Page 112 of Until the Storm Breaks
Of course Theo did. My brother, still trying to fix things even when I don’t deserve it.
Calvin:I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee.
Maren:Already had three cups. Just buzz me up.
Twenty minutes. I spend them pacing, straightening things that are already straight, making that fresh pot of coffee anyway. Something to do with my hands.
The buzzer sounds at exactly twenty minutes. I buzz her in without speaking, then wait by my door listening to the elevator climb.
She walks into my apartment and I catch vanilla shampoo as she passes. The scent hits me with a wave of missing her so intense I have to focus on breathing normally. I watch her take in the sterile perfection of this place, wondering what she sees.
“I saw the livestream,” she says, turning to face me. “I heard the poem.”
I hold my breath, waiting.
She seems to search for the right words. “It was... God, Calvin, standing up there and saying all that in front of everyone. It meant everything to hear you say those things.” Her voice wavers slightly. “But then you didn’t call. You didn’t text. You read this incredible poem about loving me and then just... nothing. And I didn’t know if you meant it or if it was just another performance.”
My chest cracks open hearing the hurt in her voice. I openmy mouth to tell her it was real, all of it was real, but she holds up her hand.
“No, wait. Let me get this all out. I’ve been practicing what I wanted to say the whole drive here.” She takes a breath. “First, the tattoo. It was horrible of me to hide it. I was so embarrassed and scared you’d think it was something it wasn’t. I was wrong not to tell you. Completely wrong.”
“I believe you. And I get it. You were scared of my reaction,” I say quietly. “And I reacted exactly how you feared.”
“Still doesn’t make it right. You had every reason to be upset about it.”
We look at each other for a moment, both of us trying to navigate this differently than before.
“And you should know,” she continues, “I moved out of the cabins.”
I feel my stomach drop. Her life has been continuing without me. Of course it has. “When?”
“Day after you left. Theo and Alex ended up helping me move.” She wraps her arms around herself. “It was time. I didn’t want to live next to your ghost. And honestly, it was time anyway, even without everything with us. I’ve spent ten years in the same tiny space because it was safe and comfortable. Your leaving just made me realize I’d been hiding there.”
I nod, a mix of sadness and pride washing over me. She’s moving forward. Growing. Without me, but still.
“I filed for sabbatical,” I tell her, needing her to know. “The day I wrote that poem. I’m done with the university, all of it. I don’t want that life anymore.”
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
“Really. I can’t keep teaching from behind a mask, pretending I understand craft when I haven’t written anything real in years. Can’t keep lecturing about authentic voice when I’ve been performing myself into corners.”
She nods slowly, chewing her lip the way she does whenshe’s thinking. “That’s good, Calvin. That’s really good. You’ve been miserable there for years.”
There’s a pause where we just look at each other, both acknowledging this truth I’ve been avoiding.
“Why didn’t you call?” she asks then. “After the poem? You do this big, romantic, public declaration and then... nothing?”
The question I’ve been dreading. I run my hand through my hair, trying to find words that aren’t excuses. “Because I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound like bullshit. The poem was... I could control that. I could craft it, make it perfect. But calling you meant having an actual conversation where I couldn’t edit my words. Where I’d have to figure out in real time how to fix what I broke.”
“So you justdidn’t?”
“I kept picking up my phone. Started probably twenty texts. But everything sounded wrong. Too much or not enough. The poem was my way of reaching out but then I froze on the follow-through.”
She takes this in, something shifting in her expression. “The poem was beautiful,” she says quietly. “It really was. I watched it three times. Maybe ten times, actually. Lark and I sat there replaying it.” A pause. “I just got scared when I didn’t hear from you afterwards. Like maybe it was just another piece of writing, not a real promise.”
“I should have called,” I say, meaning it. “The poem was real but you’re right, I should have called you.”
She pulls a folded paper from her pocket then, smoothing it on the counter.
