18. Vivienne #3
“It’s the same thing!”
Iris leans closer to me. “See? Loud.”
But she’s smiling, and so am I. Maybe this won’t be as terrible as I thought.
The food is served the same way Callum described it to me once, late at night when we were both exhausted and homesick and talking about what we missed most. Everything is brought to the center of the table and bowls are passed around in a practiced rhythm, and it’s just assumed everyone wants seconds of everything and thirds of most things.
The food is incredible. Callum made his “famous” bolognese, which Patrick claims is just his own recipe that Callum stole.
Callum denies the accusation with increasing volume, and it devolves into a five-minute argument about who actually invented the sauce and whether adding red wine was Patrick’s innovation or Callum’s.
There’s garlic bread that’s perfectly crispy on the outside and soft inside and a simple green salad with a vinaigrette that tastes homemade.
And my dip.
My dip, which Patrick heated up and put out with crackers and vegetables, along with my bread, like he knew I was going to bring it and was fully prepared.
There’s also a plate of Beckett’s contribution: grocery-store cookies — the cheap kind with too-bright frosting and sprinkles — which Hayes announces with great ceremony should be illegal at a dinner with two classically trained chefs.
The table is too small for seven people, so we’re crammed shoulder to shoulder, elbows bumping every time someone reaches for bread or picks up their fork.
We’re passing dishes back and forth in a coordinated chaos that they’ve clearly perfected over years.
Decades, probably. I’m wedged between Callum on my left and Iris on my right, which feels strategic — like they’ve positioned the two people least likely to overwhelm me as my buffers.
My human shields against the pandemonium.
They keep eating the dip. Everyone keeps going back for more.
I try not to watch every time someone reaches for it. I force myself not to hold my breath waiting for a verdict and analyze their expressions for signs of politeness versus actual enjoyment.
“This is really good,” Hayes praises, spreading a generous amount on a piece of bread. “What’s in it?”
My mind goes blank for a moment too long. “Just, uh, cream cheese, cheddar, garlic, some herbs. Crab.”
“It’s perfect.” Patrick reaches for more himself. “You’ll have to give me the recipe.”
There is no recipe. There’s just me, standing in the cottage kitchen, hands shaking, trying to remember the exact way Callum would eyeball the measurements, trying to pretend I still have the same casual confidence that he has with food.
Just me and my demons trying to recreate something from memory without having a panic attack.
Just me trying to prove to myself that I could still do this one small thing.
“It’s actually Callum’s recipe.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, thank goodness. “He used to make it all the time at school. He’d whip it up between practicals when we were starving and too tired to think straight.”
Patrick’s eyebrows go up slightly, and he looks at Callum with renewed interest.
“Well, it’s excellent,” Patrick announces warmly. “Both of you should be proud.”
Under the table, Callum’s hand finds my knee.
His palm covers my kneecap through my leggings.
He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t even acknowledge what he’s doing.
He just continues responding to something Wesley said about boats and the best fishing spots.
But his thumb moves in a small circle against my leggings.
Around and around, a tiny movement that grounds me completely and sends sparks of desire up my body.
Two weeks ago, he did the same thing under the table at the investor meeting.
Except his fingers had found the seam of my skirt instead, slipping just beneath it, while he sat there discussing revenue projections with a completely straight face.
I had contributed exactly nothing to the second half of that meeting.
I have to remind myself to breathe now. I focus on my pasta, twirling it carefully on my fork, trying to look normal and ignore the way my entire leg is on fire from his touch.
“So Vivienne,” Beckett says, pulling my attention away from Callum’s hand and the heat spreading through my entire body. “Le Cordon Bleu.”
Oh God. Here we go.
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.
“I would love to visit Paris.” Iris sighs, her voice wistful. “That must have been incredible.”
“It was intense,” I respond, setting my fork down slowly, buying time. “But yeah. Incredible.”
The word feels inadequate. Paris was brutal and beautiful and transformative and soul-crushing all at once. It was the best and worst experience of my life. It was where I became a chef and where I met Callum and where I learned what I was actually capable of.
“Why’d you stop cooking?” Beckett asks, and the whole table goes quiet.
The question hangs in the air in the silence.
I can feel Callum tense next to me, his hand going still on my knee. “Beckett —” his voice holds a warning.
A very clear warning.
“It’s fine,” I interrupt quickly, even though my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
My hands want to shake and my chest wants to squeeze and every instinct is screaming at me to run.
“I just, um, I realized the restaurant industry wasn’t for me and consulting made more sense long term. ”
It’s the answer I’ve given a hundred times.
A thousand times. I’ve given it to my parents, to old classmates, and to people at networking events who recognize my name from culinary school and the restaurants I’ve worked at.
It’s polished and rehearsed and completely hollow. It tastes like mold in my mouth.
Beckett’s eyes narrow slightly, a question forming on his lips.
But Iris elbows him hard in the side.
“What?” he protests, rubbing his ribs.
“You’re being nosy,” she laughs, her voice is cheerful, but her eyes are glaring at him.
“I’m being interested!”
“You’re being nosy,” Hayes agrees from across the table, pointing his fork at Beckett for emphasis.