Page 41 of When the Storm Breaks
I watch her closely as her eyes scan the apartment, like she’smapping it out in her head. Her shoulders are tense, movements stiff as she takes everything in—locating the exits, finding the quickest way to escape.
It’s a game I know all too well.
When her gaze finally meets mine, she steps forward and pulls something wrapped in red and green cellophane from her bag.
“I just wrapped it,” she blurts, her voice rushed, unsure. “It’s not suffocating, but you should probably open it soon.”
I take it from her hands, the crinkling plastic loud in the apartment’s quiet.
It’s… a plant?
I peel back the wrapping and find a small green thing in a muted yellow pot. Simple. Unassuming.
My first instinct is to hand it back. Tell her I’ll probably kill it. That she’s better off keeping it for herself.
But the look on her face stops me.
She’s watching too closely, like she’s bracing for rejection.
I tighten my grip around the small pot and meet her eyes. “Thank you, Calla.”
A beat passes, thick with whatever neither of us are saying. And when I can’t take it anymore, I turn and head to my room, the plant still in my hands.
Whatever’s going on, I just need a second to breathe.
In my room, I pull back the curtain over the window and set the plant on the sill. Sunlight spills across it, making the green glow richer, more alive.
It feels out of place.
From the living room, Chase laughs—loud and obnoxious as ever.
“Thanks, Calla!” he shouts, his voice carrying through the apartment.
I pause, take a breath, then step back through the doorway, curious. Chase is in the kitchen, holding up some tiny porcelain mouse dressed like a chef. He sets it on our kitchen shelf like it’s a prized possession.
Something about it feels too personal.
My chest tightens, an open wound splitting somewhere deep. But before I can dissect it, my eyes find her.
She’s still standing a few feet away, arms loosely crossed.
Her face is sad. Wrecked in a way that makes my chest ache for an entirely different reason. It lingers just long enough for me to notice, before she straightens up and smooths her expression into something neutral.
When Chase steps away to set up the music, she startles slightly, thrusting the last two bags toward me.
“For you… both, or, um, for dinner,” she says, stumbling over her words. “Whatever works.”
I nod and take the bags, our fingers brushing in the handoff. The contact is fleeting, but it sticks to me in a way I don’t expect.
When I turn toward the kitchen, she follows, hovering just behind me, close enough that I feel her warmth.
I pull the bottles from the bags and glance at the labels—nice, expensive, not a random grab. I set them on the counter, turning the labels so she can see them.
“Red or white?” I ask, rummaging through the drawer for the wine opener.
She shrugs. “I don’t care. Whatever you want.”
Something about that answer rubs me the wrong way. I know shehas an opinion.
