Page 33 of Until the Storm Breaks
Lark (8:16 AM):TWO MILLION
Lark (8:30 AM):BookTok is feral for this man
Lark (9:02 AM):ANSWER ME
I type back:Nothing happened. Almost kissed. Ugh I ran. Will explain when I see you.
Her response is immediate.
Lark:YOU RAN??? Oh honey.
I set the phone down before she can launch into a full interrogation via text. But the mention of TikTok makes me curious. Against my better judgment, I open Instagram and search his name.
There he is. @CalvinMidnight, blue check, 847K followers.
His most recent post is from a year ago. Just a blurry photo of coffee and a notebook, caption reading “Working.” It has 47,000likes. The comments all asking when the next book is coming, if he’s writing again, when he’ll tour.
I scroll back further and find videos. There’s one from a literary festival two years ago. He’s on stage in a charcoal sweater, reading to a packed audience. The camera loves him. The way he pushes his hair back, how his hands move when he talks, the way he pauses to let words land.
The comments make my stomach turn:
“I’d let this man emotionally ruin me and thank him for it”
“Daddy Midnight could read the phone book and I’d cry”
“The way he says ‘love’ just got me pregnant”
“Why do I feel like he’s looking directly at ME through the screen”
I keep scrolling even though it’s torture, because apparently I’m now a masochist for Calvin Midnight content. More videos, more photos, more evidence of the Calvin Midnight phenomenon. Women crying at readings. Lines around the block for signings. That viral TikTok Lark mentioned has someone lip-syncing to audio of him reading, and the comments are even thirstier than Instagram.
I groan and toss my phone aside.
Laila jerks awake from where she was snoring on the floor, immediately. She scrambles over, tail wagging, and attempts to climb onto the bed to lick my face.
“Morning, girl.” I scratch behind her ears as she succeeds in getting her front paws up, tongue going for my chin. “What are we gonna do, huh? Susan’s son is making me crazy.”
She just pants happily, zero judgment about my terrible life choices.
I let her out, then pull on shorts and a light sweatshirt. The morning is overcast and cool. When Laila scratches to come back in, I feed her while she prances around my legs. She settles into eating, tail still wagging, and I sigh, looking at the doorway leading to the shared space.
I need coffee desperately, but coffee means the sharedkitchen. The shared kitchen means potentially running into Calvin. After that moment last night, after we almost kissed, I’m not ready for that level of eye contact.
But the need for caffeine wins out. It always does.
I ease the door open and step into the shared space like I’m sneaking into somewhere I don’t belong. The kitchen is empty, the scent of coffee in the air. Susan’s pour-over setup sits clean and dry on the counter where Calvin must have used it earlier. My French press is right next to it, also clean.
I stop, staring at it. I definitely left it dirty in the sink yesterday, too tired to deal with it. He must have washed it for me early this morning.
I reach for the French press, running my fingers over the clean glass. Such a small thing, him washing my press. But somehow it feels intimate, this quiet caretaking we do without talking about it.
I pour a mug and add cream, then lean against the counter as last night floods back. Him stepping closer on the porch. The heat radiating off his body. The way I wanted so badly to rise up and meet his mouth. The way I jerked back instead like a coward.
I was so close until the tattoo flashed through my mind. The one on my ribs.
His words inked into my skin in tiny cursive when I was twenty-one. Six months after my parents died, when his essays felt like the only thing keeping me tethered to earth.
Some storms are good enough to dance in. Even if they ruin everything in their path.
