16. Callum #2
The timeline hits me like a physical blow and steals the air from my lungs.
I knew it already. I’d done the math a hundred times, lying awake at night trying to figure out what I’d missed and what I’d done wrong. But hearing her say it out loud makes it concrete.
Whatever happened to her happened there. In that city. While I was texting her about nothing — fish deliveries and my dad’s knee surgery and whether she’d tried that ramen place she’d mentioned — she was living through something I didn’t know about.
Something she was going through alone.
Something she didn’t feel comfortable telling me about.
My jaw tightens.
I want to push and demand and understand what happened to make her walk away from something she was so clearly born to do. I want to know what was so bad that she couldn’t call me. Why, whatever it was, she decided to go through it alone instead of letting me help her.
Why I wasn’t enough for her to trust.
But I don’t ask. I force my voice to stay steady. “You know you’re welcome here. In Westerly Point. For however long you want to stay.”
She turns to look at me, and her eyes are wide. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I hold her gaze, trying to show her I mean it. “I mean, the restaurant obviously needs you. The business plan and the marketing stuff. But also —” I pause, searching for the right words. Words that won’t reveal too much and won’t scare her away. “I like having you around.”
“Even though I color-code things and argue with you about menu changes and completely took over your office?”
“Especially because of that.” I love her sticky notes everywhere. I love finding her laptop open on my desk. I love the evidence that she’s been there, that she’s real, and that she hasn’t disappeared again.
She’s smiling now, and it reaches her eyes. “I like being around. Even though you’re bossy and yell at people about plating symmetry.”
“I don’t yell.”
“You absolutely yell.”
“I’m projecting. Coaching, even. There’s a difference.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
We’re both grinning now, falling back into that easy rhythm we used to have.
That rhythm I’ve been missing for five years without fully realizing how much.
Right now, sitting on this beach with the sun setting and the waves crashing, we’re just two people who understand each other in a way that’s hard to explain.
Two people who just fit. And always have.
The sun is lower now, touching the horizon. We should probably head back. Roman’s going to have questions. So is the entire staff. They’re going to want to know where I went and why I left during prep. Roman is going to grill me on what I was doing all afternoon.
But I don’t want to move. I don’t want this moment to end.
I definitely don’t want to go back to the restaurant where we have to be professional. And we can’t sit this close. Where I can’t let myself think the things I’m thinking or feel the things I’m feeling.
“Cal?” Vivienne breaks the silence with a whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.” Her voice is sincere. “For not pushing. I know it’s frustrating. I know you want answers.”
Frustrating doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s torture. It’s agony. It’s lying awake at night running through every conversation we ever had trying to figure out what I missed.
“I do,” I admit, because there’s no point in lying. “But I also — I trust that you’ll tell me when you’re ready. Or not. That’s okay too.”
It’s not okay. It’s the opposite of okay. But I’m trying to give her space and be patient. I’m trying to be the kind of person she can trust.
I’m trying not to fuck this up.
Again.
“It’s not okay. You deserve to know.”
“Maybe.” I look out at the water and watch the sun sink into the ocean. “But it’s your story to tell. On your timeline. I’m not going anywhere. I never have.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. So long that I think maybe I said the wrong thing. Maybe I pushed too hard or not hard enough or —
Then she leans her head on my shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Every muscle in my body locks up.
I freeze completely. I can’t breathe. I can’t even think. I can’t do anything except feel the weight of her head on my shoulder and the warmth of her body pressed against my side.
I don’t move a muscle. I don’t do a single thing that might make her pull away.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure she can hear it.
Then slowly, carefully, like I’m approaching a wild animal that might bolt, I lean my head against hers.
Her hair is soft against my cheek. She smells like Margo’s coffee and the ocean wind and that floral scent that’s just her.
We sit like that, watching the sun set over the Pacific. It sinks lower and lower until it’s just a sliver of orange on the horizon. And it feels like something is shifting between us. Something fragile and new and terrifying.
But also right.
So fucking right.
I close my eyes and let myself have this. This one perfect moment that I’m going to hold onto when she’s gone and I’m alone again.
Her head on my shoulder. The sound of waves crashing on the shore. The warmth of the sun on my face even as it disappears. The feel of her breathing, slow and steady, matching the rhythm of my own.
Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever the investors say, whatever comes next — whether she stays or leaves, whether we figure this out or fall apart again —
I have this.
I have right now.
And right now is enough, I tell myself.