10. Callum
CHAPTER TEN
Callum
The boat smells like diesel and the thermos of coffee Wesley made that tastes like it could strip paint.
I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
“Hand me that,” Wesley says, gesturing to the tackle box without looking up from the line he’s rigging.
I pass it over, my fingers stiff from the cold. The sun is just starting to come up, and early March on the Pacific is no joke. The wind cuts right through me, and the ocean spray has already soaked through my jeans where I’m sitting on the edge of the boat.
Wesley’s hands move with easy grace, tying knots I could never replicate. He’s been doing this since he could walk. Our dad taught him, and his dad taught him, and so on back through generations of Reids who made their living on these waters.
The Daily Catch rocks gently beneath us as we motor farther out. It’s a good boat. The paint is peeling in multiple places, but the new engine runs like a dream. Wesley knows every inch of it and could probably navigate these waters blindfolded.
Roman is at the front of the boat, barefoot despite the cold because he’s insane, his hair even wilder than usual from the wind. He’s already got his line in the water, rod braced against his hip, and his coffee mug balanced on the railing beside him.
“This is the life,” he announces to no one in particular, stretching his arms over his head. “No tickets, no angry customers, no —”
“No Frannie to flirt with?” I offer, pulling my own rod from the rack.
He grins without turning around. “That’s literally the only downside.”
Wesley snorts. He cuts the engine and lets us drift. “You ever gonna actually ask her out, or are you just gonna keep making puppy dog eyes at her from afar?”
“I’m playing the long game, Wes. It’s called strategy.” Roman reels his line in a few feet, testing the drag.
“It’s called being chickenshit.” Wesley chuckles, handing me the rod he’s been rigging. “Here. This one’s yours.”
“Language,” I say automatically, the way Dad would.
Wesley winks in my direction and casts his own line, the movement perfect. The line arcs through the air and hits the water with barely a splash.
Show-off.
I cast mine, not quite as gracefully, and it lands with more of a plop.
Roman laughs. “Rusty, Chef?”
“Shut up.”
We settle into the rhythm of a boys’ day spent fishing. The boat rocks beneath us. Gulls cry overhead. The water stretches out in every direction.
This is what Saturdays are for. Or once a month, anyway. When we can manage it, we hand the kitchen over to Cora and the team, and we disappear out here for the day. It started two years ago when Roman showed up at the restaurant one morning, looked at me, and said You need air, let’s go.
It was what I needed then. And it’s what I need now.
Open space. Salty air.
Distance from the restaurant and the kitchen and the debt.
And Vivienne.
I sigh deeply, the ocean wind carrying away the sound. I should’ve known I couldn’t escape thinking about her, even way out here.
“So,” Roman says too casually, adjusting his line, “you gonna tell us why you got a stick up your ass more than usual, or are we gonna pretend you’re fine?”
I reel in my line a few feet and check the bait before casting it out again. “I am fine.”
Wesley is leaning against the side of the boat, one hand on his rod, the other wrapped around his coffee. “You have been a nightmare all week.”
“No, I haven’t. This is just the way I am.”
“You snapped at Danny for putting the fish in the wrong bin.”
“It was the wrong bin.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Roman takes a long drink of coffee, grimacing at the taste. “And you made Cora redo a dessert three times because the meringue wasn’t ‘structurally sound enough.’”
“It wasn’t,” I mutter, refusing to look at him.
Roman straightens up, reeling his line in to check his bait. It’s still there, completely untouched. He casts it back out, farther this time. “Is it the restaurant? I know the consultant’s been hard on you, but I think she has good ideas.”
And just like that, every muscle in my body tenses.
It’s been almost a week since our conversation in the kitchen where I told her everything and she gave me nothing. Days of the two of us existing in the same space but completely separate.
My line tugs. I reel in, but whatever was there is gone.
“It’s the consultant,” I admit finally, casting my line back out.
Roman glances over his shoulder at me. “Shocker. Want to talk about it?”
Where do I even start?
“She’s been avoiding me.” I watch my line disappear into the water, the small orange bobber floating on the surface.
“Have you tried talking to her?”
“We talked.” I grip the rod tighter. “It didn’t go well.”
Wesley shifts his weight with the rocking boat, tilting slightly. He’s watching me with that older brother look that says he’s putting pieces together and figuring shit out. “What happened?”
I stare out at the water. I squint at the horizon where the ocean meets the sky. I read the name of a passing boat. I look at anything and everything except the two of them.
“I told her about Sarah.” I say finally, catching them both staring at me out of the corner of my eye.
Roman’s rod clatters against the side of the boat as he twists to fully look at me. “You told her?”
“Yeah.”
“Cal —” He leaves his rod propped against the railing and walks over, sitting down on the cooler across from me. “What? Are you crazy? You don’t tell people about that.”
“I know.”
“Why?” Wesley asks from across the boat. “What made you tell her?”
I watch my bobber float on the surface instead of making eye contact. “She asked where the debt came from. She said the numbers didn’t make sense and she needed to know why to do her job.” I reel in a few feet of line. “So I told her.”
“And?” Roman presses.
“And then I asked her why she left and why she stopped cooking. And why she just disappeared five years ago.” I rush out, the words tasting bitter. “She wouldn’t tell me. She said it was complicated.”
Roman goes very still.
“Wait,” he says slowly. “You knew her outside of all this, right? From school?”
“Yeah.”
I can see it happening. His brain piecing it together before his eyes blow wide.
“You were in the same program?” he asks.
“What?”
“Paris. Le Cordon Bleu. She said you were in the same program.”
“Why does that —”
“Holy shit.” Roman stands up abruptly, pacing the small boat deck. “Holy shit. You used to talk about someone back when you first hired me. Some girl from culinary school you were obsessed with.”
My whole body tenses. “I wasn’t obsessed.” I say, but he isn’t listening. He’s too busy walking in a small circle, drawing imaginary red lines to the few bits of information he has.
“You never said her name,” he continues like I never spoke.
He’s pacing back and forth, his bare feet slapping against the boat.
“But you talked about her all the time. You said she was the only person who could keep up with you, and you talked all the time about how you competed for top of the class. You said she made you want to be better, and that’s why you cook as well as you do.
” He stops his pacing and turns to look at me. “It’s her! Vivienne is her.”
I don’t answer. Every word I’ve ever learned is stuck in my throat.
“That’s why you never told me her name!” Roman says, his voice carrying across the water. “Because you were engaged to Sarah by then. And you couldn’t talk about being in love with someone else when you were planning a whole ass sham of a wedding.”
Wesley glances at me, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t say anything.
“Cal.” Roman’s voice is different now. Softer and more understanding. “You were in love with her.”
“I wasn’t, Roman. Don’t be annoying.”
“You were. You are.” He’s staring at me like he’s seeing everything for the first time. “This makes so much more sense. We all thought you were just being impossible. But it’s not about the restaurant. It’s about her.”
The boat rocks harder now. The water is getting choppier as we drift farther from the calm of the harbor. Wesley adjusts his footing automatically with muscle memory from a lifetime on these waters.
“And now she’s avoiding you,” Wesley says, and it’s not a question.
“Completely.” I finally speak, my voice hoarse. “She won’t look at me. Won’t talk to me. She goes through Roman for everything now.”
“Hey,” Roman protests weakly, still processing. “Don’t drag me into this.”
“You’re already in it. She asked you about the supplier contracts yesterday!”
“Because you were busy!”
“I wasn’t that busy,” I murmur, more to myself than anything.
Wesley reels his line in, the movement slow and patient. He checks the bait and adds a weight to the line, his fingers working quickly despite the cold. “You’re mad at her.”
“Yeah.” I watch him cast again, the line sailing farther this time. “I’m mad at her. I opened up and told her everything. And she couldn’t do the same.”
“Maybe she has her reasons,” Roman says, moving back to his rod, but he’s looking at me differently now. Like he understands me more than he did before.
“I’m sure she does. But if she can’t trust me enough to tell me —” I stop, reeling in my line just to have something to do with my hands. “Then what are we doing? How am I supposed to work with her for the next five months if we can’t even have a conversation?”
“Only five months left already?” Roman’s line tugs. He starts reeling quickly, a large grin on his face.
I watch him reel, but whatever was there let go. He curses under his breath.
“Feels like she’s been here longer than a month,” Wesley mutters, opening the cooler to grab more bait.
It does. It feels like Vivienne’s been back in my life for years instead of weeks.
We fall into silence for a while. The only sounds are the slap of water against the hull, the cry of gulls, and the whir of reels as we cast and retrieve.
I try to focus on fishing and on the cold air filling my lungs.
But my mind keeps drifting back to her.