18. Vivienne
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Vivienne
Idon’t remember driving here.
I’ve been sitting in my car outside this house for seven minutes.
I know it’s seven minutes because I’ve checked my phone four times.
6:23.
6:25.
6:27.
6:30.
The dinner invitation was for 6:00.
I’m late. But I can’t seem to make myself open the car door.
I’m sitting here, staring at string lights strung along a porch railing swaying in the evening wind, and I genuinely cannot account for most of the day.
The house is smaller than I pictured. It looks like it was built by someone who cared more about being inside it than about how it looked from the outside.
Weathered gray shingles with a front porch that sags slightly in the middle.
Fishing nets hanging on the side wall that tangle lightly in the breeze.
A truck in the driveway I recognize as Callum’s.
Through the front windows I can see warm light and movement, people passing by and shadows on the walls.
It’s not fancy. It looks like a patchwork of additions built as needed. The kind of house that grew with the family instead of being planned. But it looks well-loved.
This is where Callum grew up.
What am I doing here?
I look down at the glass dish in my passenger seat. The dip sits there, perfectly golden-brown on top, the cheese melted just right. Garlic and herbs are visible through the glass, and underneath them, the pale pink of crab meat.
It looks pretty good.
Professional, even.
It took me six tries.
On the first attempt, I couldn’t even turn on the stove. I just stood there in the cottage kitchen, hand hovering over the knob, watching my fingers tremble in the air. My breath came shorter and shorter until I had to sit down on the floor with my head between my knees
The second attempt, I got as far as opening the cream cheese package before my hands started shaking so badly I dropped it. It hit the counter, and I flinched at the sound, just a soft splat, but it might as well have been a plate shattering.
On the third attempt, I actually got ingredients into a bowl before I had to step outside and pace the length of the cottage.
Back and forth, back and forth, gulping down salt air and reminding myself how to breathe.
Reminding myself this was just cooking and it was just a simple recipe that used to be so easy.
By the fourth attempt, I was crying and stirring at the same time, tears dripping into the bowl and mixing with the cream cheese. The wooden spoon clicked against the sides in a rhythm that sounded too much like a knife on a cutting board.
I made myself stop, get myself under control and start over.
I burned the fifth attempt. I left it in too long because I couldn’t stand to be near the oven and the heat and the smell and the memories that came with it. Memories of standing at a station, trying not to flinch, trying to be perfect, trying to be invisible.
My phone rang while I was staring at the blackened edges.
My parents. Right on schedule like always.
I answered their FaceTime standing in the middle of the cottage kitchen looking like I’d been run through the ringer and had to spend twelve minutes convincing them I was fine and that yes I was eating and no they didn’t need to fly out and the dark circles were just allergies and no I hadn’t been crying, like I said just allergies.
I told them I loved them and hung up and stood there for a moment in the quiet.
Then I started again.
The sixth attempt is sitting in my passenger seat.
It took me all day. All day to make a simple cheese dip and a loaf of bread that any competent cook could throw together in twenty minutes. I probably could have made it in my sleep five years ago.
But I’m not a competent cook anymore.
I’m barely functional in a kitchen.
Callum’s text from last night is still sitting unanswered in my phone. Just an address and a time. Not even a question mark. No I hope you’re coming. Just the information.
My hands are still slightly floury where I didn’t wash them well enough after the final attempt at the bread.
I wipe them on my pants — which does nothing but spread white dust on my black leggings — and pick up the dish from the passenger seat.
The bowl is covered in plastic wrap and is still faintly warm.
The bread is wrapped separately in a clean dish towel.
Callum used to make this for us in Paris during late nights in the communal kitchen when everyone else had gone to bed and we still had two practicals to study for.
When neither of us could focus anymore, he’d make this dip with roasted garlic and olive oil and whatever soft cheese he could find.
He’d tear bread into chunks instead of slicing it because he said slicing it made it too formal for two exhausted people eating at midnight.
We’d eat it standing up, leaning against the counter, not even bothering with plates.
On the nights he had crab, he’d fold it in at the end.
There was a market three streets from the school he was obsessive about.
It was a tiny place with a hand-painted sign and a fishmonger who apparently recognized Callum by the second week.
He’d go before our early practicals, before most of the city was awake, and come back with a paper bag that smelled like the sea.
He said it was the one ingredient that made the whole dip taste intentional instead of improvised. He said it reminded him of home.
I found crab at the corner market this morning. I don’t know what made me reach for it, but the second I did, I knew I had to make this dip. Callum’s dip.
Now I’m supposed to walk into a house full of Callum’s people and pretend I’m fine and I’m the kind of person who belongs at a family dinner. I have to pretend this isn’t a pity invite from a man who watched me have a panic attack in the middle of Main Street.
I could leave. I could text Callum some excuse. Say I’m not feeling well and drive back to the cottage and eat crackers for dinner like I have every night this week.
My hand is on the key in the ignition, and I’m ready to make a run for it, when I hear laughter. It’s loud and uncontrolled, floating out through the open windows. And underneath it, Callum’s voice, saying something I can’t quite make out, followed by more laughter.
He sounds happy and relaxed. A completely different version of the tense, exhausted man I’ve been working with for the past several months.
This is his place. His people. The life he chose when he came back here.
And I don’t belong here.
Before I can turn the key, the front door opens, and Callum steps out onto the porch.
My heart does a complicated flip in my chest. Then another. Then forgets how to beat all together.
He’s not in his chef’s whites. Instead, he’s wearing jeans and a dark green henley that I’ve never seen before, the color making his eyes look dark even from here.
The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing the tattoos that cover his entire arm from wrist to shoulder.
His hair is still damp, like he showered recently.
And he’s barefoot despite the cool evening air.
He’s completely at ease in a way I’ve haven’t seen him since I arrived in Westerly Point.
This is Callum at home. Callum relaxed. Callum in his safe space.
And the mustache. God, the mustache. It’s dark and neatly trimmed, framing his mouth in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. I catch myself wondering, just for a second, what it would feel like. Would it be soft? Rough? Would it tickle against my lips or would it be barely noticeable?
He looks toward my car immediately, and our eyes meet through the windshield.
I watch him say something over his shoulder, then he’s walking down the porch steps, across the front yard, and straight to my car.
Too late to leave now.
He taps on my window, and I roll it down.
“Hi,” he says gently like he’s afraid he’ll startle me.
“Hi.”
“You’ve been sitting out here for a while.”
“I was just —” I gesture vaguely at the dip. “Making sure it didn’t spill.”
He looks at the perfectly stable glass dish sitting in my lap, then back at me with one eyebrow raised.
“It does look very spillable. In this parked car.”
“It could happen.”
“Vivienne.”
The way he says my name with just a hint of amusement makes my anxiety loosen just slightly.
“I almost left,” I admit.
“I know.”
“How did you —”
“Because I know you.” He leans against my car, his arms crossed above the window while he leans in. “And because you’ve been sitting out here for almost ten minutes. I’ve been watching.”
“That’s not creepy at all.”
“I was giving you space to decide.” His eyes are steady on mine. “But I’m glad you stayed.”
A small smile tugs at my lips despite myself.
“I made dip.”
“I can see that.”
He’s looking at the dish through the window. Then his eyes cut back to me with a knowing gleam.
“Cheese, garlic, and herbs?” he asks quietly.
“And crab,” I murmur.
“The one I used to make us.”
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other through the open window. His expression is unreadable, but I can feel it down to my toes anyway.
I watched him make this dip a hundred times. I memorized the way he’d eyeball the measurements, taste and adjust, taste again.
I can see him trying to work it out. Why this recipe. Why now. What it means.
But he doesn’t push.
“Come on.” His voice is rougher than before. He straightens and opens my car door. “Everyone’s waiting to meet you. And if you hate it, I’ll personally drive you home whenever you want to leave.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I take a deep breath, in and out, and then another before I grab the dip and let him help me out of the car.