Page 32 of When the Storm Breaks
“You’re not,” he says firmly, leaving no room for argument.
At the same time, Haiyden mutters, “You are.”
The look that passes between them is a storm meeting still water.
Chase’s disappointment shows in the subtle slump of his shoulders, the dimming in his eyes. This means more to him than he’s letting on.
“You really don’t have to include me,” I say, voice unsteady. “I appreciate you thinking of me, but maybe the two of you should just celebrate together instead.”
Chase stands suddenly, his movements pulling my focus to him. He steps closer until we’re eye to eye, his expression more serious than I’ve ever seen it.
“Unfortunately, Calla, that’s not going to fly.”
I brace myself.
“It’s been months since Haiyden has let anyone step foot in our apartment,” he says. “This one’s for me.”
“Okay,” I whisper, the word slipping out before I can second-guess it.
I glance at Haiyden again. He’s not hostile. Not sarcastic. Not irritated, like I expected. He just seems… off.
Uncomfortable in a way that feels familiar. Almost vulnerable.
Chase turns toward the back office, his usual ease returning.
“See you at 3:00 on Thursday! I’ll text you the address!” he callsover his shoulder.
A few seconds later, he’s gone, leaving me alone with Haiyden.
He stands, posture rigid, glare slicing straight through me.
But it’s his voice that lands the blow—low, laced with venom, edged in something close to disgust.
“See you Thursday at three,” he spits.
Without another word, he stalks past me, the door slamming behind him with a finality that echoes through the empty room.
Chapter 13
Calla
I’ve tried not to count the days until Christmas, but the two since I was last at Driftwood have slipped by in a haze. Now, with just two days left, I’m not even sure where the time has gone. The hours blur together, most of them spent sprawled on the couch with the TV flashing in the background, though I don’t recall a single thing I’ve watched. My book sits untouched on the coffee table. The plan to finish it now feels like a distant memory. At the end of the couch, a small pile of laundry has gathered—an odd mix of sweatpants and sweatshirts for when I’m cold, swapped out for an oversized t-shirt and underwear when the fabric feels too rough.
Exhaustion sits heavy in my bones, despite barely moving for days. Meals have been reduced to dry cereal straight from the box and half-stale protein bars I found buried at the back of the cabinet. Just enough to stave off hunger, but nothing that feels like care.
I used to love cooking. Trying new recipes, messing up and starting over, always in the same stained apron I never bothered to wash. My parents used to gag at my flavor combinations—lemon and thyme ontoast, balsamic on popcorn, cayenne in brownies. They swore I had broken taste buds.
Now? I haven’t cooked in… God, I don’t even know how long.
I take a slow sweep of my apartment, searching for even an ounce of joy in the space. But there’s nothing. No decorations. No tree. No hint of the season at all. Jules and I had planned to do it together. Without her, it just felt pointless.
If she were here, everything would be different. I can picture her now—laughing as she strung garland across my window or picked out mismatched lights, insisting they had more charm than the perfect ones. She had a way of making even the smallest moments feel special, of breathing life into everything around her.
This is different from the blues.
This is an ache.
Chase was kind to invite me for Christmas. I know he’s trying to make me feel included. But as the hours pass, my fingers hover over my phone, debating whether to cancel. And every time, I hesitate, staring at the message with his address.
