Page 42 of When the Storm Breaks
My grip tightens around the opener, and before I can stop myself, my words come out clipped.
“I didn’t ask what I wanted. I asked whatyouwanted. Pick one.”
Her eyes widen slightly, then drift toward the door. She folds her arms tighter across her chest, shoulders inching inward like she’s bracing for something.
When she speaks again, her voice is softer.
“Red.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I press my lips together, anger humming under my skin. Not at her—at myself. Shame clings to every movement as I nod once and turn to grab wine glasses from the cabinet.
By the time I return, she’s composed again. Face blank in a way that feels intentional.
Like a defense.
And it only makes the anger burn hotter.
After uncorking the wine, I pour a glass and slide it toward her. She hesitates for a beat before picking it up, watching me like she’s waiting for something else to go wrong.
I lift my own glass, tilt it gently toward hers, and whisper—just low enough that Chase doesn’t hear.
“Merry Christmas, Calla James.”
She taps her glass against mine with a small nod, then lifts it to her lips.
And I watch.
The curve of her mouth against the rim, the slow tilt of her head as she takes a sip. The quick flash of her tongue as she tastes it. Lashesdip shut—just for a second.
It shouldn’t be anything. But it is.
It’s too much, all at once.
And somehow, not nearly enough.
The rest of the evening drags, every minute stretching into hours. Chase, always the life of the party, keeps the conversation going, cracking jokes, trying to banter. But Calla barely engages. I’ve seen them at the bar. I know how she usually lights up around him—quick with comebacks, easy smiles.
Tonight, she’s somewhere else entirely.
Absent mentally. Barely here physically.
And it bothers me. More than it should.
Dessert passes in near silence, Chase clearly having emptied his arsenal of conversation starters. For once, even he seems to have picked up on the shift. His usual energy dims as he settles into the quiet with the rest of us.
When his phone rings, cutting through the lull, his energy snaps back.
He’s up in an instant, checking the screen before calling over his shoulder.
“It’s my family. I haven’t talked to them yet today. Be right back!”
His cheerful voice carries into the hall.
“Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad! Merry Christmas!”
The words hit like a gut punch.
