10. Callum #2
She sits at that table day in and day out, completely focused on her screen. The dark circles under her eyes have gotten worse this week. I think about how she orders food every day and how I see it sitting there, barely touched, when Becca clears her table.
My mind drags up the look on her face when I handed her that coffee and she stared down at the mug — at the exact shade of brown she likes. Pain had flashed across her face, just for a second, before she locked it down again.
“She works hard,” Roman says suddenly, breaking the silence.
I glance at him. He’s moved to the other side of the boat, trying a different spot. “What?”
“Vivienne. She works really hard.” He casts his line, the movement awkward compared to Wesley’s easy grace, but it lands where he wants it. “I’ve been watching her. Not like watching watching, but you know, observing.”
“That’s literally the same thing,” Wesley quips with a smirk on his face.
“You know what I mean!” He huffs. “She’s there early and stays late.
Well, stayed late. Not anymore, I guess.
” Roman props his rod against the railing and grabs his coffee.
“She talks to everyone and takes notes on everything. She asked me about the herb order yesterday and actually like, really cared about the answer. I don’t even care about the herb order, honestly. No offense, Chef.”
Heat spreads through my ribs. The feeling is uncomfortable, and it takes me a second to recognize what it is: I’m jealous.
Not of Roman, exactly. But of the fact that he gets to see her like that.
He gets to watch her work and see her engaged in the restaurant.
She’s asking him questions and caring about the answers.
Probably actually answering his own questions back.
He gets to see the version of her that’s focused and brilliant and completely in her element.
The version I used to see.
And now Roman gets to work with her every day while I’ve been the one avoiding her. I’m the one who’s been keeping my distance and making everything harder than it needs to be.
I’m the one who’s been too hurt and too stubborn to see what’s right in front of me.
She’s there every day and she really is trying, despite everything. She cares about my restaurant, and my staff, and the fucking herb order.
And I’ve been too busy nursing old wounds to notice.
“And she looks tired,” Roman continues, leaning against the side of the boat, oblivious to my spiraling. “Like, really tired. I don’t think she’s sleeping much.”
Join the club. I’ve been averaging about four hours a night, and I’m pretty sure two of those are just me lying there staring at the ceiling being angry about things I can’t change, so.
“How would you know?” I reel my line in and check the bait. It’s been nibbled, so I replace it with a fresh piece of herring, the fishy smell clinging to my fingers.
He shrugs. “I notice things other people don’t. It’s a gift, really.”
“Yeah, it’s called being nosy.” Wesley’s line tugs hard. He braces himself and starts reeling. “I got something.”
We both watch as he brings in a rockfish. It’s a decent size, flashing silver in the early morning light. He unhooks it efficiently and drops it in the cooler with ice.
“Nice,” Roman says.
Wesley rinses his hands in the bucket of seawater he keeps on deck, then baits his hook again.
“Anyway, like I said, she’s trying,” Roman says, picking up his rod. “Whatever happened between you two, Cal, she’s not phoning this in. She’s working her ass off.”
I know that. I’ve seen it too. I’ve watched her corner Frannie to ask about reservations.
I’ve watched her chat with customers, asking what brought them in and taking notes on what they loved and what could be better.
She’s analyzing every aspect of the restaurant with the kind of focus that used to drive me crazy in culinary school because it meant I had to work twice as hard to keep up with her.
“And,” Roman adds, reeling his line slowly in, “she looks at you all the time.”
I go very still, my heart suddenly doing backflips against my sternum.
I turn that over in my head, trying to find the angle where it doesn’t mean anything.
So what if she looks at me? It’s my restaurant.
Everyone looks at me. That’s just — that’s just how kitchens work.
People look at the chef. It means nothing.
“What?”
“She looks at you.” He’s focused on his line, retying the knot, not even aware of the grenade he just threw at me.
“Like, constantly. When you’re in the kitchen, or plating, or talking to staff.
Sometimes when you’re literally just standing there, it looks like she’s drooling.
She watches you with little hearts in her eyes.
” He glances up at me. “You probably don’t notice because you’re actively avoiding looking at her. ”
“I am not.”
Maybe I am. Probably I am. Almost definitely I am.
I’ve been running a very deliberate perimeter around that corner table for weeks, and I know exactly where she is at every moment of every day without once looking directly at her, which, now that I think about it, is actually a lot of effort for someone I’m supposedly not avoiding.
“You are.” Roman casts his line again, the movement clumsy. “You’ve been doing that thing where you pretend someone doesn’t exist. You did it to me when you first hired me because I made a suggestion about the organization of the walk-in, remember?”
“No, I don’t remember that. Also, I’m not pretending she doesn’t exist. I’m giving her space.”
“By acting like she’s invisible?”
“By not forcing her into conversations she clearly doesn’t want to have!”
My voice comes out loud against the empty ocean, echoing across the water. A gull screams in response.
Roman and Wesley both look at me.
I take a breath. Then another. The cold air burns my lungs, but it doesn’t help.
“Sorry,” I mutter, turning back to my line.
“Don’t be sorry,” Wesley says. He’s moved closer, leaning against the railing next to me. “Just talk to us. What’s really going on?”
What’s really going on is that I miss her.
I miss the version of us that existed before everything got complicated. I miss the way we used to work together and push each other to be better. I miss her laugh. And her sarcasm. I miss the way she’d call me out when I was being too picky about something.
I miss my best friend.
But I can’t say that out loud.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit instead, staring at the sun sparkling off the water.
“She won’t talk to me. And I’m angry about that.
But I also —” I stop and take a deep breath before saying out loud the one thing I’ve been thinking about for days.
“I guess, I also don’t know what she’s going through.
I don’t know why she can’t tell me. And being aggressive about it isn’t going to help. ”
Roman nods slowly, moving to sit on the cooler again. “That’s probably the smartest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Roman, please, for my sanity, stop talking.”
“I’m serious.” He leans forward smiling, clapping me on the shoulder. “You’re right. You don’t know what she’s dealing with. And if you keep pushing for answers every time you talk to her, you’re just gonna make it worse.”
“So what do I do? Just ignore her forever?”
“No.” Wesley baits his hook again, his hands bright red from the cold.
“You give her space. You back off. You help her do her job without making it harder.” He looks at me.
“And you remember that whatever she’s been carrying, she’s probably been carrying it so long she’s forgotten what it felt like not to. ”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Dad.”
Wesley grins. “Probably.”
But he’s right. They’re both right.
I don’t know what Vivienne’s been through. I don’t know why she stopped cooking. Or why she left and can’t even tell me the reason. But pushing her, demanding answers, and shutting her out when she won’t give them is not going to help either of us.
“Okay,” I say finally, casting my line back out. “Okay. I’ll back off.”
“Good,” Roman says, standing up to cast again. “Because the tension is killing everyone. Frannie asked me yesterday if you two were gonna start throwing knives or making out.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. I press my lips together and look out at the water because one of those options sounds significantly more appealing than it should given the circumstances, and Roman absolutely cannot know that.
Suddenly, the line tugs hard. I straighten up, gripping the rod with both hands. “I got something.”
“Yeah?” Wesley moves closer, watching my line.
I start reeling, slow and steady. Whatever’s down there is fighting, pulling hard.
“It’s a fighter,” I say, bracing my feet against the side of the boat.
And then the tail breaks the surface, slapping the water hard enough to send spray across all three of us.
“Holy shit,” Wesley breathes.
“Cal.” Roman grabs my arm. “Cal, that is a big fish.”
“I can see that.”
“No, like, that is a massive fish.”
“I know.”
“Like, a really —”
“Roman! I know!”
The rod bends and the line screams out. I have to let it go and let whatever’s down there run its course, or the rod is going to snap.
“Easy,” Wesley says. “Let it tire itself out.”
I wait, feeling the massive fish on the other end fight. Then I start reeling again, gaining a few feet before it dives again.
“What is it?” Roman asks, his eyes never leaving my line.
“No idea.” My arms are burning. “But it’s not giving up.”
We do this dance for what feels like forever. Me reeling, it diving. The rod bends almost in half, and my hands ache from gripping it so tight.
I reel harder. The line is coming up. I can see it now, cutting through the water, getting closer.
Then, the rod jerks hard to the left.
There’s a brief, undignified moment where my arms are windmilling and Wesley is reaching for me and Roman is yelling something unhelpful, and the next thing I know, I’m going over the side.
The water hits me like a wall of ice.