Page 17 of When the Storm Breaks
Outside, the cold air wraps around me, just tight enough to remind me I’m still alive. The thirty-minute walk downtown doesn’t feel like exercise. It feels like penance. Each slow step is an effort to shake the fog clouding my head.
I need to move. I need to breathe. I need something to shift.
I focus on the rhythm of my sneakers against the pavement, on each breath filling my lungs. Anything to drown out the noise echoing inside me.
But no matter how fast or how far I go, Jules, Tyler, and everything else I’ve let fall apart trails behind me, unwilling to be left alone.
The town is dressed for the season—wreaths hanging from lampposts, twinkling lights threaded through the trees. Somewhere, a car speaker blares Christmas music, the sound bouncing off buildings, too bright and loud against the quiet street. The world feels festive, alive with movement and joy. But I drift through it like a ghost, unseenand untouched.
As I near the heart of downtown, I pass the bookstore and glance through its frosted windows. Golden light spills out onto the sidewalk, glowing from a space busier than I’ve ever seen it. Every table and armchair are full. People are tucked into corners with steaming mugs, voices overlapping in a soft, steady song. Normally, I’d find comfort in this—a quiet reminder of community, of belonging—but today, it only makes me feel more alone.
I keep walking, offering a small smile to the people near the window as my breath briefly fogs the glass, silently crossing the bookstore off my list.
Finally, I reach Maple & Clover and push the door open, releasing a rush of warm air and the comforting scent of coffee and pastries.
I’m barely through the door when Maggie’s voice rises above the chatter.
“Calla! Drip?” she calls, her smile widening the moment she sees me.
“Always,” I reply, letting out a small, genuine laugh as I walk toward the counter.
I think Maggie remembers everything about every single one of her customers. She’s kind without being soft, observant without making you uncomfortable. The kind of person who makes a place feel like home. In her fifties and full of life, she carries herself like this coffee shop was always where she was supposed to be.
“Where are the girls?” I ask, glancing around for Maple and Clover, Maggie’s two golden retrievers.
“Down here,” she laughs, tipping her head down and pointing at her feet.
I step to the side of the counter and crouch down, scratching behind their ears. Maple nuzzles into my hand while Clover’s tail thumps loudly against the floor.
When I stand again, I watch Maggie behind the counter, pouring coffee and steaming milk in graceful movements.
“How’ve you been, sweetie?” she asks. Her voice is gentle, but there’s something in her tone that makes it clear she’s waiting for more than just a polite answer.
“Same old, same old,” I say with a shrug. “How’s business?”
“Steady as ever,” she replies, sliding my cup across the counter. Her eyes hold mine for a beat too long, like she’s trying to read the silence between my words.
I thank Maggie and pay, the routine offering me a small sense of normalcy. But as I turn toward the seating area, my stomach drops. Every seat is full.
The coffee grinder whirrs. Mugs clink. Laughter bursts. It all builds into a wall of noise I can’t push through.
Before I realize it, my mind has wandered to Driftwood. It was so quiet that morning, the pale light filtering in through the windows, the scent of antique wood settling into every corner. It was peaceful. Inviting, almost.
For just a moment, I let myself imagine sinking into one of the low, tufted chairs at the side of the bar, all the noise fading in the calm of the space.
But then I think of him—the stranger. The way he held the room. Dark eyes always watching. I can almost taste the whiskey and mint in the air, the memory stirring something dangerous low in my belly. It’s frustration. It’s anger. I don’t want to be near him, but I can’t denythe quiet pull of his gravity.
And Chase, too. Steady. Friendly. The kind of person who makes anywhere feel like home. If he’s there, maybe I won’t feel so out of place. Maybe I’ll finally stop spinning. Maybe I’ll make sense of it all—just for a little while.
I glance out the front window, watching the daylight slip away without me. I can’t go home yet, but standing here, frozen in indecision, feels just as impossible. My feet stay planted, my mind churning through every option until finally, I turn to Maggie.
“Actually, Maggie—sorry, can I also get a latte and a maple pecan scone?”
Her eyebrows lift just a little, but she doesn’t say anything. Just nods with a small smile, then turns to make my order.
I crouch again to pet Maple and Clover, their tails swishing across the floor in a steady rhythm. For a moment, I let myself sink into their uncomplicated joy, scratching behind their ears, patting their heads, soaking in the only thing that’s brought a real smile to my face in days.
I know it won’t last, but I let it hold me anyway.
