9. Vivienne
CHAPTER NINE
Vivienne
Callum doesn’t move. He just stands there, looking at me like he’s trying to decide if he actually means it.
Then he turns and walks to the coffee station.
I watch him, frozen in place, as he pulls down two mugs from the shelf. His hands move with the same precision he uses for everything in this kitchen. He fills the coffee maker with water from the pitcher, measures out the grounds with a metal scoop, then levels it off with his finger.
He’s making coffee.
We’re about to have the conversation we should have had weeks ago, and he’s making coffee.
My hands are shaking. I clasp them together, pressing my palms tight, and try to steady myself.
The kitchen feels different at night. It’s quieter and more intimate.
The overhead lights cast long shadows across the stainless steel.
I can hear the hum of the walk-in refrigerator, the distant sound of the ocean through the walls, and my own breathing.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, and Callum leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, staring at nothing. He rubs his hand over his face, palm dragging down, pulling at his features. The dark circles under his eyes look even worse under the harsh kitchen lights.
He’s still in his chef’s whites, stained from service. There’s oil splatter on the sleeve. And a smear of brown butter sauce on his hip. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and I can see the edge of a tattoo I don’t recognize.
How much has changed in five years? How much have I missed?
The coffee maker hisses and drips, and the rich smell fills the kitchen.
“Sit,” he says finally, not looking at me.
I glance around. There are two chairs tucked against the wall near his office, mismatched and worn.
I pull them out, the metal legs scraping against the floor, and set them facing each other.
Close enough to talk but not so close that we’re touching.
I sit down, and my hands find my knees and grip them.
Callum pours the coffee when it’s ready, tilting the pot carefully so it doesn’t drip. He reaches into the small fridge under the counter, pulls out a carton of oat milk, and adds a splash to one mug. Then another. Then a third.
He hands it to me without saying a word.
I take it, my fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic, and stare down at the mug in shock at the coffee that’s the exact shade of brown I like. More milk than coffee, really, which he used to tease me about. He called it “barely coffee” and “a waste of good beans.”
But he remembered.
After five years of silence and everything between us, he remembered how I take my coffee.
A fissure runs straight through the center of me.
I look up at him, my eyes burning, but he’s already turning away and pouring his own mug. Black, the way he’s always taken it.
He sits down across from me with his coffee cupped in both hands, and for a long moment, he just stares into it, watching the steam rise and dissipate.
I wait in silence.
I don’t drink my coffee even though I’m cold and the warmth would feel good. I don’t move. I barely breathe. I just wait.
“Her name was Sarah,” he says finally.
His voice is flat and factual, like he’s reading from a script he’s memorized but doesn’t want to perform.
I feel a stabbing sensation in my ribs that makes it hard to inhale.
Sarah.
“I knew her growing up,” he continues, still not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the black surface of his coffee. “Not well. We went to the same school but ran in different circles. I just knew her the same way you know everyone in a town this size.”
He takes a sip of coffee then sets it down on the floor beside his chair.
“When I moved back, she was working at a restaurant in Crescent Bay. Front-of-house manager. We ended up on the same schedule for almost a year before anything happened.” His jaw tightens slightly. “She was smart. Organized. She knew the business side of restaurants way better than I did.”
He takes a deep breath and slowly blows it out.
“We started dating. Or we tried to, at least. It was never easy. We fought. A lot. We wanted different things, or we wanted the same things for different reasons. I could never tell which. We’d break up and then find our way back.
Break up again. It went on like that for a while.
” He drags a hand through his hair. “I kept thinking if we just had something real to build toward, it would work itself out. Something bigger than the two of us, you know?”
I grip my mug tighter, the ceramic warm against my palms. I want to look away, but I can’t. I force myself to watch him and hear everything he is saying even though every word feels like a deep cut.
“She wanted to open a place, and so did I. We had the same vision on paper. I had the culinary experience, and she had the business background. We were a good team.” His muscle ticks in his cheek.
“Or I told myself we were, at least. We found this space about a year after that. It was perfect. Right on the water. Good bones. It just needed a lot of work. We took out loans — business loans, personal loans. Maxed out credit cards. We built the restaurant from the ground up. Literally. I was here every day doing the work myself.”
He turns to stare at the kitchen, taking a deep breath before continuing. “We’d been fighting more than usual that year. We were still on again, off again. I kept thinking we just needed something to commit to. Something solid.” He’s quiet for a moment. “So I proposed.”
He pauses, and I watch his hands curl into fists on his thighs, his knuckles going white from the pressure. Then he releases them slowly, finger by finger.
“She planned the whole thing. She told me which weekend and which restaurant. Some place in San Francisco with white tablecloths and live music. Said she wanted it done right.” He blows out a breath.
“So I showed up with a ring and did what she wanted. And I told myself that was enough. That it had to be enough. That it would fix us.”
My throat is so tight I can barely swallow. I set my coffee down on the floor before I drop it. My hands are shaking too hard to hold it anymore.
He was engaged.
He was going to marry someone else.
And I had no idea.
“We opened Neap & Spring three years ago,” Callum continues, his voice still that same flat monotone.
“And for a while, I thought I’d been right.
That was what we needed. The restaurant was busy.
The reviews were good. People were excited about what we were building.
” He stops and drags a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands.
“And we weren’t fighting anymore. Not like before.
And I thought — okay. This actually worked.
The thing I thought would fix it actually fixed it. ”
He finally looks up at me, and his eyes are empty in a way that makes my heart break.
“I don’t know if I even loved her,” he says quietly.
“I’ve thought about it a lot since, and I honestly don’t know.
Maybe I just loved the idea of it. Building something with someone and not being alone.
Having a partner who understood what I was trying to do.
” He pauses. “Maybe I proposed because I was tired of things falling apart, and I thought a ring would hold it together.”
He looks away again, back down at his hands. They’re clasped together now, fingers laced, gripping so tight the tips are turning red.
“It doesn’t matter now. Love or not, I trusted her, at least.”
I want to say something. Anything. I want to reach out and touch his arm. Tell him I’m sorry. But I can’t move. My body won’t respond. I’m frozen in this chair, watching him unravel.
“About six months after we opened, things started changing,” he says. “She got distant and stressed. Said she was worried about money. And I believed her. I was worried too. Restaurants are hard, especially in the first few years. I thought it was normal.”
He picks up his coffee again and takes a long drink even though it must be getting cold by now. His throat works as he swallows slowly.
“Anyway, she started working late. Spending more time in the office and less time on the floor. I told myself she was just focused on the business side. She was trying to figure out how to make the numbers work. I didn’t question it.”
His hands tighten around the mug. I can see his fingers pressing into the ceramic, like he’s trying to crush it.
“Then one morning, I came in early. Around five or so. I was going to prep for a private event we had that night. And I saw the light on in the office.”
I can see where this is going and I don’t want to hear it. But I can’t stop him. I can’t even form words to ask him to stop.
“She was at the desk. Books open. Laptop on. Calculator out. When she saw me, she tried to close everything and act like nothing was wrong. But I’d already seen it.”
He sets the mug back down. His hands are shaking slightly now.
“The accounts were wrong. There should have been more money. A lot more. And when I made her show me everything, there it was. Monthly transfers. Thousands of dollars. Going back months and months. She’d been taking money out of the business account and putting it somewhere else.”
My hand goes to my mouth. I can’t help it. I press my fingers against my lips, hard enough to hurt.
“She didn’t even try to deny it,” Callum says, and there’s something almost awed in his voice.
Like he still can’t believe it. “I asked her what she’d done, and she just — said it.
Said she’d been seeing someone else. And she was leaving.
She’d already packed her stuff and moved out of her apartment while I was at work the day before. ”
He says her apartment with a wry twist to his mouth, like he’s only just now noticing it.
“Maybe that was the sign,” he adds, quieter, almost to himself. “Engaged and we still had separate leases.” He puffs out a short, humorless laugh. “Should’ve figured.”
“Callum, I am so sorry.” I breathe, but it feels minuscule to the moment.