19. Vivienne #4
“Low …” Callum runs a hand through his hair, breaking eye contact. “It’s torture waiting to hear back from the investors. Not knowing if the plan is good enough or if any of this is going to work or if I’m going to lose everything I’ve built.”
The vulnerability in his voice makes me have to blink back tears again.
“It’s going to work,” Wesley exclaims immediately. His voice is full of absolute certainty.
“You don’t know that, Wes.”
“I know you. And I know Vivienne’s been busting her ass for your restaurant.” He points at both of us as he speaks. “I know the plan is solid because you wouldn’t have sent it if it wasn’t. It’s going to work, Cal.”
“And if it doesn’t,” Patrick adds, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes locked on his son’s face, “we’ll figure something out. We always do. You’re not alone in this. You never have been. You understand me?”
“Dad.”
“I mean it.” Patrick’s voice is gentle but iron-hard underneath.
“Absolute worst case scenario, you sell the restaurant. You start over. You come work with Wes on the boat like you did in the summers. Or you work in a different restaurant for a while and build back up.” Patrick’s eyes are unwavering on his son.
“There are options. You’re not going to lose everything.
We won’t let that happen and you know that. ”
Callum looks like he’s trying not to break down right here in his father’s living room in front of everyone.
“The plan’s good,” I hear myself say, trying to give Callum a moment.
My voice is way stronger than I feel. “Great, even. Better than great. And the changes we’re implementing are already working.
The Instagram is blowing up, the reservations are spiking, people are talking about the restaurant all over food blogs and social media.
” I look at Callum, willing him to believe me. “It’s going to work.”
His eyes search mine like he’s looking for doubt for what feels like an eternity.
He won’t find any.
“Okay,” he finally says, still staring at me. “Yeah. Okay.”
I find his hand this time and thread my fingers through his and squeeze as hard as I can.
He squeezes back harder, like he’s holding on for dear life.
Patrick claps his hands once. “Alright. Who wants dessert? I made apple pie.”
“You made pie?” Beckett sits up suddenly like he’s been shocked. “Since when do you bake?”
“Since I found a recipe and decided why not try it.” Patrick is already heading to the kitchen, his voice carrying back to us. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m very shocked. Deeply shocked.”
“It’s probably salty,” Hayes quips.
“Your faith in me is touching, Hayes. It really warms my heart.”
And just like that, the heavy moment passes. Everyone’s moving, talking, laughing, and the tension dissolves into easy overlapping conversation.
Callum’s hand is still in mine.
And I think maybe, just maybe, we’re both going to be okay.
I leave around nine-thirty.
Callum walks me to my car even though I told him he didn’t have to. I told him I could find my way across the gravel driveway in the dark, but he insisted.
We stop at the driver’s side door and stand there for a moment the way two people stand when neither of them wants to be the one to end the evening. We are both searching for excuses to stay just a little longer.
“Your family is wonderful.”
“They’re a lot,” he responds, but there’s affection in his voice.
“I like them.” I look up at the shape of him silhouetted against the porch lights. “I like them a lot.”
He’s looking at me in the dark, and I can’t quite see his expression, but the warmth of him is close enough to feel.
The silence between us is full of things we’re not saying. Full of words we’re both too scared to speak out loud.
“Drive safe,” he finally breaks the silence, knocking his hand against the top of my car.
I get in the car, and he steps back to let me pull out, his hands sliding into his pockets.
I watch him in the rearview mirror as I drive away.
Standing in the gravel driveway in the amber light from the porch, getting smaller and smaller as the distance between us grows.
He’s still watching until I turn the corner, and he disappears from view.
I find myself thinking — somewhere on the dark coastal road back to the cottage with only my headlights cutting through the night — about the first night I arrived in Westerly Point.
How I sat on those porch steps in the cold and the dark and told the ocean that everything was fine. That I had it all under control.
It wasn’t fine then. It was the opposite of fine.
But somewhere between the string lights and the restaurant and the hand in mine, somewhere between the highs and the lows and Patrick telling me that making a dip was actually a victory…
I think I might be starting to understand why Callum came back here.
And I think, for the first time since I drove ten hours and nearly hit a deer and found out I was here to save the restaurant of the person I never stopped thinking about —
I think I might be in real trouble.
The kind of trouble that changes everything and makes you want to stop running.