Page 185 of When the Storm Breaks
I can feel his eyes on me now, searching for something—understanding, maybe. But I don’t know if I have that to give. Not yet.
“But I couldn’t be that guy again,” he says. “Not if I ever wanted a chance at being someone you could let back in.”
His voice lowers—rough, quiet—and I feel it. He’s stripped bare now. And for the first time, I see it. He’s been fighting. For this. For me. Harder than I ever realized.
“So I switched to morning shifts. Forced myself into a routine. Kept quiet. Kept busy. I got a dog.” A faint smile flickers across his face. “She loves me unconditionally… even though most days, I’m not sure I deserve it.”
Unconditionally.
What would it even feel like? To be loved like that?
“My therapist… she recommended cooking. I’m decent at it now. Better than the disaster breakfast I made for you back at my apartment.”
He smiles at the memory—faint but real.
I let out a slow breath. That breakfast feels like forever ago, but I can still taste the burnt toast. Still see the way he hovered in front of me, so sure he could make something better.
“And then… there was my dad.” His tone shifts. The moment of lightness slips away in the blink of an eye.
“I stood outside the house for a long time. Almost walked away. Told myself it was too late—that nothing would change.”
He pauses. Breathes.
“I had my phone recording in my pocket. At first, it felt pointless. I had no leverage. He just… accused me of knowing. And he was right. I did. I’d known the truth for months.”
His breath hitches, his pulse visible in his throat.
“He threatened me. Like he always does. So I left. Stopped the recording. Got in my car. And sat there.”
His voice drops.
“And then I got back out. Walked back in. Gave him a choice.”
He meets my eyes, and something inside me stills. There’s exhaustion in his face. But also resolve.
“I played the recording. Told him if he didn’t turn himself in, I would. That I’d end up in jail too, probably, because of his fuck-up. I asked him if that’s what he wanted—one dead kid, one criminal.”
He swallows.
“He didn’t say a word. So I left. Actually left that time.”
The words knock the breath out of me. “You were willing to go to jail over this?”
He nods slowly. “I was tired, Calla. I couldn’t live with it anymore.”
His voice softens.
“And it stopped being his secret the second it started destroying you. Once I saw what it was doing to you—what it was doing to me—I realized he’d already taken enough.” He looks at me, eyes steady. “I wasn’t going to let him take you.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“I was going to give him a few weeks. Let it settle. But he turned himself in before I could do anything else.”
A long, shaky breath leaves him as he leans back against the bar. His body’s still tense, but something’s shifted.
A stillness.
Like the storm has finally broken.
