Page 80 of The Reaper
Caleb’s hand brushed mine, warm and sure. “I’ll pick the place.”
I almost smiled.
Dean checked the hall like he could strong-arm the air into behaving, then nodded once, decisive. “I’m going to grab Trish and a few things from the hotel. Call if anything twitches.” He touched my shoulder—quick, grounding—and left.
Silence folded in behind him, softer than before. Caleb didn’t fill it. He waited, thumb tracing idle circles against my knuckles where our hands had found each other.
“Can I ask you something?” he said at last.
I braced without meaning to. “You can try.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair. The picture—your mom’s sleeves, the way they’re looking at each other. It felt … lived-in. Not a big occasion. Do you remember nights like that? What was it like, right then, when that was normal?”
The question didn’t scrape. It landed carefully, like he’d tested its weight before tossing it across the space between us. I let out a breath and picked up the photo again. My parents were half-turned toward each other, mid-laugh, the world beyond the frame a blur of steam and stainless steel.
“I remember the sound,” I said. “Meggie’s had this old hood that rattled when the line got slammed, so there was this constant metal hum under everything. And the ticket printer—God, that chirp—like a bird with a nicotine habit.” I smiled before I could stop myself. “Mom used to push her sleeves up like that when she was about to win an argument. Dad said he knew he’d lost the second the cuffs went past her elbows.”
Caleb’s mouth curved. “And he looks happy to lose.”
“He usually was.” I traced the corner of the photograph, the paper soft from time. “They had this signal when they were in the weeds. Not for the staff—just for each other. He’d tap twice on the prep table with his ring finger. She’d answer with the back of her knife—two taps, then one. It meant, ‘I’m here. Keep going.’” My throat tightened. “It was so ordinary you wouldn’t notice it unless you were listening for it. I was always listening.”
He was quiet a beat. “You miss the sound.”
“I miss the part where the sound meant they were together.” I swallowed. “The fire took that long before they passed away.”
Caleb didn’t rush to fix it. He didn’t tell me it would all make sense later or that grief was a wave or any of the other fortune-cookie truths people throw at you because silence scares them. He just shifted closer, resting his forearms on his knees so we were eye level.
“What’s your mom making there?” he asked, nodding to the smear of something pale on the counter between them.
“Lemon aioli,” I said without thinking, the answer surfacing from muscle memory. “She whisked by hand because she said you have to hear an emulsion come together to know it’ll hold.” I laughed under my breath. “She’d swat me with a dish towel if she saw the blender in my walk-in.”
“And your dad?”
“Crab cakes.” The image sharpened, almost painfully. “He formed them with this stupid little measuring ring because he liked them perfect. She’d steal the prettiest one off his sheet tray on her way to the pass and he’d pretend to be mad, then make another just to get the count right.” My smile slipped, and I turned the photo over like the back could offer a softer version of the message. It didn’t. The grooves of the ink caught on my fingertip.
Caleb’s hand came up, hovering for a second like he was asking permission, then he cupped the side of my neck with his palm, warm and steady. “Thank you for telling me,” he said simply.
I shrugged with one shoulder, stubbornness and gratitude tangling in my chest. “You asked right.”
“What’s the last good memory you have of them here? Not the big ones—openings, holidays. Just … a Tuesday.”
It surprised me that an answer was waiting.
“End of night,” I said. “I was supposed to be folding napkins, but I was terrible at it—always crooked. They were counting cash at the bar, and Mom started humming. Not a song. Just this little run of notes she’d do when her feet hurt and she didn’t want to say it out loud. Dad slid her a glass of water with lemon and said, ‘Sit before the floor keeps you.’ She did. He untied her apron and draped it over the bar stool like it was a silk shawl, then massaged her shoulders with these big, ridiculous hands like he could knead the day out of her. She gave him that look.” I glanced down at the photo. “That look.”
Caleb’s thumb stroked once behind my ear. “And you watched.”
“Like it was a secret.” I let out a breath. “I used to think if I learned every one of their habits, I could keep them stitched together somehow. Like I’d know which seam to reinforce before it frayed.” I met his eyes. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“It doesn’t,” he agreed. “But it makes you who you are at a line, and I’d bet my life that saved more than a few nights.”
“You don’t get to bet your life. I need you to keep it.”
The corner of his mouth kicked up. “Yes, chef.”
It was ridiculous how much those two words steadied me. I set the photo on the blotter, careful of the ink, and turned it so the image faced up again. For a heartbeat it almost felt like I could step back through it—past the notes, past the camera feeds—into the bright, greasy joy of a Tuesday that didn’t know what was coming.
Caleb followed my gaze. “I’ll get the handwriting to someone who’s very, very good.” He paused. “Do you want a copy for you? Not evidence. Just … you.”
