18. Vivienne #2
The gravel crunches under my shoes. I’m wearing leggings and an oversized cream sweater with ankle boots.
I changed three times before settling on this outfit because it felt like the right balance of casual and put-together.
Now, standing next to Callum in his perfectly worn-in jeans and henley, I feel overdressed and underdressed at the same time.
“You look nice,” he whispers, like he can read my thoughts.
“I didn’t know what to wear to a family dinner.”
“Whatever you’re comfortable in. It’s just my family. Very low stakes.”
It doesn’t feel very low stakes. It feels very high stakes. It feels like I’m about to be evaluated and measured against some standard I don’t even know.
Callum must see the panic in my face because he reaches out and takes my hand once with a quick and reassuring squeeze.
“You’re going to be fine,” he insists. “I promise.”
The evening air smells like whatever is cooking inside, and it makes my stomach contract with hunger. I can hear everyone through the walls. Voices and laughter and the low rumble of what I think is a sports broadcast.
I stand on the porch for a moment, dish in both hands, and try to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
Callum opens the front door, and sound and warmth spill out onto the porch before we even step foot into the house.
“I’m telling you, if you just let me handle the —”
“You can’t handle it. You almost burned down —”
“That was ONE TIME —”
“Incoming!” Callum calls out, and the voices stop immediately.
The house smells like garlic and tomatoes.
The living room opens directly into the kitchen, all one big space with warm wood floors and mismatched furniture that works together.
There are photos everywhere. I recognize younger versions of Callum in several of them.
A fishing rod is leaning against the door frame.
A stack of what looks like blueprints sits on the coffee table that someone has pushed aside to make room for a beer.
A surfboard is propped up against the wall by the TV.
Callum steps back to let me in, and his hand finds the small of my back as I pass. Just a brief moment of contact through my sweater. His palm presses gently, guiding me over the threshold like I might bolt if he doesn’t anchor me.
I’m not going to read into that. I’m absolutely not going to read into the way his touch makes my spine straighten and makes me feel steadier. I’m not going to think about how his hand lingers for just a second longer than necessary before falling away.
“Everyone, this is Vivienne.”
The man at the stove has to be the dad. He looks so much like what Callum will look like in thirty years that it makes my heart squeeze.
He has the same eyes and the same way of holding himself.
He has a wooden spoon in one hand and a dish towel over his shoulder, and he’s watching me with a welcoming warmth that feels completely unconditional.
The man is in his sixties, with graying dark hair and the same cutting expression as his sons. He’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, and when he smiles, it’s so genuine I can’t help but smile back.
“Vivienne. Cal’s told us a lot about you.” He shakes my hand firmly. “I’m Patrick. Welcome to chaos.”
“Thank you. I brought —” I hold up the dish. “It’s just a dip.”
“Perfect. We can never have too much food around here.” Patrick takes the dish from me, peering at it appreciatively through the plastic wrap. “This looks great. Did you make it?”
My throat goes tight before it closes up completely.
“Yeah. I — Yes.”
The word comes out barely above a whisper.
I want to explain that it’s the first thing I’ve cooked in years.
And it took me six tries and most of my sanity.
I want to scream that I cried into the fourth batch.
I want to explain that this simple dip represents hours of fighting my own panic, forcing myself to be in a kitchen and turn on a stove and touch food with my hands instead of just analyzing spreadsheets about it.
But I don’t say any of that.
“Homemade. Even better.” Patrick’s smile is completely oblivious to my internal crisis. “I’ll get this warming.”
I watch him head toward the kitchen, my heart pounding harder than it should be. It’s just a dip. It doesn’t matter.
But it does matter to me. It’s the first thing I’ve cooked in years, and now it’s being carried away to be judged by people I don’t know. People who matter more than anything to Callum. People whose opinions might actually mean something to me.
What if it’s terrible? What if I messed up the ratios? What if —
Callum’s hand presses slightly against my back again, right between my shoulder blades.
I take a deep breath. Then another. And give him a tight smile to say I’m okay.
“And this is my older brother, Wesley,” Callum says, gesturing to the man leaning against the counter.
I try to match the name to Callum’s descriptions from Paris.
He is the one who took over the family fishing business when his dad started to slow down.
Wesley is sun-worn and observant, with the kind of stillness that comes from spending a lot of time alone on open water.
Callum talked about him constantly, with a mix of exasperation and deep respect.
Wesley gives me a measured nod. “Hey, Vivienne. Glad you could make it.”
The nod says he knows more than I would like him to. Which is fair.
More than fair, actually.
“And these two disasters are Beckett and Hayes,” Callum says, gesturing to the twins.
The twins are on the couch. I can tell they’re twins immediately.
They have the same bone structure and the same dark hair, though everything else about them seems designed to contrast. The one on the left is in a button-down, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, an assessing look in his eyes that doesn’t quite feel hostile, but more observant than anything.
Hayes, I think. The other one is sprawled out on the couch, hair still damp, with a shark-tooth necklace hanging from his neck.
This one has Callum’s jaw and Callum’s easy grin. He must be Beckett.
“The famous Vivienne,” Beckett says. “Cal won’t shut up about you. Again.”
“Ignore him,” Callum snaps immediately. “He’s an idiot.”
“The consultant who’s saving the restaurant,” Hayes adds, standing to shake my hand. “We appreciate it. Someone needs to keep this one in line.” He jerks his thumb at Callum.
Callum rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond.
All three brothers laugh at that.
And then I notice the fifth unfamiliar face in the room.
She’s sitting on the couch, tucked into the corner with a book in her lap, and she looks about my age, mid-to-late twenties, with straight blonde hair pulled into a low ponytail and gold wire-framed glasses perched on her nose.
She’s wearing jeans and an oversized cardigan, and when she catches me looking, she winks at me like we already have an inside joke I don’t know about yet.
“Oh, and that’s Iris,” Beckett laughs as he gets up from the couch and slowly moves toward the kitchen to help Patrick. “My best friend. She’s basically family at this point.”
Iris gives me a small wave. “Hi. Sorry, I know I’m crashing family dinner. Beckett won’t let me leave.”
“Because you never leave your apartment,” Beckett exclaims over his shoulder. “And you need to eat actual food.”
“I eat food.”
“Ramen doesn’t count.”
“It’s literally food.”
They bicker with the ease of people who’ve been doing just that for years, and I feel a small spike of relief. At least I’m not the only non-Reid in the room.
Iris catches my eye and smiles, and there’s understanding in it. Like she knows exactly how overwhelming this family can be.
“You can sit by me if you want,” she offers, patting the couch cushion next to her. “Fair warning: they’re very loud.”
“I heard that!” Beckett calls from the kitchen.
“You were supposed to!” Iris calls back.
I find myself smiling despite my nerves.
Callum squeezes my shoulder once before heading into the kitchen to help Wesley with whatever’s on the stove, and I sink down onto the couch next to Iris.
“First family dinner?” she hums, leaning in my direction.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You have the look. I had it too, the first time.” She marks her page and closes her book, resting it on the edge of the couch.
“Just a heads up. They’re going to ask you a thousand questions and tease Cal mercilessly, and Patrick is going to try to feed you until you literally can’t move. But they mean well.”
“How long have you known them?”
“Since preschool. Beck and I have been friends since we were four.” She adjusts her glasses, a small smile playing at her lips. “So, twenty-four years of this chaos.”
Twenty-four years.
I can’t imagine having someone in my life for that long. I can’t even begin to imagine the kind of friendship that builds over two decades of showing up for each other. Not to mention the history where you don’t have to explain yourself because they already know and understand.
I’ve never had that. I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to build it.
“That’s — Wow, that’s really nice,” I whisper.
“It’s something.” Iris glances toward the kitchen, where Beckett is now arguing with Hayes about how much salt to add to something. “He’s a disaster, but I guess he’s my disaster at this point.”
The warmth in her voice makes me smile.
“So you’re the one saving Neap & Spring,” Iris continues, turning back to me.
“Trying to. We’ll see if it works.”
“Cal seems more relaxed than he has in years. So whatever you’re doing, it’s helping.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t explain that most of what I’m doing is just showing up and hoping I don’t make things worse.
From the kitchen, I hear Patrick’s voice. “Vivienne, what do you want to drink? We’ve got beer, wine, water, soda —”
“Water’s great, thank you,” I call back.
“You sure? Cal brought a pretty decent Pinot —”
“Dad, let her settle in before you start pushing wine on her,” Callum says.
“I’m not pushing! I’m offering!”