Page 107 of Until the Storm Breaks
The rooftop goes silent. Then erupts with chatter and exclamations.
“Holy shit,” someone says.
“Did you see that?”
“Is that Calvin Midnight?”
Phones are out everywhere. Adrian tries to sit up, can’t quite manage it, slumps back down. He’s conscious but scrambled, one hand touching his jaw like he’s not sure it’s still attached.
Elena turns to me, touches my arm briefly. “Thank you for the backup. Though I had him.”
“I know you did. Saw the heel stomp. Solid footwork.”
“Three older brothers,” she says simply.
The next hour is a blur of statements and damage control. Security takes Adrian away and I give my version to both security and later to Seattle PD, who seem more interested in Adrian’s attempted assault than my response to it. Elena backs up everything, as do three other witnesses who saw Adrian grab her then turn on me.
Back in my apartment, I run cold water over my hand in the kitchen sink. The knuckles are swelling, definitely purple by morning. The apartment feels even emptier after the chaos of the evening. I pour a drink with my good hand, and sit at my desk where blank pages wait.
My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing. The video’s everywhere now, multiple angles. “AUTHOR BRAWL AT LITERARY FESTIVAL.” Me dropping Adrian with one punch, Elena standing over him, the crowd’s reaction. The comments are mostly supportive, calling Adrian a predator, praising the punch.
Tomorrow they’ll want me to read from my book. The same essays that made my name, that people tattoo on their bodies and carry in their wallets. But those words came from a different place. Back when I thought grief was something you could master with the right metaphors, instead of something you learned to carry.
I unfold the paper ripped from my notebook and smooth out the creases. Add more lines while the adrenaline still sings:
The storm started the night you saidyou could love me
Yes. That’s the beginning. The night in the rain when everything shifted. My hand moves without thought now, the words pouring out like blood from a fresh wound.
I write and write, scratching out lines, adding new ones, circling back.
After an hour, I set down the pen, read it through. It’s not finished—needs work, needs time, needs her eyes on it to tell me if it’s honest or just another performance. But it’s real in a way nothing I’ve written in years has been.
My phone buzzes. Three texts from my publicist about the Adrian incident. Two from writers who were at the party, offering support or gossip or both. Nothing from the only person whose words would matter.
I gave a whole panel on literature after the storm. Tomorrow I’ll again stand in front of hundreds of people and pretend I know something about survival, about rebuilding, about finding meaning in the wreckage.
But tonight, alone in this sterile room with bruised knuckles and a half-finished poem, I finally understand what Marenknew all along: the storm doesn’t end. You just learn to live in the weather. And if you’re very lucky, you find someone willing to stand in the rain with you.
I fold the poem carefully, tuck it in my jacket pocket. The livestream countdown on my laptop shows eighteen hours until showtime. Eighteen hours to prepare to show them exactly who I am now. No more performing. Just truth.
I flex my bruised hand. It hurts, but in a good way. A reminder that some things are worth fighting for.
CHAPTER 29
MAREN
It’s late afternoon at The Black Lantern, and I’m hiding in the storage room, sitting on a case of Rainier, trying to hold myself together. So much for moving on.
I saw the video this morning. Calvin punching Adrian at some rooftop party last night. The internet was having a field day with it. “Sad Boy Author Throws Hands,” “Literary Festival Fight Night.” The comments ranged from defending him to calling him unhinged. I’d watched it once, then closed my laptop, unsure what to feel about any of it.
Adrian definitely deserved it, knowing him. But watching Calvin defend someone else—was it that woman grabbing his arm?—just made me wonder. Was he defending her honor now? Being the hero for someone new?
I’d typed out a text:Saw the video. Hope your hand’s okay.Deleted it. Typed:That looked like it hurt.Deleted it. Typed:Why are you fighting people in Seattle when you couldn’t fight for us here?Deleted that too.
He was the one who left. He was the one who packed histhings and drove away. If he wanted to talk, he knew where to find me. Three hours away isn’t the moon.
I stare at my phone, at his name in my contacts that I can’t bring myself to delete. His keynote reading is happening in just a few minutes. I know because I looked it up yesterday like an idiot, torturing myself with details about his life without me. They’re livestreaming it.
