But the question has been sitting in my chest for two weeks, and I can’t hold it anymore.
“Where did the debt come from?”
His whole body freezes, and his eyes snap to mine like I just announced I’m burning the place down.
“What?”
“The debt. You know, the loan that’s killing this place.
” I gesture around the kitchen, my hand sweeping past the gleaming counters and the professional equipment.
“None of this makes sense, Callum. The food is incredible. The space is beautiful. You’re getting customers.
Your costs are managed. Your staff is solid.
Your reviews are great. This restaurant should be thriving. So where did the debt come from?”
His jaw tightens. I watch his throat work as he swallows.
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is literally my business.” I take a step closer without meaning to, my feet moving before my brain catches up. “I can’t help you if I don’t understand what I’m working with.”
“You’re working with a failing restaurant. That’s all you need to know.” He shifts his weight, his hand coming up to grip the doorframe. I think he’s going to turn away, go back to his office and shut me out again.
But I can’t let him. I need to know.
“But it’s not failing,” I press, moving around the island so there’s less space between us. “Not operationally. Something else happened. Something that has nothing to do with the food or the service or —”
“Stop.”
The word cuts through the air like a knife.
And I freeze mid-step.
Callum takes a step toward me. Then another. Closing the distance until we’re close enough to touch. And I can see on his face it’s not anger covering his features. It’s not the cold fury I’ve been facing.
It’s exhaustion. Soul-crushing exhaustion. He looks like he’s barely holding himself together.
His hands curl into fists at his sides, then release, then curl again.
“You want to know where the debt came from? Fine. I’ll tell you.”