Page 12 of Until the Storm Breaks
Calvin:Please tell me you’re joking this time.
Maren:
I almost smile. Almost. Then I remember how I attacked him the second he got out of his truck, and then that awkward dance in the tiny hallway earlier, both of us trying to navigate around Susan’s absence and each other. But I save his number anyway. Just in case of future raccoon emergencies. That’s all.
By nine, the dinner rush has mellowed into the comfortable hum of regulars nursing their drinks. The bar feels warm tonight, that particular kind of warmth that comes from bodies and conversation and the kitchen running full tilt. I’m restocking clean glasses when my eyes drift to the photo on the wall above the register. Susan and I on the day I officially took over the bar, her arm around my shoulders, champagne glass raised. She’s beaming with pride, and I’m grinning like I can’t believe my luck. Seven years ago, but it feels like yesterday and a lifetime all at once.
My hands stop moving. I realize I’ve been drying the same glass over and over, the bar towel squeaking against already-dry glass.
“Need a break?” Lark asks softly, noticing my stillness.
“Yeah. Just... give me a minute.”
I duck into the walk-in cooler, pulling the heavy door shut behind me and letting the cold air shock some sense back into me. I lean back against the stack of beer kegs, their metal surfaces cold even through my shirt, and just breathe. My breath comes out in visible puffs in the chilled air.
Susan was supposed to be here this summer. Not literally here in the bar, since she’d stopped coming once she started forgetting people’s names, but here in the world. Teaching me her blackberry jam recipe like she’d been promising for years. Sitting on the porch with her coffee and crosswords, calling out clues she thought I might know. Still being my person, my anchor, the woman who became my family when I had none left.
When I come back out, Lark’s waiting by the garnish station, restocking cocktail onion jars. She looks up when she hears the walk-in door seal shut behind me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I head straight to the register and pop it open, pretending to check the coins. “Just needed a second.”
“Want to talk about it? Or want me to distract you with inappropriate questions about Calvin?”
I smile at her tone, that particular Lark mix of genuine concern and deflecting humor. “How about literally anything else?”
“So tell me, is he still hot in that ‘I read Proust for fun’ kind of way?”
“So much for anything else,” I say, trying to sound exasperated but probably failing. “He’s grieving his mother. And I’m not interested.”
“Liar,” she says immediately, not even pretending to believe me.
“I’m not. And based on our interactions so far, he definitely isn’t either,” I say, moving coins around as if I’m actually counting them.
The truth is, even if he was interested, Calvin Midnight is exactly the kind of bad idea I don’t need right now. He’s only here until the estate gets settled, then it’s back to Seattle. And men like him date other writers and professors. Not bar owners. Plus we got off to a rough start. Three solid reasons right there. More than enough reasons. Definitely enough.
“Uh-huh. So what did you guys talk about?” She sets down the jar and leans against the bar, arms crossed.
“I dunno. He accused me of hoarding hot sauce,” I offer lamely.
“That’s... weirdly specific.” She shakes her head. “But also kind of funny. Now, how many times have you read his book? Really?”
“I don’t keep track. It’s a good book,” I say defensively, grabbing a roll of quarters from under the counter to restock the coin slots, even though we probably have enough.
“It’s a book written by a man you’ve been half in love with since you were twenty.”
“That’s not—” I stop, because what’s the point? Lark seesthrough me like I’m made of glass, always has since she started working here five years ago. Fine. Maybe I had a little crush when I first read his book. The way he wrote felt like he’d looked straight into my heart and described what lived there. But that was theauthor, not theactualmanwho’s currently living next door and making everything complicated. “Can we just pretend he’s not here?”
“Sure. We can pretend lots of things. Like how you don’t have that quote tattooed on your ribs.” She whispers the last part, cheekily pinching my waist where she knows the ink sits hidden under my shirt.
“Lark!” I hiss, glancing around as if she just spilled state secrets.
“What? I’m just saying, if my crush moved in next door looking like a boxer-professor hybrid, I’d at least fix my hair.”
I touch my messy bun self-consciously, feeling the pieces that have escaped throughout the shift. “I hate you.”
“Youloveme,” she says, grinning as she walks away.
The rest of the night passes in a blur of orders and small talk and the comfortable rhythm of service. Lark keeps shooting me knowing looks every time someone mentions Calvin, which is often. Small towns are like that. He hasn’t been home in ages and new gossip spreads faster than spilled beer.
