Page 103 of Until the Storm Breaks
MAREN
I fold another t-shirt and place it in my duffel bag. The morning light streams through my cabin windows, another day starting whether I’m ready for it or not.
Calvin’s coffee mug sits on the drying rack in the shared bathroom where I left it after washing it. The blue one with the chip on the handle that he always reached for first. I pick it up, run my thumb over the familiar flaw one more time, considering whether to pack it. Just this one small piece of him to carry with me.
But no. I put it back exactly where it belongs. Some things aren’t meant to be carried forward, and I’m trying to learn the difference between holding on and being held back.
I didn’t cry this morning, which feels like progress of a sort. Yesterday, I sobbed into Laila’s fur until she whined and tried to lick the salt from my face, clearly distressed by my distress. The day before that, I broke down in the walk-in cooler at work, letting the cold shock my system back to functional while Lark covered for me out front. But today there’s just this strange,hollow calm that might be acceptance. Or exhaustion. Sometimes they feel the same.
The truth is, I’m not leaving Calvin. He already left. I’m just leaving the version of myself who’s been waiting by the door, hoping he’ll come back and choose me. Choose us. Choose the life we were building before he saw my tattoo and decided I was just another person who wanted something from him. First his biological parents show up asking for money, then he finds out I have his words on my skin. No wonder he ran. Everyone wants a piece of Calvin Midnight.
My bed feels too big even though it’s just a double, probably because I got used to sharing his larger one, tangled together like we couldn’t bear even sleep to separate us. Now I sleep diagonal across my own mattress, trying to take up more space, trying to remember how to exist as a singular person instead of half of something that’s no longer whole.
Laila walks over from where she’s been watching me pack, rests her muzzle on my knee. She’s been my shadow since Calvin left, like she knows I need the company. Or maybe she’s grieving too. Dogs understand loss better than most humans.
“We’re okay,” I tell her, scratching behind her ears. “We were okay before him. We’ll be okay after.”
The words sound convincing. Almost.
Harbor & Ash bustles with the lunch crowd when I push through the door. I left my duffel bag in the car, not wanting to drag it through the restaurant, but Theo knows I’m coming by for the keys today. The smell of garlic and fresh bread wraps around me, and for a moment I just stand there, breathing it in. This place has become another home to me, after the bar and the cabin I’m in the process of leaving.
Chloe spots me first from her booth by the window, whereshe’s practicing writing orders on a little notepad decorated with unicorn stickers. “Maren!” She waves so enthusiastically she nearly knocks over her chocolate milk. “Daddy said you’re moving to the apartment today!”
“That’s right, sweet pea,” I say, sliding into the booth across from her and giving her a quick hug. “Well, starting to. I’ve got boxes to move still, but I’m picking up the keys today.”
She studies me with those too-perceptive eyes kids have before the world teaches them to be polite about other people’s pain. “Are you sad?”
“A little,” I admit, smoothing her hair back. “But you know what helps? Seeing my favorite girl.”
Her face lights up. “I’m yourfavorite?”
“Absolutely. Who else would take my order with such style?” I tap her notepad. “Speaking of which...”
“Oh!” She grabs her pencil, suddenly all business. “When I’m sad, Daddy makes mac and cheese. It helps. I’ll take your order!”
I pretend to study the menu she’s drawn, mostly squiggles with the occasional recognizable word scattered between elaborate doodles of what might be pasta or possibly snakes. “Hmm. This all looks amazing. I’ll have the mac and cheese, please. And a Coke.”
She writes carefully, tongue poking out in concentration. “Good choice! That’s my favorite too!” She leans in conspiratorially. “I’ll tell Daddy to give you extra cheese.”
“You’re the best,” I tell her, and she beams like I’ve given her the greatest compliment in the world.
Theo emerges from the kitchen, his light brown hair messy from the lunch rush, that particular exhaustion that comes from running a restaurant with a six-year-old underfoot. His face softens when he sees me.
“Hey,” he says gently. “You doing okay? I know this is a big day.”
“I’m managing,” I say, attempting a smile. “One step at a time, right?”
“That’s all anyone can do.” He pulls out the keys from his pocket, sets them on the table. “You get started packing?”
“Some clothes in the car, but I’ve got boxes of books and kitchen stuff still at the cabin. Figure I’ll move things over gradually this week.”
“Smart. No need to rush it. The apartment’s ready whenever you are. Cleaned it yesterday, fixed that window that was sticking. It’s not much, radiator still clanks like it’s possessed and the neighbor practices violin at weird hours. But it’s warm and dry and walking distance to everything.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, and maybe it’s not entirely a lie. Perfect is relative now. Perfect used to be Sunday mornings arguing about coffee ratios while Calvin insisted his way was scientifically superior. Perfect was his hand on my lower back at his mother’s memorial, claiming me in front of everyone who mattered. Perfect was the weight of him above me, whispering my name like a prayer or a promise or both. But perfect left for Seattle without asking if I wanted to come, so now I’m recalibrating my definition of the word.
“Oh wait,” Theo says, holding up a finger. “Before you go, let me grab something.” He disappears into the kitchen briefly and returns with two large bags. “Moving gift. I made extra this morning, figured you’d be too busy unpacking to cook.”
“Theo, you don’t have to?—”
