21. Callum #4
“I don’t know.” Her hands drop, and she wraps her arms around herself. “After Saturday and the dinner. After —” She closes her eyes briefly, takes a breath, then opens them. “I can’t think about this right now. I need to focus on the event and making sure everything’s perfect for you.”
For me.
Like this is all for me and she’s not the one who put her entire reputation on the line to sell this event, to bring Chef Singh here, and to turn Neap & Spring into something people are actually excited about. Like she hasn’t been working herself into the ground to make this happen.
I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair. “Okay,” I say quietly, even though every part of me wants to argue. “After Saturday.”
She nods quickly, several times, relief flooding her face so visibly it hurts to watch. Her shoulders drop slightly, the tension releasing just a fraction. “After Saturday. We’ll talk. I promise.”
Another promise. Another commitment to the future.
Maybe she means it this time. Or maybe this is just what she does.
Makes promises she can’t keep and says the things I need to hear to make me let her go.
Maybe she’ll disappear again the second the collaborative dinner is over and her job here is done, and I’ll be left with nothing but this memory.
Her on my prep counter, my name in her mouth, the taste of her on my lips.
She finally moves toward the back door, pushing off the doorframe and crossing the kitchen with quick, purposeful steps.
She grabs her bag from where she left it by the office door, slinging it over her shoulder in one fluid motion.
Her movements are rushed now, almost frantic, like if she slows down she might change her mind.
I follow her because I can’t help myself. My feet move without conscious thought, silent on the kitchen floor as I trail behind her. I need to see her leave. I need to make sure she gets to her car safely. I need to watch her go even though it feels like swallowing glass.
At the back door, she pauses with her hand on the handle and looks back at me over her shoulder. Her hair is still a mess, her lips still swollen, her sweater still inside out. She looks wrecked and beautiful and terrified and perfect.
“Tomorrow,” she says, and it sounds like another promise.
“Tomorrow.” I lean against the doorframe, one hand braced on the wood to physically keep myself from reaching for her.
She holds my gaze for one more second, and I try to sear this into my brain — the way she looks right now.
She pushes the door open. Cool air rushes in, carrying the smell of rain and salt water and the promise of the storm coming.
Then she’s out the door, her footsteps quick on the gravel parking lot, almost running. I hear her car door open, then slam shut. The engine turns over, catches, revs once.
I stay in the doorway, one hand still braced on the frame, and watch her taillights cut through the darkness. They get smaller and smaller as she heads down the coastal road toward the cottage, until they’re just pinpricks of red against the black, then gone completely, swallowed by the night.
Thunder rolls overhead again. I can feel it in my chest, vibrating through the building.
I finally move, pushing off the doorframe and walking back through the kitchen. My footsteps echo in the empty space, too loud.
The cast iron is still on the burner and the test plate is still on the counter. The scallop is cold now, the sauce congealed and the carefully placed garnish wilted. Evidence of the whole night just sitting there under the fluorescent lights.
I scrape the plate into the trash, then rinse the pan. I wipe down and sanitize the station and put away the preserved lemon and the capers and the little dish of herbs.
I flip off the lights one by one until the kitchen is dark except for the emergency exit signs casting everything in red.
I check the stove one more time out of habit, even though I already know it’s off.
I test the back door handle twice — it locks itself, but I just want to make sure.
Then I head upstairs to my apartment, taking the steps slowly, my hand sliding along the railing, my body heavy with exhaustion and want and fear.
The apartment is dark and quiet when I let myself in. I don’t turn on any lights. I just walk straight to the window and stand there, looking out toward the water. Toward where the cottage sits on the edge of the coast, small and vulnerable and right in the path of whatever’s coming.
And I think about Vivienne in that cottage, alone. Probably pacing. Probably second-guessing everything that just happened. Probably already building reasons to run.
I think about her mouth on mine. The way she said Yes, Chef like it was a surrender and a victory all at once.
I think about the way she pulled me closer even as she said she should leave.
And I think maybe I’m not the only one who’s terrified of what happens next.
Thunder rumbles again and I can feel it vibrate through the building and the floor beneath my feet. Through the window, I can see the first drops of rain starting to hit the glass, slowly at first, then faster until it’s coming down in sheets.
The storm is coming.
And I have no idea if we’re going to survive it.